Because they mask the intensity of the photographer’s intent. Recently I was able to look at some naked Stieglitz prints at the Art Institute of Chicago. Only matted without frames, they were free from annoying reflections caused by the omnipresent museum glass. I was able to tilt them to create a raking light that revealed Georgia O’Keefe’s freckles. I was able to move my eyes closer or farther back mimicking the sensation of looking at a ground glass and getting that “in focus” effect. Where the light is caught just so on the ground glass screen like catching a butterfly’s wing in mid stroke. Almost like looking over his shoulder as he said, “there” and stopped. But what was most apparent in the prints was the majesty of their beauty. Arrested, deep dark sighs. When Stieglitz used silver to paint the Hand of Man, he obviously saw it rushing out of the glowing morning of modernism and being captured in a glistening dawn. Each silvery tone laid down by the lens and camera, from the imagination of a master and the heart of a muse. Indeed Aurora was rushing towards us that morning. Something else, ugly, more constructed lies in the photogravure versions. The rails are dim, the sky dark. A different cloudier image and a different, darker, meaning. The saddest part was knowing the Russian Revolution interrupted the supply of platinum. What masterworks would he have been capable of at the very moment at the apex of his power. In his hands palladium is wonderous but shows weakly next to the layered blacks from the platinums. But most important was the revelation of his intent. To be able to look simultaneously at the scowling Beck and the enraged O’Keefe, is to sit before the real manifestation of their presence. They were there and they moved me back. I physically recoiled and then laughed. O’Keefe, me and Stieglitz touching each other over 90 years. Time travels. I have these same images in the highly acclaimed Met book of O’Keefe prints and the National Gallery’s book of Stieglitz and countless other obviously inferior reproductions in other books, prints, cards and posters. But nothing is the same and nothing even compares. The reproductions are not real, merely pretend, they only skim, like standing on the bank skipping stones across a deep pond. Jump in with me, naked, the deep water is bracing. Perhaps the better the reproduction the worse the joke, because the most important detail that gives truth and life is exactly what is not there. To be able to be next to, in front of, transfixed by these prints is an irreplaceable experience. Photography’s truth was in my hand. Make an appointment today.
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Stieglitz did some fine work but no better than some on this forum. His fame derives within an historical context. Reproductions tell much about a photographer and his subject but generally little about the physical original. That's OK because we, as viewers, have an opportunity to see all this material. With experience gained from viewing original images, we can often guess what the real thing might be like. In fact in some cases the reproductions approach the originals. The whole thesis of the subject is revealed in the reproduction and IMHO this is usually the larger part of the statement. I'll take the reproductions if I must.
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