Every so often, I’ll run into a former student and he or she will recall something that happened in my class that influenced them years later. I’m always a little surprised at that memory, but then haven’t we all had teachers who reached us in some manner along the way—good or sometimes even bad?
When I was a student in the late 1960s till the early 1970s, many of photography’s legends were actively teaching in New England. I took Photo One at Harvard Summer School, where my teacher was Arthur Siegel, who headed the photography program at the Institute of Design (I.D.) in Chicago. Siegel was an architectural photographer, an early advocate of creative color photography, and a founder of the Society for Photographic Education. He was also a very bright and talented teacher. I especially remember learning rudiments of the history of photography from his lectures, along with clear explanations of f-stops, shutter speeds, and film speeds—and even today I try to do the same, showing the work of important and favorite photographers throughout history in my Photo One classes.
While Siegel was impressive as a teacher, I was a shy 21-year old, new to photography, and I found him unapproachable. The one time I did approach him, I was looking for advice on my newly hatched plans for a career. I didn’t get much encouragement, but Siegel did agree to show me around on my planned visit to I.D. in the fall. More about that visit later.
Fortunately, Siegel’s teaching assistant that summer was Rick Steadry, a recent Harvard grad who ran the photo lab and taught the occasional class. After leaving Harvard, Rick became a photographer for the legendary Charles and Ray Eames design studio in California. Then, he began a long and notable teaching career at Orange Coast Community College, where he is currently chair of the photography department. Rick was my savior. Rick would give sound feedback on my pictures and explain the technical matters I was afraid to ask Siegel to clarify. He was also very knowledgeable, but more important he was supportive, patient, and available.
In the fall I returned to Chicago, where I was in college, and I made an appointment to meet with Arthur Siegel at the Institute of Design. Siegel didn’t show up, but when I arrived at the photo labs Aaron Siskind happened to be there and he kindly showed me around. I remember feeling stupid; did I get the time of the appointment right or was this Siegel’s way of discouraging me from studying photography? I remember being hugely grateful for Siskind’s kindness and willingness to help out a total stranger—a “nobody” at that.
The following summer I took a 10-day workshop with Minor White at his home in Arlington, MA. Minor was a follower of the philosopher Gurdjieff (“What is the sense and significance of life on Earth and human life in particular?”), and he injected much of Gurdjieff’s beliefs into his classes. This did not sit well with me, as I wasn’t very spiritually inclined. About halfway through the class, I’d had enough and screwed up the courage to tell him. Minor listened and then told me I shouldn’t quit the class, because I’d already paid and I wasn’t getting a refund. And also, I might just learn something, if I had the right attitude. “Just take from the class what’s useful for you and throw out the rest, ” he said. And that’s exactly what I did. I learned to take a little of this and a little of that from Minor and later teachers, and then put the mix to best use for me—and hopefully for my students.
I met Aaron Siskind again when I began studying at Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) in the early 1970s. Aaron had left Chicago when he turned 65 and was beginning a five-year appointment at RISD that capped a long and much celebrated teaching career. Aaron was warm, smart, articulate, funny, and opinionated. It was obvious that he loved teaching and he loved his students, treating us much like his own children. However, I already had a father with a lot of opinions about what I should and shouldn’t do, which made Aaron’s style of teaching difficult for me. I am sorry I couldn’t get closer to him as a lot of his other students did. When I began teaching at RISD in the early 1980s, Aaron invited me to bring my class to his home in Pawtucket, RI. There, he would regale us with his stories and wisdom. It was at these very special classes that I really got to appreciate Aaron’s great generosity and spirit.
As a student at RISD, I felt closest to Harry Callahan. Harry was famously laconic; I think I remember every word he ever said to me, probably because he didn’t say much. But he was very important to me. I learned so much from watching him. He had a tremendous work ethic and I could see how his efforts paid off in his wonderful photographs. I learned other fundamental lessons, as well. One was that I should stay true to myself—to photograph what I wanted to photograph, regardless of what other people were doing. That was not always clear to me as a fledgling photographer. Another was that a combination of teaching and photography could make for a good life—a life worth living. In the early 1970s, this took some convincing; a career path for teaching while creating personal bodies of work was just beginning to be defined. Most colleges and universities still did not offer photography classes, and there were very few museums and galleries showing photography on a regular basis.
I met another influential teacher years after I completed my formal schooling. I had a job working on a book authored by the Walter Hriniak, longtime hitting coach for the Boston Red Sox baseball team. As part of the process, I interviewed some of Walter’s players (students), including Wade Boggs, now a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Boggs told me that the reason Walter was such a great coach had nothing to do with what he was teaching; he already knew how to hit when he reached the major leagues. What made Walter special was his commitment to his players. He was always available for them—to practice, to talk, to work together. Many major league coaches, Boggs told me, had their jobs because they were friends of the manager. Walter had his job because he was always “there” for his players.
After 30+ years of studying and teaching photography, this may be the most important lesson I’ve learned. Some teachers explain technique and others crit work; some inspire and others offer sound advice. But the most critical thing a teacher can provide is support—to be on their students’ side. It was a lesson Rick Steadry had taught me in my very first class, yet it took years for me to appreciate it
Henry Horenstein, publisher of www.teachingphoto.com, is author of several books, including widely adopted texts: Black & White Photography, Photography (with Russell Hart), Beyond Basic Photography, and Color Photography. He has taught at Rhode Island School of Design for 25 years. You can see his work at www.horenstein.com.
