Morning came clear and brilliant. “I will do some heads of you today, Zinnia.” The Mexican sun, I thought, will reveal everything. Some of the tragedy of our present life may be captured, nothing can be hidden under this cloudless cruel sky. She leaned against a whitewashed wall. I drew close . . . and kissed her. A tear rolled down her cheek – and thenI captured forever the moment . . .
Let me see, f. 8- 1/10 sec. K I filter, panchromatic film, – how mechanical and calculated it sounds, yet really how spontaneous and genuine, for I have so overcome the mechanics of my camera that it functions responsive to my desires. My shutter coordinating with my brain is released in a way as natural as I might move my arm. I am beginning to approach an actual attainment in photography that in my ego of two or three years ago I had thought to have already reached.
Edward Weston (January 30, 1924).
El Convento de Churubusco is a gem. I think it is the loveliest of the churches I have yet seen, though they should hardly be compared – each having its own special charm. Churubusco is intimate, I wanted to linger and rest in its tiny patio, to caress its mellow tiles, to worship before its lovely golden virgin.
The rest of the party made photographs, one man being a wealthy amateur. I did not, for the churches in Mexico are an end in themselves, needing no further interpretation. I stand before them mute – nothing that I might record could add to their beauty.
– Edward Weston (November 1923).
“I look up, my lord is flapping his wings and coo doving white and I look at Tristessa to know why she got a dove and Tristessa lifts up her tender hands helplessly and looks at me affectionately and sadly, to indicate, ‘It is my Pigeon’ – ‘my pretty white Pigeon – what can I do about it?’ ‘I love it so’ – ‘It is so sweet and white’ – ‘It never make a noise’ – ‘It got such prurty eyes you look you see the prurty eyes’ and I look into the eyes of the dove and they are dove’s eyes, lidded, perfect, dark, pools, mysterious, almost Oriental, unbearable to withstand the surge of such purity out of eyes – Yet so much like Tristessa’s eyes that I wish I could comment and tell Tristessa ‘Thou hast the dove’s eyes’ – .”