Like so many others, I love candid photography. It is an adventure to walk down the street not knowing just what I'll encounter or the emotions I'll have. But what candid photographer hasn't had the experience of someone objecting to his or her picture being taken? People may be suspicious of our motive. They are concerned about not being shown in a true light. As a matter of fact, if we want to be honest with ourselves as photographers, we'll ask, "As I try to capture people in a candid, unposed moment, do I hope to find meaning in them, or to make them look foolish and weak?"

Photography aside, when someone says to us, "Let me be candid with you," why is it that we get a little pale? "Telling it like it is" has long been associated with a certain relish in pointing out the imperfections of others--seeing "real-life" as seedy and senseless.  This was the "honesty" I used to pride myself on until Eli Siegel, the founder of Aesthetic Realism, asked me in a class: "Can you tell the difference between candor and brutality?" I couldn't. In fact, I often said things that were thoughtless and mean, because I didn't see the feelings of other people as real, like my own. I'm learning to be kinder, more exact, and I am indebted to Mr. Siegel for making this change possible.

We can think that finding flaws in others (as well as making up some along the way) distinguishes us, and even hones our creative edge. But the desire to make less of people to build ourselves up is hardly original; it is, I learned from Aesthetic Realism, ordinary, dreary contempt, which has a terrible effect on our life, and makes for candid photographs that distort and trivialize a person's value. The opposite of contempt is good will, which Mr. Siegel defined as "the desire to have something else stronger and more beautiful, for this desire makes oneself stronger and more beautiful." The study of good will is a domestic and international emergency because it is the one thing that can have people truly kind to each other.  It will also make the difference between photographs that add to the understanding of humanity, and those that mock it. As a photographer and critic these last 26 years, I've seen that wanting to have "something else stronger and more beautiful" through our own perception, is the ultimate in self-expression--there is nothing more original, or avant-garde.

The candid photographer, trying to see people and things as they truly are, will inevitably find meaning that takes in the whole world. Eli Siegel explained why when he stated: "In reality opposites are one; art shows this." I feel immensely fortunate to be studying this principle, and to know it illuminates what every photographer deeply hopes to accomplish.

For example, when I saw "Two Couples on West Broadway," I felt instinctively it was a chance to show something about the way men and women have been for and against each other in a way that has caused anguish.

Two people can hug, like the couple on the left, and still not be too interested in knowing each other. Later, their resentment can show through an argument, like the couple on the right. Usually we see the hugs and the arguments as unrelated, but here we see them at the same time as both couples share the picture frame, and are joined through the circular industrial spool that is being used as a seat.

The education in the true meaning of art and ethics takes place in professional classes for Aesthetic Realism consultants and associates that are taught by Class Chairman Ellen Reiss. In one of these classes, she asked me about my brochure for a recent exhibition, which included the photograph, "2nd Avenue Deli," and I began to learn more deeply what stirred me when I ran to capture this dramatic tableau.

Ellen Reiss:  Do you think sometimes a person can be having a tremendous experience, having something affect him enormously, and people all around are unaware of it?

Len Bernstein:  Yes. I was very surprised that the people were so oblivious to this man. Clearly he'd been through something, and there were his shoes on the ground in front of him.

Ellen Reiss:  Do you think he also seems in a state of great humility?

Len Bernstein:  Oh he is. It's almost prayerful the way his head is bowed.

Ellen Reiss:  It almost seems like he's offering up those shoes...in some way feeling he doesn't deserve to have them. Maybe they're off because his feet hurt. I imagine something like that is so, but it also seems as though he is saying 'they shouldn't be of me.'...and then [there are] persons around seeming rather complacent.

Ms. Reiss was teaching me how people deserve to be seen. And in this same class discussion she asked about another photograph, "Man and Two Boys," which is very different because, here, people show interest in each other.

"What is the relation of all the details in this photograph to something like form? Do they help [or] interfere with seeing composition?" And she explained, "Composition can be of different kinds. How much the dispersed can be shape is being looked at more and more in all the arts. But even as you have two hands meeting in the middle, do you think there is something more dispersed in this?"
 

Len Bernstein:  Yes, there is. I've always been very affected by the moment, the meeting between these people, and also questioning the composition.

Ellen Reiss:  This matter of the immediate content and then the structure [is] central in photography.

And with such compassion she asked: "Do you think that when [this man] was a little boy this was the kind of work he hoped to be doing when he was older?"

Answering "no," I realized I could have been clearer about what was affecting me in this scene and had more feeling for this man's life--and I'm very grateful to Ellen Reiss for enabling me to see this. I am learning that if we don't put a limit on how much feeling we can have for people, we will make better choices when a split-second decision is called for, including choices about photographic technique and composition.

In "Man Greeting Bird at War Memorial," man is once again reaching out, but here I think the relation of feeling and composition is better.

The setting is sober, but it also has a lift. Dressed in black, the man leans against a tall stone monument, and is observed by three sparrows--two on the ground, and one that he greets with outstretched hand as it hovers and flutters, representing the freshness of life itself. As he bends with humility, the man is joined visually to the monument's bright edge which rises like a shaft of light. Then, a part of a tree peeks out from behind the monument, its bare branches extended like the fingers of a hand in a gesture to the sky that seems to both echo and approve of the man's action.

As we are out and about with our camera, we may see something that stirs us, and yet hesitate to approach and photograph it. For example, if we felt that taking a photograph of people in a certain situation might have a bad effect on them, it would be good will to put our camera down. But we can also hesitate because we are afraid to have more feeling and respect. It is not always easy to be sure of our motives, but the more we question ourselves, the more confident we will be, in photography--and in life!

Assignment:
Photography doesn't begin with the camera; it begins with how we see all the time. And so, before going out to take pictures, ask yourself these questions about someone you know, "Would he or she like the way I have them in my mind? Do I want him or her to be "stronger and more beautiful?" And every person can benefit from the kind and crucial question Eli Siegel asked me: "Can you tell the difference between candor and brutality?"

Think about these questions in relation to the people you will meet during your photographic travels. Don’t settle for your first answers. Keep digging.  The effort will not only affect the sincerity of your photographs, which is a tremendous thing in itself; it will also determine whether you yourself will be "stronger and more beautiful"--and who doesn't want that?