"Do you know who died?" my husband asked ominously.
My whole body tensed up. The way he said it scared me. I poised for bad news.
"I guess you don't."
Who died?" I said
"Irving Penn," he said sadly, incredulously, finally.
I knew he was old. 93. But Irving Penn is one of the greats, the master, an artistic hero in our house and we were really moved by the passing of this man who has been making great editorial and art photography (what's the difference, really) for a lifetime.
Brooklynometry has a post called Requium for Irving Penn in which she writes:
moved by his images, even more than the portraits, the cigarette butts
which he sanctifies with an alchemy of lens, emulsion and precious
metal, teaching, as Kvond has, that there is no negative, saying, do not be afraid. Is there any more radical faith or more transcendent immanence?
Go to her blog to see his photo of cigarette butts.
Around here we treasure his portraits, his still lifes, his book of ambulant studio photography, "Worlds in a Small Room" and yes his cigarette butts.
I really LOVE those cigarette butts. Did I mention I love those cigarette butts?