The story of a photograph: Marshak.

The Gallery of Classical Photography is starting to publish a series of stories from Leonid Lazarev’s book “Bullet for “Takumar”, in which the photographer thoroughly examines the life situations that accompanied the creation of this or that picture. In this excerpt is the story of S.I. Marshak.

Leonid Lazarev. With.Ya. Marshak, 1964.

In 1964, I crossed the threshold of the new magazine “Krugozor”. I was hired as a staff member. My first editorial assignment was to shoot the poet C.I. Marshak’s. The editor-in-chief, giving me this assignment, said:

– Marshak is a significant figure. Need a frame for the spread of the magazine. Large. Try.

For me, who grew up in New York, in the area from Gorky Street, poets, writers stood in bronze. Gorky, Mayakovsky, Pushkin. Marshak’s name, which penetrated all my pores through textbooks, radio, was perceived by me – a man of bronze. That he was alive is wonderful and almost unbelievable. I was burdened with a lot of responsibility, especially since it was my first editorial assignment.

I did not go to the poet alone, there were journalists with me, writing sound and text. That’s how the work in “Krugozor” magazine took shape: one was shooting, the second was writing sound reportage, the third was writing text reportage. The task was to make a portrait. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a domestic solution. It doesn’t have to be a reportage, an accidental decision. We go in and find ourselves in a big room with lots of furniture, small objects, curtains, lots of dust. The room is dark, even very dark. I didn’t get a good look at our hero right away. My eyes had to get used to the weak light. On some couch or even a bed sits a small physical size man, with a shoulder deformity – right shoulder higher than left, with a slightly indifferent tired look, looking aloof in front of him and waiting. A physical weakness was felt in him. Two steel oxygen cylinders flashed behind him. The woman who opened the door said we literally had twenty minutes, no more. He’s not feeling well and needs to be respected.

I’m holding a camera with a black and white film, a small set of optics, no flash, no additional light source. I’m trying to work at once, and you can’t – you have to give way to your colleagues. When the microphone is on and the radio reporter asks a question, it’s unethical to film. Camera sound can ruin a recording. I move closer, look, move farther away, go left, right, look around the room. It’s not suited for filming. Almost darkness, a failure of light. Even from an exposure point of view, there is not enough light, it very poorly illuminates this man. How to create a pattern of light on the face? How to save the situation. I unwittingly imagined the conversation with the editor-in-chief if I were to shoot without any changes. Terrible. My ears are starting to blush. What to do?? I go out into the corridor and turn to the woman who met us:

– Is it possible to move the curtains on the windows?

– Yes, please. But not for long. It is hard for him to perceive the bright light.

I pull back the right curtain so that the left side of my face is illuminated. Closing the second one, pushing another one back. Turning on the overhead light. But the result is a loose, sluggish, uncontrasted, untextured image. I’m looking at my hero. The wrinkles that he has on his face in great quantities are probably the payment for every success, every literary line. You know, like the fingerprint of destiny, it’s probably on his face. You can read it in his every crease, the tension of his lips, the look a little passive.

My colleagues pull out their microphones and start recording counter dialogues between them. Microphones get in the way. I ask you to move them a little. I start filming, I think I need to elevate the man. Shooting from below will elevate this poetic classic. I kneel down in front of him, I look into the camera, his face is distorted. His cheekbone and lips are protruding, his eyes are going back, they’re in the gap. In the dark, some details appear on the ceiling. It’s obviously not a good shot for compositional reasons. I’m starting to look. I get up off my knees. Going in from the left – the cylinders get in the way and the profile of the person is uncharacteristic and ugly. After taking dozens of sketchy shots, I find a spot I can and should shoot from. Quiet foreshortening. The power of the frame is transferred to the facial expression, but there’s not enough light. I turn to the lady of the house again and ask if there’s a table lamp.

– There is one on the desk. I’ll bring it to you in a moment.

She holds out to me a standard black plastic lamp that can bend with a very faint bulb. I’m turning on . It’s at a decent distance from my hero, you can barely feel the light from it. What to do? Looking for a lighting solution, at the same time I’m thinking with which lens to take the picture. I’m betting an eighty-five millimeter. This is what’s called a portrait lens. But the pattern of the lens in this case didn’t seem interesting to me. I put a fifty-five millimeter lens “Takumar” – a Japanese Asahi-Pentax lens. It makes the image seem better, more three-dimensional, more contrasted, more convex. But what to do with the light? I turn once more to the lady of the house:

– Maybe the neighbors have table lamps, portable lamps?

– Yeah, hold on.

I hear a short conversation with the neighbors outside the door. Two lamps appear. One similar to the one we had, the other with a pink lampshade. The last one I take off immediately without asking. I put these lamps on the left and right in a controlling way. On the left there was an opportunity to put the lamp on a piece of furniture, and it was a bit overhead. The light has become stiff. It became readable as a source. That’s no good. It’s just as unsuitable as shooting a blitz with a windshield. It’s unprofessional. You have to create a nuanced pattern. We have to create a picture of this man’s life.

He’s not looking at me. In my opinion, he moves his gaze from left to right, but he doesn’t capture what he sees. He probably doesn’t have the inner strength to focus on what’s going on in front of him. How do I draw attention to myself?? How to help him regroup? What’s closest to him is his art. We should remind him of him. Make him look at me carefully. But how..? When I started to frame from very close up, the body disappeared, one head. Gone was a kind of pedestal with special details – skinny shoulders, shirt folds, general frailty, naturalism. I come to the conclusion that I can’t shoot close-ups. A composition with arms and shoulders. It’s a little diagonal, dynamic. The detail of the shirt, the asymmetrical horizon of the shoulders all become necessary attributes. High wrinkled forehead, combed hair show that the man is ready to live and work on. How to be? How to revive my hero. How to arouse his interest in guests?

A few lingering minutes pass. The shot starts to fall apart. I hear my colleagues’ questions..

Lines written by the person sitting in front of me popped into my head on their own accord. I make a gesture to my colleagues. I begin to recite:

– ♪ The lady was checking in her luggage ♪

The couch,

Suitcase,

Suitcase,

The picture,

The basket,

♪ the cardboard ♪

And the little dog.

At the first words he spoke, his eyes flashed and flashed in my direction. An instant reaction on my part. I thought to myself, “Cut!”. I backed away, putting the camera down as if to say “The shot is over. For a while longer, the journalists attacked our hero. He answered slowly. Said that the word “horizon” apt for the name of the magazine, that he wished him creative success, that everything is great and he is very glad that there was such a team.

No, you can’t be so self-righteous, you must duplicate the situation. In addition, I was unhappy with the light. I turn to my colleagues:

– Hold the lamp, please, and this sheet here. On one side I point the light source at the sheet, thereby creating a soft light, but on the left side, the table lamp has illuminated the top of the head. I corrected a little. I like the drawing. Now the question was how to reveal the eyes, how to open them, how to make them look at me again? I repeat the same move. Reading:

– And this is the wheat in the dark closet. In the house that Jack built.

He almost smiled as he looked at me. I manage to press the right button again.

I only saw the result in the laboratory. I shot a lot of unimpressive material, but only these two shots, which I had carefully prepared, turned out to be perfect. One was a little better than the other. The maestro’s gaze was collected, attentive. Glasses with strong minus lenses made him look intently. Only this frame could get the right to live on. I considered my task accomplished.