
Tim Hetherington, Sleeping Soldiers
A lot has been written about Tim Hetherington as a war photographer. Here’s David Carr in the New York Times:
Tim Hetherington was a war photographer in every regard. Tall, brutally handsome and modest, he had a British accent plucked from a Graham Greene novel and the body fat of a Diet Coke.
I actually disagree. From my limited personal knowledge of Tim, and from extensive time thinking about and looking at his work, I don’t think he was a “war photographer in every regard.” While his photos of conflict in Liberia and Afghanistan are truly excellent examples of war photography, so many of his photographs are examples of something else. His series Sleeping Soldiers certainly isn’t straight war photography. It’s a look at the people fighting wars – vulnerable, young, human.
When I interviewed him, I specifically asked him about war photography. Here’s what he said:
I’ve never seen myself as a war photographer. This is about narrative. I’m very open to any visual conceits and any possibilities at my disposal to better explain to people the ideas I’m exploring. I like art photography, I like still life, I like war photography. I like to include everything to weave a tapestry to explain to someone, “What happened?”
A lot of the pictures are metaphorical, and the combination of pictures is metaphorical. This piece of work is almost like a novel. I use narrative book techniques, and I think they’re a more powerful approach than having a lot of war photography.
He said this type of thing other places too — he told @Zoe_Flood:
“I’m not a war junkie – I don’t go to places like Liberia because I get off on it. Whilst war photography is the most extreme in terms of it being pure photojournalism, taking place right on the edge, what I am interested is how people are touched by the story, and if they are, that they become aware of something they hadn’t previously known about.”
This is important to remember, especially now as Duckrabbit insightfully, and fearfully, points out, that the romantic myth of the war photographer is stronger than ever.
Here’s Sebastian Junger, remembering Tim, and deeply invested in the romance of war:
You and I were always talking about risk because she was the beautiful woman we were both in love with, right? The one who made us feel the most special, the most alive? We were always trying to have one more dance with her without paying the price. All those quiet, huddled conversations we had in Afghanistan: where to walk on the patrols, what to do if the outpost gets overrun, what kind of body armor to wear. You were so smart about it, too—so smart about it that I would actually tease you about being scared. Of course you were scared—you were terrified. We both were. We were terrified and we were in love, and in the end, you were the one she chose.
Debating his legacy is an important part of remembering him and how he contributed to the way we all understand the world.
I hope Tim isn’t only remembered as a war photographer.
***
“Could Have,” by by Wislawa Szymborska, and translated below from the Polish, via CJ Chivers.
It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Nearer. Farther off.
It happened, but not to you.
You were saved because you were the first.
You were saved because you were the last.
Alone. With others.
On the right. The left.
Because it was raining. Because of the shade.
Because the day was sunny.
You were in luck — there was a forest.
You were in luck — there were no trees.
You were in luck — a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,
A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant …
So you’re here? Still dizzy from
another dodge, close shave, reprieve?
One hole in the net and you slipped through?
I couldn’t be more shocked or
speechless.
Listen,
how your heart pounds inside me.