Berenice Abbott had one of the most astonishingly wide-ranging artistic careers of the twentieth century. Remembered today as a pioneer of street photography, she also captured portraits of the artistic elite in Paris and Harlem and pushed the field of scientific photography forward at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
The filmmakers Martha Wheelock and Kay Weaver, who co-founded Wild West Women, Inc. in 1993, released their biographical documentary Berenice Abbott: A View of the 20th Century (1992) after conducting a series of interviews with the artist at her lakeside home in Maine. These candid conversations covered Abbott’s early days in Paris, as an assistant for the legendary Surrealist photographer Man Ray, where she first learned the conventions of studio photography and met many of her future clients, through her final years photographing the contemporary American landscape. The film includes nearly one hundred of Abbott’s images.
This interview with Wheelock and Weaver was conducted over email and has been edited for publication.
When did you decide to make a film about Berenice Abbott? What drew you to her initially, and why did you think she would make a compelling subject?
Martha Wheelock:
When I moved from Ohio to New York City in 1964 to attend New York University for my master’s in American literature, I settled in Greenwich Village. Wide-eyed about the Village, I researched and explored its denizens past and present: e.e. cummings, Henry James, Djuna Barnes. In a small corner tobacco store I found a postcard of two Village homes on Gay Street, and another card depicting the artistry of a door at the brownstone at 204 West 13th Street. I knew both places and had walked by them almost daily. Who else had thought them beautiful? The photographer was Berenice Abbott. Her name stayed with me, as did the postcards.
I discovered a thin book of her photography and a small exhibit of her work in a Village gallery. Her art remained in my head and heart for decades. After I finished a film on the overlooked Maine writer May Sarton and another on the obscure pioneer writer Kate Chopin, my obsession with unsung women writers and artists grew into a mission: to celebrate and uncover women’s history and its creators.
Left: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). West Street, 1936. Gelatin silver print, 19.1 x 24 cm (7 1/2 x 9 1/2 in.). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Jane and Mark Ciabattari, 2000 (2000.593) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.; Right: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). Henry Street from Market, Looking West, Manhattan, November 29, 1935. Gelatin silver print, 19.2 x 24.2 cm (7 1/2 x 9 1/2 in.). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Joyce F. Menschel, 2012 (2012.481.1) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.
Kay Weaver:
Martha handed me a book of Berenice Abbottʼs photographs in 1989 and told me that she would love to make a documentary on Abbott and her work. Abbott was new to me, but after looking at a few of her photographs I knew we were a perfect fit. The photographs were classically composed, black-and-white images with great attention to lighting and detail.
I began playing Mozart when I was five, and my father, a classical pianist, thought I was getting a late start. Marthaʼs background was equally grounded in the classics. Her father was a Latin scholar and professor; to this day, his book, Wheelockʼs Latin, is the preeminent Latin textbook used by schools and universities across the country. Both Martha and I felt an affinity with Abbottʼs work and for Abbott herself. We were working in a manʼs world that could oftentimes be openly hostile to our ideas and goals. We were feminists pressing for a level playing field. We were artists pushing for more music and more films created by and about women.
Wheelock:
Abbott was an independent artist, married to her art, who developed new techniques and remained true to herself. She was a role model for older women, as she was productive into her late eighties and vital up to her death at age ninety-three. She created iconic images of America’s progress and life, as well as subjects ranging from the great artists of her time to the humble potato farmer and the jazz musicians of Harlem. Americans should know this artist who chronicled our country, who refused to be diminished because she was female—a woman who would not sell her vision for commercial success.
Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). Nightview, New York, 1932, printed 1950s. Gelatin silver print, 34.1 x 27.0 cm (13 1/2 x 10 5/8 in. ). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Purchase, Photography in the Fine Arts Gift, 1970 (1970.500) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.
How did you get in touch with Abbott? How did she feel about having a film made about her?
Wheelock:
By 1990, Abbott had retired from her science work at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge to a small town in Maine, appropriately named Abbott. May Sarton, who knew of Abbott’s work, encouraged me to find her and approach her with a film idea.
Weaver:
On a trip back East we met with a woman who knew Abbott personally. She was a head librarian at a library in Maine. The librarian told us that Abbott was a very private person. Others had approached the photographer hoping to make a documentary but Berenice had turned them down. The librarian knew our work. At her urging her library had purchased our films, so she was in our corner, and she wrote a letter of introduction to Abbott.
Wheelock:
Through a network of librarians and Maine artists, we sent a letter to Abbott, with a copy of the Sarton film and our film One Fine Day (1984). I remembered her response took weeks to arrive, with only modest interest. Her hesitancy was 1) her shyness; and 2) that she was never in front of a camera, always behind it. She was not sure she would feel comfortable.
Weaver:
I knew from Abbottʼs work that control must be important to her. When producing an image on paper, or on film, you must have the reins firmly in hand. Everything from light and movement to darkroom chemicals, equipment, and—in the case of still photos—even the paper the photographer is printing on has to be carefully chosen and controlled in order to produce the image that the artist intended. To produce the scientific photographs that Abbott envisioned, she had to design and build her own cameras. I knew that control must be very important to her. So, Martha and I wrote a letter to Abbott and ended by reminding her that eventually someone was going to make a documentary on her work and her life.
Wheelock:
Our argument was: “Wouldn’t you like to have a say in how you are represented, rather than have someone else tell your story? You would be in control of what is presented!” That power, that control, seemed to have convinced her.
Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). Self-Portrait, ca. 1930. Gelatin silver print, 34.5 x 27.2 cm (13 1/2 x 10 2/3 in.). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Ford Motor Company Collection, Gift of Ford Motor Company and John C. Waddell, 1987 (1987.1100.19) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.
Weaver:
One week later Berenice Abbott called us. She agreed to meet with us in person at her home in Maine but would make no promises about a film. Berenice was ninety years old. Martha and I packed up all of our cumbersome 16mm film equipment (including lights and sound recorder) and ten days later boarded a plane from Los Angeles to Maine.
We spent three or four days in Abbottʼs guest house on her lakeside property before we broached the subject. She got to know us a bit and finally, on day four, we asked if we could make the film. Abbott was still not overjoyed at the prospect, but she agreed, adding only one caveat. She insisted that we keep her personal life out of the picture. Her life, she said, was all about her work, not about her relationships, and she didnʼt want anything to detract from that. We agreed, hesitantly at first. We wanted the whole big picture. Martha and I were living together and quite open about our relationship, but Berenice, born in 1898, was adamant. Same-sex relationships were not only considered a “sin” but exploring them at all could add a prurient interest to the documentary that was completely contrary to her lifeʼs work, her single focus.
Wheelock:
Once she sat down with us, two women filmmakers, she was soon at ease, trusted us, and opened up authentically. Her life, stories, and shared vision flowed out easily.
This film offers extraordinary access to Abbott’s mind. She speaks directly, and for herself, which is a genuine treat. How many interviews did you conduct with her? What was it like to work with her?
Wheelock:
Abbott saw in Kay and me two independent artists like herself. She also saw that we had studied her photography with attention, respect, and enthusiasm; we clearly loved her art. I had lived in her Greenwich Village and New York City, and we both knew the subjects of her Paris portraits. All of these connections made us confidantes, sister travelers.
Left: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). James Joyce, 1928. Gelatin silver print. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. William B. Liebman, 1955 (55.576.8) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.; Right: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). Jane Heap, ca. 1928, printed later. Gelatin silver print, 24.1 x 18.7 cm. (9 1/2 x 7 3/8 in.). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Laura May Isaacson, 1976 (1976.601.2) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.
We made several trips—I think six or seven—to Maine to space out the time with her. She gave us our own onsite cottage to work from. We were able to capture her in a boat on her lake, walking in the evening, playing games, long dinners—all life allowed us as “residents” of her home. We also interviewed her at her exhibition at the New York Public Library in 1989, as she toured the show. This is included in the film.
Weaver:
We set up our lights, our Éclair 16 mm camera, microphones, and sound tape recorder in Abbottʼs living room. She would pop in to watch the set up. “Itʼs all wood, this living room,” she reminded us. “Itʼs going to need more lighting than you think because all of this wood is going to absorb it. Soak it up.” She was right, of course.
We would fly from Los Angeles to Boston, rent a car and drive the last 242 miles to Abbottʼs home, usually late at night and more than once through a blizzard. We would film for three or four or five days at a stretch. Berenice could be interviewed for about three, maybe four hours before tiring. She was ninety-one but her mind was sharp, and her memory was astounding.
Wheelock:
Working with Abbott was not only a privilege but also an education. “I think you could put that light a little more to the left,” she would instruct. She was involved in the filming process, as if she herself were the director. She asked questions about our equipment and process. She was fascinated by our 16mm Éclair, the way she loved her own 8 x10 Century Universal camera. She had a sense of humor, and enjoyed the process once we convinced her we were “on her side.” It was a joy and true collaboration to make this film with her.
Still from “The Living Room”
Weaver:
We let Abbottʼs art and her way of working dictate the style of the film. Berenice told us that it was her goal to be totally transparent when making an image. She wanted to get out of the way of the camera. When taking portraits she encouraged her subjects to talk about themselves or about things that were important to them. Then she would surreptitiously grab the image. We followed Abbottʼs lead. You will never hear Marthaʼs voice or mine in the film. We never asked a question on camera. We did not use a narrator. We wanted to get out of Abbottʼs way—let her talk about what was important to her—let her tell her own story in her own words.
Abbott was a joy to work with. After one particularly long day of filming Berenice challenged Martha to a game of jacks. And there they both were, on the floor playing jacks. The game was a childhood favorite of Abbottʼs, and she was fast. She was ninety-one but she won!
We wanted to get out of Abbottʼs way—let her talk about what was important to her—let her tell her own story in her own words.
– Kay Weaver
Wheelock:
As we were working with a master artist whose composition was flawless, our composition had also to be representative of hers. I remember creating with her the distinctive light and dark lighting of the fireplace and the ambiance of the room, to play up the contrasts. She encouraged “just try it,“ a directive she would give herself. Within a classic form she would find a small detail which would startle. I too tried to find those details in her moments—like the flicking of her hand in the game scene. “Just try it.”
How long did it take to make this film?
Wheelock:
As independent filmmakers without studio backing, we spent over a year raising necessary funds to film in 16 mm film. We received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Maine and New York Councils for the Humanities, and private foundations: Payson, Donnet, Polaroid, and the Women in Film Finishing Fund. Several individuals also helped. It was challenging to win financing for a film about an unknown woman artist. It was also a controversial time for photography. Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs were condemned as “obscene” by congressman Jessie Helms in 1989, so all art was under scrutiny. We even were asked by the NEA not to include any nudes by—or of—Abbott! As that demand was not really an issue with Abbott or her work, and the fundraising, challenging, we took the grant but not without a declaration about freedom of artistic expression.
We shot with strict planning, for film was very expensive. As Berenice did not want any other people in her home, Kay and I were the only two she allowed, and thus, we were the entire crew: sound, lights, camera, make-up and hair, food service!
Weaver:
Abbott never got to see the film. Knowing that her health was declining we called Berenice to let her know we were working long hours so that she could see the finished documentary. She put our minds at ease. “Donʼt worry,” she said. “This is your project like New York was mine. I trust you girls.”
Using an artist’s life and work to describe a century of cultural and political change is a rare opportunity. As you thought about the shape of Abbott’s artistic and personal development, how did you decide where to emphasize her biography’s intersection with broader social change?
Weaver:
We let Abbottʼs photographs guide us through the twentieth century. On camera Abbott tells us that she was born in 1898, so this is “her century,” and she wants “to see it through.” We began with her portraits of the artistic elite in Paris in the 1920s—the musicians, writers, photographers, painters, publishers, and the philanthropist, Peggy Guggenheim—all of whom helped to shape Western art for the entire century.
Wheelock:
Because her own life reflected an aspect of the times in which she lived, we can see in her life, a beat ahead or an example of, a cultural shift. In the 1920s, both Abbott and other American artists left the United States for a climate where artists could more freely express themselves: Paris. They became expatriates. When the Great Depression in the 1930s brought about the Federal Arts Project, Abbott was a major recipient of those grants; she set up to document both the bleakness of the Depression but also the acceleration of growth and change.
Left: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). Gunsmith and Police Department, 6 Centre Market Place and 240 Centre Street, Manhattan, 1937. Gelatin silver print, 39.8 x 49.7 cm. (15 2/3 x 19 1/2 in.). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Ronald A. Kurtz, 1988 (1988.1163.2) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.; Right: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). [Sumner Healy Antique Shop, 942 3rd Avenue near 57th Street, Manhattan], 1930s, printed 1936. Gelatin silver print, 8 1/8 x 10 in. (20.6 x 25.2 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Phyllis D. Massar, 1971 (1971.550.10) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.
Weaver:
Abbott told us that the viewer didnʼt need to see a single person in a photograph of New York to understand the times, the culture. It was all there in the architecture—the little old church dwarfed by the huge modern buildings built to house businesses, stock transactions, and banking. It was there in the signage: a large neon gun boldly announcing firearms for sale or plucked chickens hanging in a shop window with Hebrew lettering attesting to a healthy Jewish community. It was there in her brilliant photographs of Pennsylvania Station. In Paris they turned a beautiful old train station into the Musée dʼOrsay, visited by millions every year; in New York they tore down Penn Station to build something newer and bigger. And it was there in Nightview, New York (1932)—photographed just before 5 pm on the shortest day of the year. Not a single person visible in the frame, and yet it is a powerful image of a busy, crowded, vibrant city.
Wheelock:
When the world turned to Sputnik’s demand for more science studies, Abbott was there too, explaining these scientific principles in easier-to-understand photographs. Her life was a reflection of the times in which she lived. Art and life intersected and directed each aspect.
Weaver:
Abbottʼs action-packed science stills in the 1940s were unprecedented. We learned about the cameras she had to invent and build in order to capture basic scientific principles. All at a time when the emphasis on science was about to explode in the United States. We were just on the starting line of the space race, and I remember seeing one of Abbottʼs photographs my junior year in high school on the cover of my physics textbook in the 1960s.
Left: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). Multiple Exposure of a Swinging Ball, 1950s. Gelatin silver print, 15.1 x 24.5 cm. (6 x 9 5/8 in.). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Ronald A. Kurtz, 1987 (1987.1184.52) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.; Right: Berenice Abbott (American, 1898–1991). Reflected Water Waves, 1950s. Gelatin silver print, 16.4 x 19.7 cm. (6 1/2 x 7 3/4 in.). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Ronald A. Kurtz, 1987 (1987.1184.50) © Berenice Abbott / Commerce Graphics Ltd. Inc.
Lastly there were her trips up and down the East Coast in the 1950s and ’60s —more American signage—more revealing accounts of the times and the culture. And finally there were her portraits of Maine in the 1960s and ’70s, her adopted state.
It was now the 1990s and Abbott had just turned ninety-two. She is on camera at her home on a secluded and peaceful lake in Maine. We ended the film with Abbott musing about new ways to photograph a walnut. “I just hope I can do it.” Bereniceʼs life and work, along with the twentieth century, all coming to a close.
Wheelock:
It was a challenge to create a film worthy of the art and artist. What the film offers is the artist in her own words, telling us how and why she took this or that picture, her own tenets of photography, and observation about the times. Her photography shows us what she saw and perceived; the film adds to those remarkable images the artist behind them. And then there is her earnest and straightforward philosophy of life – being an independent woman, making her work the center of her life, her belief in the Golden Rule. Listening to Abbott is also a glimpse into the unheralded world of a full-dimensional woman who sees life and art on her own terms.
How do both of you feel now about the historical representation of women in the decades since you made this film. Has there been progress?
Wheelock:
Certainly women artists today are receiving more visibility and recognition. In a way, this evolution and prominence can be traced to the power of the role model—the women artists and activists who came before, who made a path, whose lives and art give support and inspiration to women and girls today. There is a surprise and delight in discovering unsung and overlooked women artists and history makers, and bringing them out into the light. Our nation and cultural life are richer for having women’s views, art, and lives known.
Weaver:
I remember distinctly the first time I saw a painting by a woman in a major art museum in Paris. It was probably in the 1970s and the painting was La Chambre bleue (1923) by Suzanne Valadon. I knew immediately from across the room that it had been painted by a woman. Over the course of the next thirty to forty years other paintings by women magically began to appear on the walls of the great art museums in the United States and Europe. Photography exhibits began to include works by Berenice Abbott, Diane Arbus, Dorothea Lange, and other women photographers.
Photograph of the filmmakers Kay Weaver (left) and Martha Wheelock (right) in 1989. Courtesy Kay Weaver
I came to Los Angeles in the 1970s. I was a young, good-looking singer/songwriter and producer in the era of Harvey Weinstein and Bill Cosby. The “casting couch” was still very much in operation. When I entered a one-on-one meeting with an executive—and other than Virginia Carter, they were all male—I learned that it was in my best interest if I were the one closest to the exit. I turned down promises of work and access to funding because I simply could not comply with the overt sexual demands that were part of the deal.
Progress, yes, but we need to fund and see more art by women. And we need films to inform us about their lives and their artistry, in their own words. The more films and art created by and about women that are made available to us, the more our culture will absorb and reflect female sensibilities, womenʼs points of view. The more inclusive the arts are, the richer we all are for it.
