Photo: Manuel Alvarez Bravo, The Daughter of the Dancers (La hija de los danzantes). 1933. Gelatin-silver print. 9 1/4 x 6 11/16″. The Museum of Modern Art, New York. Purchase.
I can still remember the first art show I ever reviewed. It was the Manuel Alvarez Bravo retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art, which was 20 years ago this month. I was on assignment for The Village Voice, writing for this brand new thing folks were calling “The World Wide Web.”
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I stepped into my first press preview and had a croissant, picked up a folder I still have (and I keep nothing) with an image a woman looking through a porthole in the wall. I was mystified, intrigued, and absolutely enthralled. I can still remember the first line of the review: “A man lies dead in the dirt, his hair slicked with blood like it was gel.” I knew then this was all I ever wanted—needed—to do. Be still and listen for the words that weave the spell.
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It’s been a rather round about road, such is life, and on this, the 115th birthday of Alvarez Bravo, I give thanks. It all began with a photograph and the urge to give voice to the thousands of words that speak every language at the same time deep within the silent realm of a picture hanging on the wall.