Inferno by James Nachtwey
Phaidon Press, 480 pages, $125
In the opus portfolio "Inferno," James Nachtwey sheds his mantle as the premiere photojournalist of war and its victims during the last 20 years, and proves that he should instead be regarded as an artist. For what the book might have been, though, this is muted praise.
Authorities from Michelangelo to Avedon have discovered that a fine line divides beauty from the horrible, and some of Nachtwey's critics argue that his nightmarish subject matter crosses the line too frequently.
Many newspaper and magazine photographers have long admired Nachtwey's work and would trade their souls to travel the world, see what he has seen and earn the right to such lavish display. The publishers concede that this beautifully printed, high-priced, oversized volume will most likely end up as a reference book for libraries and human rights organizations.
In this, his own inferno, Nachtwey sets an example that is obsessive and frequently cryptic. Just like a painter who cannot escape repeating himself within some dark, compulsive blue period, Nachtwey sidesteps any narrative responsibility in the book and instead sets out themes and endless variations that he cannot seem to get out of his head.
These images map out war's obscenity with more anger, passion and pathetic detail than any other single witness has ever amassed. Nachtwey might have stopped after the first few conflicts and no one would have expected him to keep returning. He reopens old wounds so readily now that his own nerve endings and sense of healing must be quite numb.
Emaciated near-skeletons crawl by, seemingly minutes away from death, to be followed by every stage of undignified human decomposition. Few in the world outside of forensic investigators and Nachtwey would so readily recognize the dusty ashes that a human body becomes again. The viewer is put through a stricly chronological, decade-long death march through Romania, Somalia, India, Sudan, Bosnia, Rwanda, Zaire, Chechnya and Kosovo. Two implications from the book's forward are that a kind of war crimes testimony has been assembled here, and at the same time an insight into the journey made by Nachtwey's spirit.
Nachtwey invokes a quote from Dante's "Inferno" to remind us of the living circles of Hell through which he volunteers to descend. He has created a coffee table book in the most imposing sense that could never pass daily journalism's breakfast test.
"Inferno" retains some conventions of journalism, sticking to one place at a time per chapter; but it also strips away all titles, dates and proper nouns except for in the appendix. Unfortunately, there's no method to the madness. It's not the fault of the individual pictures; they are all masterful. Rather, it is the construction of the book and any author's responsibility for delivering a digestible, coherent tale.
Many writers and editors consider photographers as little more than junior partners in the world of journalistm. In fact, an absolutely silent eye witness could supply the most telling narrative of war. In an extended form, the challenge would be daunting, but for the medium to grow, leaders in the field such as Nachtwey must take up that challenge.
"Inferno" could make for a stunning autobiography if we could decipher how these experiences, step by step, shaped the author. Nachtwey got his first taste of war on 2 February 1982, when he took a piece of shrapnel in his thigh from a landmine. Why didn't his subsequent wounds stop him either?
How did each nightmare he encountered suck him in farther? It might be entirely possible to answer these thoughts with pictures alone.
Is Nachtwey on a journey of self destruction, such as the path taken by the great war photographers Larry Burrows or Robert Capa? Or is he trying to prove something like Ernest Hemingway did? Has he faced the crushing depressions that crippled W. Eugene Smith; or is he on the verge of Donald McCullin's epiphany and resurrection? Has he become hopeful in any possible way at this point in his crusade?
Artists, already unsure of what part luck plays in their discoveries, are often satisfied to make their best work one piece at a time. When challenged to build a larger vision, whether on a whole chapel's ceiling or
within the many pages of a book, the goal becomes one of how to pace and compare, how to clinch, how to impart. Otherwise the exercise becomes no different than emptying the bottom drawer of old memories. Epic works dare not be a parade of powerful phrases alone. Far too often, our best visual artists express themselves with scant regard for the thoughtful, coherent, integrated, transparent whole.
J. Ross Baughman is the Photo Editor and Deputy Director of Photography at The Washington Times in Washington, D.C. He is the former director of the Visions photo agency and won the Pulitzer Prize for photography in 1978.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Mr. Baughman was seriously wounded by the same landmine explosion as Mr. Nachtwey on February 2nd, 1982, while on assignment in El Salvador for NEWSWEEK magazine.