A few years ago, I was talking with an older filmmaker who referred casually to the photographers whose work he most admired. “Adams, Evans, Cosindas,” he said, ticking them off. Adams was Ansel Adams, of course; Evans was Walker Evans. But Cosindas? Hmm. Back in 1978, a now-long-out-of-print collection called Marie Cosindas: Color Photographs was published with an introductory essay by Tom Wolfe, who wrote at great length about the quiet and painstaking and untrendy ways in which Cosindas worked. He ranked her with Klimt and Caravaggio. “A glow and a creamy richness quite unlike anything that had been seen in color photography” was his description. Another hmm. The pictures in the book were portraits and composed still lifes, and they looked like nothing else in the world. Their color was astonishingly saturated, tawny, even a little cooked. The compositions were packed with visual activity, piled-up fruits and flowers and...
- 1/13/2014
- by Christopher Bonanos
- Vulture
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