"Invasion" of privacy and telling a story
Barnes addresses the issue of whether or not the kind of documentary photography he did for the North Carolina Fund constituted an invasion of privacy. According to Barnes, documentary photography at its best did offer a "private look" into the everyday lives of the photographed subjects, but he believed it was possible to capture such images without truly invading privacy. In ruminating about this topic, Barnes argues that the best pictures were those that told a story. He offers several anecdotes about some of his favorite photographs.
Citing this Excerpt
Oral History Interview with Billy E. Barnes, November 6, 2003. Interview O-0038. Southern Oral History Program Collection (#4007) in the Southern Oral History Program Collection, Southern Historical Collection, Wilson Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
Full Text of the Excerpt
- ELIZABETH GRITTER:
-
I ran across another quote in that book. I don't know if I
wrote it down here. [Gritter looks at her notes.] Where the interviewer
asks the photographers, "Aren't your pictures in
some way an invasion of privacy? And he said, "Yes, but all
good pictures are." So I was wondering what you would say to
that.
- BILLY EBERT BARNES:
-
I wouldn't say all good pictures
are—not because of the privacy part but because of the
invasion part. I don't think all pictures are an invasion.
But I think the best pictures are the ones that give a private look at a
person, which is interesting because it's a private look.
It's a look that the average person doesn't see in
a day. If you take a picture of a stop sign, it's very hard
to take a compelling picture of a stop sign because it's
something everybody sees every day. It's hard to take a
picture of the bell tower on the Carolina campus that's a
compelling picture because it's something that people walk by
every day. It is a challenge to be able to frame it in such a
way—with tree leaves around it and stuff and the clouds just
right—so that it's more compelling than it would
otherwise be. But pictures of people, yeah—. Even if you take
a picture in the public, we have the idea that there is a certain
privacy about our bodies that is invaded if someone takes a picture of
it. So, I don't agree with the invasion part, but I do agree
with the idea that in a way there's a relationship between
the degree to which you are depicting someone in their privacy and the
degree to which the picture is compelling. If it's a
picture of Barbra Streisand or some great violin
player, the picture is a whole lot more compelling if the violin player
is in his or her own home, practicing, so that you get some idea of
their environment not only of what their face looks like.
It's going to be more compelling than a picture of them on
the stage at Carnegie Hall. So, giving the person who sees a picture a
look at the person's private feelings through their facial
expression and body language. I think it's an exaggeration to
call it an invasion. I think of it more as a visit. A very non-invasive,
non-aggressive visit to this person.
A case in point is one of my favorite Billy Barnes photographs is the
photograph—I think I showed it to you, it didn't
have anything to do with the North Carolina Fund, it was shot in the
'70s—of a black man with a hard hat on with a
barber shop in the background, and there's a big old
Chevrolet next to the black man. What the story looks like to me is the
black man has just gotten off from work, and he's waiting for
somebody to pick him up. He's leaning against this post.
He's kind of tired, and behind him there is a barbershop.
Through the window of a barbershop, we see two white guys—one
of them sitting in a regular chair and one of them is sitting in the
barber chair—and they're chatting.
There's this old pendulum clock on the wall, and it says a
little after five. What it does for me is it tells me a story about
these three people. There's the barber who's
talking to the guy who's sitting in the chair. His buddy
who's come by from some other—. He's
the jeweler down the street. Outside there's this laborer
with his hard hat on, and he's waiting for something to
happen. You got these planes of interest. The black guy is a lot closer
to you—the worker is a lot closer to you. Just across the
sidewalk behind him there's the barbershop.
I think it would be a stretch to say that I
invaded other people's privacy. But I was driving by, and I
saw that scene. I hopped out and found a parking
place and hopped out and went back and shot the picture. None of the
three of them knew I was there. I didn't want to know I was
there because the whole thing would've changed. Everybody
would've looked at the camera and grinned. So, I suppose, to
a certain extent, I was exploiting their privacy but it was a public
kind of privacy, you know—something that was going on.
That's what great painters do. If you're going to
shoot pictures of people, you shoot pictures of people doing things or
caught not doing things—caught in a state of relaxation where
they are not making something or sawing something. You're
showing them being who they really are and showing what people really
do.
I've always been fascinating with the painting called
"Nighthawk[s]." I can't think now of the
artist's name—.
- ELIZABETH GRITTER:
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Edward Hopper.
- BILLY EBERT BARNES:
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Okay. Hopper's "Nighthawk[s]." I love that
photograph because it does the same thing. It looks through a window at
people, doing what people do about 2:00 in the morning.
They're chatting. They're drinking coffee.
There's the guy behind the bar with his standard 1940s paper
hat on. That picture has enormous appeal. It is probably one of the most
famous paintings by an American artist that exists today. I see it
everywhere. I saw it on the cover of an A-O-L free disk the other day in
Walmart.
- ELIZABETH GRITTER:
-
[Laughter]
- BILLY EBERT BARNES:
-
I ran into one of Hopper's disciples while I was doing a
television piece on him. This guy is just a Hopper freak. The guy I was
interviewing is a sculpturer. He makes these
small houses about that big—well, some of them are about that
big and some of them are about that big—in exquisite detail.
Some of them are done on commission, and some of
them are just done because he wants to do them and sells them for
and so forth. He's gotten to be very
well known. He's a real Hopper—. He must have
mentioned Hopper thirty times during the time I was interviewing him for
that television piece. But I don't think the people in
"Nighthawk[s]"—. I don't think
their privacy is being invaded. But they are having a little private
scene going. Well, I think that's a very interesting
quotation. I'm glad you told me about it. I don't
agree.
I've met a whole lot of aggressive photographers who were
intent on invading people's privacy and letting them know
that their privacy was being invaded and considered people their
subjects in the same sense that a king considers the peasants his
subjects. These people—they want to be in the magazine or in
the newspaper. "They're going to do what I tell them
to do. They're going to smile when I say smile. If I tell
them to take their clothes off, they're going to take their
clothes off. If I tell them to change shirts, they're going
to change shirts." But, I think that kind of photography gives
an entirely different kind of picture which does invade
people's privacy.
- ELIZABETH GRITTER:
-
What—you've touched on some of this. What, to you,
makes a good picture?
- BILLY EBERT BARNES:
-
It's a picture that tells a story. I'll use my
photographs as an example. I just told you about one that I think just
tells a lovely story about the time of day in a small town where three
people—two of whom have a personal connection and the other
one doesn't—are all in the same scene, doing what
people do about ten minutes after five. There's even a clock
in there that tells you what time it is. It's an exquisite
piece of serendipity.
The picture of Miss Mary that I showed you—of the little old
African American woman in the rocking chair. The first thing you see is
this smile—this incredibly glowing,
knowing smile. Then you see the way she's dressed.
She's got on this shapeless dress. She's got on
socks that don't match—one of them is striped and
one of them is not. I think there's a little potbellied stove
over here, and there's an old bedstead over here.
There's a jar of something liquid sitting down on the floor,
and you don't know whether it's white liquor or
whether it's kerosene for the stove. You wonder,
"What's in that jar?" You don't
know the story the way I know the story. But if it were in a book, I
could tell you the story about how that lump over here that has got all
of her receipts in it for everything she ever bought so that she can
prove that stuffbelongs to her. That, to me, is the perfectly conceived
photograph. Although I didn't conceive it, it just happened.
Another example is the picture of the woman sitting on her little caravel
bed, and the child has come over to her and laid her cheek on her
mother's knee. Do you remember that one?
- ELIZABETH GRITTER:
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[Nods]
- BILLY EBERT BARNES:
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I walked into the front door of this house, and there it was revealed to
me. I didn't even ask. I guess the worker I was with said,
"Mrs. So and So. We came to visit you, and he's
getting some pictures." But I realized that if I
didn't get to work, that situation was going to be gone. To
me, it was clear at the time—and I hope it's clear
in the picture—that she's real sleepy eyed, and
she's kind of still not very with it because she just got up.
Her hair is all frazzled, and she's in a nightgown. I think
just before I got there this little child had toddled in and awakened
her. I think Grandma was back in the kitchen making breakfast. And the
little child—time for her mama to get up—she
thought. She had come and awakened her mother. Her
mother had sleepily thrown her legs over the side of the bed, and this
little child had just kind of given her a cheek hug.
I think a picture has got to tell a story. The first thing a photograph
has to have is a center of interest. If you look at a photograph and you
don't know where your eye is supposed to focus, then
it's a sorry photograph. I don't care whether
it's a landscape or a street scene or a group shot. Well, I
won't say it's a sorry photograph. It's
a very ordinary photograph unless there's something central
that the eye cannot resist focusing on. Then, after it feasts on that
sight—often it's a face—for a while,
then it begins to see the context. The perfect picture, in my way of
thinking, is a picture that tells a story. Like the little freckled-face
boy with the home-made wagon. Here's this little kid
who's obviously not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He
lives out in the country because there's a barn behind him.
He's got the tongue of this wagon that looks like it was put
together by Rube Goldberg. You know, it's got an old plank
here and an old plank there and an old wagon wheel here. You could
probably write a short story about that. In fact, someone once bought a
batch of my photographs to be used in high school texts that was an
exercise in short story writing. The kids were to take these ten
photographs, pick their favorite photograph, and write a short story
about the person or people in the picture. That's, I think,
is the ideal photograph.