When asked why he made pictures, the photographer Garry Winogrand had a trifecta of answers at the ready: “I photograph to see what the world looks like in photographs”; “to get outside of myself”; “for my own education.” These were not meant to deflect the question but rather to say that photography was so profoundly important to Winogrand, that the vocation of photographer was so inextricably linked to Winogrand’s very being, that he had difficulty articulating a verbal response, preferring to let his work speak on his behalf.
Born in the Bronx in 1928, Winogrand spawned work that reads like an inventory of American iconography: the visual cacophony of Midtown Manhattan; the white sands of New Mexico; state fairs and stadiums; zoos; cars; cowboys; ketchup—a richly hued spectrum of postwar American life.
