Stieglitz: A terceira clase

Alfred STIEGLITZ
The Steerage
1907

In June, 1907, my wife, our daughter Kitty and I sailed for Europe. My wife insisted on going on a large ship, fashionable at the time. Our initial destination was Paris. How distasteful I found the atmosphere of first class on that ship.

I sat in my steamer chair much of the time the first days out with closed eyes: In this way I could avoid seeing faces that gave me the cold shivers. And those strident voices. Ye gods!

By the third day out I could stand it no longer. I walked as far forward as possible. The sky was clear and the sea not particularly rough, although a rather brisk wind was blowing.

Coming to the end of the deck I stood alone, looking down. There were men, women and children on the lower level of the steerage. A narrow stairway led up to a small deck at the extreme bow of the steamer. A young man in a straw hat, the shape of which was round, gazed over the rail, watching a group beneath him. To the left was an inclining funnel. A gangway bridge, glistening with fresh white paint, led to the upper deck.

The scene fascinated me: A round straw hat; the funnel leaning left, the stairway leaning right; the white drawbridge, its railing made of chain; white suspenders crossed on the back of a man below; circular iron machinery; a mast that cut into the sky, completing a triangle. I stood spellbound. I saw shapes related to one another – a picture of shapes, and underlying it, a new vision that held me: simple people; the feeling of ship, ocean, sky; a sense of release that I was away from the mob called rich. Rembrandt came into my mind and I wondered would he have felt as I did.

I raced to the main stairway of the steamer, chased down to my cabin, picked up my Graflex, raced back again, worrying whether or not the man with the straw hat had shifted his position. If he had, the picture I saw would no longer exist.

The man with the straw hat had not stirred an inch. Neither had the man in the crossed suspenders. The woman with the child on her lap remained on the floor, motionless.

I had only one plate holder with one unexposed plate. Could I catch what I saw and felt? I released the shutter. If I had captured what I wanted, the photograph would go far beyond any of my previous prints. It would be a picture based on related shapes and deepest human feelings – a step in my own evolution, a spontaneous discovery.

When we reach Paris, I tried at once to find out where I might develop my plate. I was given the address of a photographer who led me to a huge darkroom, many feet long and many feet wide, perfectly appointed. 'Make yourself at home.'

I had brought a bottle of my own developer, and went to work at once. What tense moments! If the exposure were not correct, if I had moved, if the negative were anything but perfect, the picture would be a failure.

I developed, washed and rinsed the plate. Held up to the red light, it seemed all right, yet I would not be sure until it had been completely fixed. At last I could turn on the white light. The negative was perfect in every particular.

No negative ever receive more care at least not any of mine. I washed and then dried it with the help of an electric fan, replacing it in the original plate holder – not to be removed before I arrived home.


Some months later, after The Steerage was printed, I felt satisfied, something I have not been very often. When it was published, I felt that if all my photographs were lost and I were represented only by The Steerage, that would be quite all right.

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En Xuño de 1907 a miña muller, a miña filla Kitty e eu embarcamos para Europa. A miña muller insistiu en ir nun grande barco, como era a moda no momento. O noso destino inicial era París. Que desagradábel me pareceu o ambiente da primeira clase naquel barco.

Sentábame na miña hamaca a maior parte do tempo nos primeiros días cos ollos fechados: desta maneira podía evitar ver caras que me daban arrepíos. E aquelas voces estridentes. Por Deus!

Ao terceiro día non o puiden soportar máis. Camiñei o máis adiante posíbel. O ceo estaba despexado e o mar calmo a pesar de que sopraba unha lixeira brisa.

Chegando ao final do convés fiquei só, ollando para abaixo. Había homes, mulleres e nenos no nivel inferior da terceira clase. Unha escaleira estreita levaba a un pequena terraza no extremo da proa do vapor. Un mozo cun chapeu de palla de forma redondeada, miraba pola borda, observando un grupo debaixo del. Á esquerda había unha chimenea inclinada. Unha pasarela, brillando con pintura branca fresca, levaba ao convés superior.

A cena fascinoume: un chapeu de palla redondo; unha chimenea inclinándose cara a esquerda, as escaleiras cara a dereita; a pasarela branca; o seu pasamáns feito de cadeas; os tirantes brancos cruzados nas costas dun home abaixo; maquinaria de ferro circular; un mastro que cortaba o ceo, completando un triángulo. Fiquei cativado. Vin formas relacionadas entre si - unha imaxe das formas e, sustentándoo, unha nova visión que me sostivo: xente sinxela; a sensación do barco, o océano, o ceo; unha sensación de liberación que estaba lonxe da mafia chamada ricos. Rembrandt veume á cabeza e pregunteime se tería sentido o mesmo ca min.

Corrín até escaleira principal do barco, baixei ao meu camarote, collín a miña Graflex e corrín de volta preocupado por se o home do sombreiro de palla se movera do seu lugar. Se o tivera feito, a imaxe que vin xa non existiría.

O home do sombreiro de palla non se movera nen unha polegada. Nen o home dos tirantes. A muller co neno ao colo permanecía no chan, sen movemento.

Só tiña un soporte de placas cunha placa aínda non exposta. Podería capturar o que vin e sentín? Soltei o obturador. Se tivera capturado o que eu quería, a fotografía iría muito alén de calquer das miñas imaxes anteriores. Sería unha imaxe baseada en formas relacionadas e os sentimentos humanos máis profundos - un paso na miña propia evolución, unha descoberta espontánea.

Ao chegarmos a París, tentei averiguar de inmediato onde é que podía revelar a miña placa. Déronme o enderezo dun fotógrafo que me levou a un enorme cuarto escuro, de varios pés de longo e de ancho, perfectamente equipado. "Síntase como na súa casa".

Trouxera unha botella do meu propio revelador e púxenme inmediatamente a traballar. Que momentos de tensión! Se a exposición non fose correcta, se me tivese movido, se o negativo fose calquer cousa menos perfeito, a imaxe sería un fracaso.

Revelei, lavei e enxuguei a placa. Exposta á luz vermella parecía ben, porén non estaría certo até que estivese completamente preparada. Finalmente puiden prender a luz branca. O negativo era perfeito en cada detalle.

Ningún negativo recibiu xamais máis coidados, cando menos ningún dos meus. Laveino e despois sequeino coa axuda dun ventilador eléctrico, substituíndoo no soporte da placa orixinal - para non ser retirado antes de chegar a casa.

Algúns meses máis tarde, despois de que The Steerage fose impresa, sentinme satisfeito, algo que non sucede a miúdo. Cando foi publicada, sentín que se se perdesen todas as miñas fotografías e eu tivese que ser representado só por The Steerage, estaría ben.