We were also wondering how nature influences Schietti’s work. He told us: “I’ve always loved being in nature, and one of my other passions besides photography, climbing, brings me into constant contact with natural environments, with stone. I’ve also always enjoyed traveling around Brazil and abroad in search of natural beauty: national parks in the USA, islands in Panama, volcanoes in Guatemala, beaches in Australia, and safaris in South Africa. I was lucky enough that my parents allowed me to travel to some places while I ventured to others on my own, bitten by the bug of discovering this beautiful planet that we inhabit, and that we are destroying at the expense of individualistic pleasures.

My landscape photography has always been linked to this relationship of reverence towards Mother Nature and our smallness and audacity in front of her, the rebellious children that we are. When I have the opportunity, I seek to draw connections between our thoughts and our actions in the natural environment, but in a subtle, poetic way, focusing on the beautiful rather than the shocking to bring about positive changes.”

If David Armstrong hadn’t been a photographer, he would have made a brilliant writer. He was a keen lover of words, wisecracks, and stories, and to this day, a decade after his death, friends still quote his pithy observations or the stray bits of droll dialogue he repurposed from turn-of-the-century novels or 1950s films. In his genteel, matronly singsong voice, he’d be as apt to deliver a fragment from Edith Wharton or a verse from the Bible as he would a personal saga from the late 1980s involving a friend in the East Village who’d jumped from his fire escape. Looking back at his five decades of work, you can sense an almost literary penchant for character and atmosphere. In his deceptively straightforward portraits, he captured not only the complicated personas of his sitters but also their entire social milieus.

Armstrong grew up in Arlington, Massachusetts, six miles northwest of Boston. He was one of four siblings; his father was in construction, and his mother worked for an insurance agency. In the late ’70s, he attended the School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts University, in Boston, alongside the rising like-minded photographers Mark Morrisroe, a punk visualist and performance artist who died in 1989 of AIDS, and Nan Goldin, whose powerful documentation of the private lives of an entire subculture and her recent anti-opioid activism have made her one of the most important living American artists. (Armstrong was the one who originally shortened her name from Nancy.) Curiously, while Armstrong often seemed like a creature from a previous century, he was very much at the center of a radical, bohemian group that couldn’t have been more attuned to the moment. “David was like someone out of a novel,” recalls the artist Jack Pierson, who met Armstrong in 1981 in Boston, when Pierson was attending the Massachusetts College of Art and Design. Pierson, Armstrong, Morrisroe, and Goldin would eventually be known as the “Boston school” for their unnervingly direct photography styles that captured the beauty, sexual charge, and countercultural mess of their everyday lives. Nonetheless, for many, Armstrong remains one of the most under-recognized photographers of the late 20th century.

That could soon change. This June, at the Kunsthalle Zürich, one of the most prestigious contemporary art spaces in Switzerland, an extensive collection of Armstrong’s early portraits will be on view in the first major show of his work since he died of cancer, in 2014. The exhibition is cocurated by the New York artist Wade Guyton, a friend of Armstrong’s, and the Kunsthalle’s director, Daniel Baumann. In addition to showcasing 100 of the artist’s own vintage prints, the retrospective will include several vitrines of contact sheets that highlight how Armstrong approached his portrait shoots and how he ultimately selected the final images. Part of the reason Baumann felt drawn to Armstrong’s artistry—particularly his work from the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s—is the potent sense of vulnerability encoded in the material. “We don’t have that anymore,” the curator says about our current relationship to the still image. “Having your picture taken has been totally changed by social media. We are living in a post-authentic world—today people stage intimacy as a form of self-promotion or special standing.”

Early on in college, Armstrong developed the habit of photographing his friends, creating emotive compositions so mesmerizing that they could only have been drawn from shared experiences. “In the summer of ’81,” Pierson recalls, “I rented an apartment in Provincetown with Mark Morrisroe and Stephen Tashjian [the artist Tabboo!]. David came out and stayed with a friend of his who was a clammer and friends with the whole John Waters crowd. The fact that David not only knew people like John Waters and Cookie Mueller but also had taken photos of them was a huge deal to us. We were clutching our copies of Shock Value [Waters’s 1981 memoir] to tell us how to live and become famous.” Armstrong shot his merry band of misfits smoking, swimming, and sunbathing, their lithe bodies on full display. He was known for his wizardlike ability to capture natural light, and in his portraits a gorgeous, atmospheric radiance gives the impression of a moment lasting much longer than the time it takes to press a button. These would become some of his most enduring images—the denizens of the underground beautifully libidinal en plein air.

Provincetown offered the decidedly urbane, cramped-apartment-dwelling characters in Armstrong’s orbit the backdrop of a classic seaside idyll, but neither he nor his gang could resist the pull of New York City. In the mid-1980s, Armstrong photographed East Village friends, lovers, painters, actors, writers, musicians, and strangers who caught his eye. Several of these young artists would go on to have legendary careers—Jean-Michel Basquiat, Vincent Gallo, John Lurie, Teri Toye, Rene Ricard, and Christopher Wool among them. The names of others have been lost to time, but in these pictures the sitters—whether they are famous or not, people Armstrong had known his entire adult life or simply had a brief crush on—usually pose in a casual, unaffected manner, sitting on an unmade bed, leaning against a wall, or resting on a pillow. The bond that Armstrong felt with them leaves a strong emotional imprint. We, too, can fall in love with his friends.

Armstrong’s portraits are not reportage, and they don’t have Nan Goldin’s feeling of raw, caught-off-guard ephemerality. His subjects are clearly posing, but there is always a sense that their authentic selves are coming through, as full human beings with complicated contradictions, aware of the then unusual experience of having their photo taken. “David’s photographs show a certain melancholy in the way people look into the camera,” Baumann notes. “Melancholia is a mood of the 20th century that I don’t see so much these days. There’s also a degree of boredom that has disappeared—imagine it’s a Wednesday afternoon and having no clue as to what to do and finding someone in the streets who is also utterly bored to hang out with.” There is little urgency or hurry in Armstrong’s photographs. These are not young New Yorkers late for work or rushing on their lunch hour. And even though Armstrong’s subjects tend to have a strong personal style, there is no self-promotion, no proto-influencer trying to advertise a lifestyle. The only message is: Be young, alive, and free.

Armstrong continued to make work up until his death. In the new millennium, he expanded his practice, shooting fashion campaigns and editorials, as well as a portrait series on New York hustlers, and developing his ongoing suite of blurred landscape photographs that have the classical beauty of European painting. For much of this time, he sequestered himself in a rambling, curio-filled brownstone in Brooklyn. In his last years, he moved up to the Berkshires, in Western Massachusetts, to convalesce as the witty maiden aunt he seemed destined to become. By then, a younger generation of artists and photographers had found inspiration in his bohemian spirit and idiosyncratic photography, adopting him as a spiritual or aesthetic guide. The photographer Ethan James Green began assisting Armstrong in 2011, after meeting him on a shoot a few years prior, when Green was modeling. The relationship quickly developed into a close mentorship. “I’m not really sure where I would be without David,” says Green. “He taught me about light and the importance of integrity, but his influence extended beyond photography. He showed me who I could be as a person and mirrored an acceptance that allowed me to embrace my full self. He changed my life.”

There was an ineffable, magical quality to Armstrong, a generosity of spirit that spilled over into everything he did and left a mark on everyone he touched. He remained, to the end, wise and kind and open-hearted, but no less shrewd and discerning. He hated phonies. Pierson recalls the many times he spotted Armstrong in New York City, running around with a box of prints under his arm. “David,” he says softly, “always had the aura of a star.”

“Double Exposure,” by Robert Sullivan (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)

Timothy O’Sullivan came west after the Civil War to take pictures of the landscape and the indigenous people for the Clarence King and George Wheeler geological surveys.  The photographs he left behind are both documentation and art.

Ansel Adams, who discovered O’Sullivan’s work in the late 1930s, called the photographs “surrealistic and disturbing” (although he complained that they were “technically deficient”).

Although O’Sullivan’s photographs are well known, the photographer’s life is largely undocumented. He left behind no letters or diaries. He died of tuberculosis in 1882 at the age of 42, and even his gravesite is unknown. So Sullivan’s “Double Exposure” is not a biography but a “survey,” he writes.

A photographer himself, the author set out on a years-long search for the sites of O’Sullivan’s most famous photographs. The result is a book that includes a personal journey, observations, history, photographs and their interpretation, and available biographical information.  Much of that comes from Clarence King’s highly romanticized and exaggerated account of O’Sullivan and his work.

Most of O’Sullivan’s time in the West was spent in California and Nevada, but he did photograph the Colorado River as part of the Wheeler survey. Sullivan calls the survey a “fraud” and a “hyped up adventure,” since the river already had been explored. In fact, for O’Sullivan, it was likely a commercial venture since he hoped to sell copies of his photographs to the public. Those copies are now in libraries and art museums.

Sandra Dallas is a Denver author and book reviewer. 

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In this era overflowing with digital photography and AI, most of us want to stand out, have our own unique style, and be recognizable. And it’s tough. Alex Kilbee knows the struggle, and in his recent video, he shares his insights. He gives you a relatively quick process of discovering and establishing your unique voice.

Unearthing your natural preferences

You may feel that the signature lies in editing. You’re not wrong – but only up to a certain point. Alex warns you that you shouldn’t rely on this only, and forget about the perfect preset: A photographer’s style is rooted in their inherent tendencies. So, revise your existing work. Print out your photos and spread them out. Look for recurring themes or compositions. You might be surprised by what emerges!

Through this process, Alex himself discovered a love for angular shapes. He hadn’t realized this was his signature until he saw it reflected in his work. By stepping back and analyzing your existing portfolio, you can discover the foundation of your unique style.

Building on your foundation

Once you have a grasp of your natural tendencies, it’s time to refine your style. Alex suggests looking to photographers you admire. He, for instance, draws inspiration from architectural photographers like Ezra Stoller and Julius Shulman while also finding unexpected connections to the work of music photographer Anton Corbijn.

Think of the photographers you admire. Analyze their work, not to mimic it entirely, but to see if there are elements that resonate with you and can be incorporated into your own vision. It’s not easy, and if you’re new, you’ll probably copy others, at least subconsciously. But have this in mind and actively try to avoid it. The key is to be a “magpie,” borrowing inspiring elements while staying true to your core identity.

Last but not least, Alex emphasizes the importance of community in developing your photographic voice. Being around other photographers who challenge you and offer constructive criticism can be a powerful accelerant. Alex mentions his experience in a supportive online community where he learned more in a few years than in the previous decade.

There are many photography communities available online and in person. Look for groups that align with your interests and provide a space for feedback and exchange of ideas. It can be your local photo clubs, Facebook groups, workshops… Find what suits you best.

Following Alex’s process, you won’t wander around mindlessly while discovering yourself as an artist. You can safely embark on an exciting journey to develop your unique photographic style and stand out from the crowd.

Bohumil Dobrovolský (1935-2024), who died on Wednesday at the age of 89, was born in Libčic in what was then Czechoslovakia. He was a photographer interested in live reportage photography. Between 1960 and 2024, he held dozens of solo and group exhibitions.

Dobrovolský’s most famous photographs are from the events of August 1968, which he documented in the streets of Prague with a ‘Minolta SR 7′. Early in the morning of August 21 he ran out into the streets of Prague and captured the dramatic events outside Czechoslovak Radio and the National Museum. In an interview for Czech Radio years later, Dobrovolský recalled what it was like to take the photographs:

“I was drawn into what was happening to such an extent that I did not feel any fear. They were driving people out of the building with machine guns. I had one pressed against my stomach a number of times during the day. I pushed one of the soldiers away and I shouted at him ‘If your mom saw you now, she would choke you.’ I spit in the face of another. I was thirty-three years old at the time. So, I should have known better, but I am, as I say, addicted to photography.”

One of Dobrovolský’s unique photographs of the time is when he accidentally captured among the participants in a student hunger strike after the self-immolation of Jan Palach, the 18-year-old Jan Zajíc. Zajíc later also burned himself to death on Wenceslas Square in protest against the growing apathy of the public to the Warsaw Pact invasion.

Dobrovolský’s 1968 photographs have been frequently exhibited since 1990. They could be seen in Sweden, Germany, Poland, Russia, France, Austria, USA, Hungary, Romania, Holland, and in Czechia in museums, galleries, schools and talks with screenings. In total, 60 exhibitions of his work have been organized.