Stieglitz: A terminal

Alfred STIEGLITZ
The Terminal or The Car Horses, New York
1893

I was sad to leave Europe in 1890, after my student days in Germany. While abroad, I had defended my country against all criticism. As a child, I had a glowing vision of America – of its promise. But then, once back in New York, I experienced an intense longing for Europe; for its vital tradition of music, theater, art, craftmanship. I was overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness and constraint, after the rich stimulus and freedom of my life abroad. I felt bewildered and lonely. How was I to use myself?

One evening, not many months after my return to New York, I happened to walk into a theatre. Camille was being played. Suddenly a figure appeared on the stage, so quietly, such a face, and what hands. As the woman opened her mouth, the tears rolled down my cheeks. Why, I do not know.

The woman – it turned out to be the great Italian actress, Eleonora Duse – gripped all of me. Even when she was silent she seemed to satisfy everything in me. When the performance was over, I found myself in a daze.


I felt, for the first time since I had left Europe, there was a contact between myself and my country once more; that if only there were more things like that woman, and that play in the United States, then the country might be bearable. It was a few days later that I photographed The Car Horses at the Terminal, opposite the old Astor House. There was snow on the ground. A driver in a rubber coat was watering his steaming horses. There seemed to be something closely related to my deepest feeling in what I saw, and I decided to photograph what was within me. The steaming horses, and their driver watering them on a cold winter day; my feeling of aloneness in my own country, amongst my own people, seemed, somehow, related to the experience I had had when seeing Duse in Camille. I felt how fortunate the horses were to have at least a human being to give them the water they needed. What made me see the watering of the horses as I did was my own loneliness.

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[«Estaba triste por abandonar Europa en 1890 logo dos meus días de estudante na Alemaña. Mentres estiven no estranxeiro defendera o meu país contra calquer crítica. De neno tiña unha visión entusiasta de América - da súa promesa. Mais entón, unha vez de volta en New York, experimentei unha intensa saudade da Europa; da súa viva tradición musical, teatral, artística, artesanal. Despois do enriquecedor estímulo e a liberdade da miña vida no estranxeiro estaba invadido por unha sensación de vacío e restrición. Sentíame desorientado e só. O que ía ser de min?

Unha noite, só uns meses despois do meu regreso a New York, resulta que entrei nun teatro. Estaban interpretando Camille. De súpeto unha figura apareceu no cenario, tan calmamente, con que rostro e que maos. Conforme a muller abría a súa boca, as lágrimas rolaban polas miñas bochechas. O porqué, non o sei.

A muller, que resultou ser a grande actriz italiana Eleonora Duse, apoderouse totalmente de min. Mesmo cando estaba en silencio parecía satisfacer todo o meu ser. Cando a actuación rematou, encontrábame aturdido.

Sentín, por primeira vez desde que deixara Europa, que había unha vez máis unha conexión entre eu e o meu país; que se aínda había máis cousas como aquela muller e aquela obra de teatro nos Estados Unidos, entón o país podía ser soportábel. Foi uns poucos días despois que fotografei The Car Horses at the Terminal [Os cabalos do coche na terminal] frente a antiga residencia Astor. O chan estaba coberto de neve. Un condutor cun abrigo de hule estaba a dar auga aos seus cabalos fumegantes. Parecía haber no que estaba a ollar algo estreitamente relacionado cos meus sentimentos máis profundos e decidín fotografar o que estaba dentro de min. Os cabalos fumegantes e o seu condutor dándolles de beber nun frío día de inverno; o meu sentimento de soidade no meu propio país, entre a miña propia xente, parecían, dalgunha maneira, relacionados coa experiencia que tivera vendo a Duse en Camille. Sentín o afortunados que eran os cabalos por teren cando menos a un ser humano que lles dese a auga que precisaban. O que me fixo ver o abeberar dos cabalos desa maneira foi a miña propia soidade»]