A letter to honor photographer Jerry Uelsmann
Jerry Uelsmann died April 4 at 87. This is one of his last known portraits. (Giuliano De Portu/Atrium)
April 14, 2022 | Story by Giuliano De Portu
Editor’s note: Giuliano DePortu is Atrium’s photo adviser.
Dear Jerry,
In an art class I took in college, the professor showed us images made by famous American photographers. One of those images was yours. I was instantly mesmerized.
I saw a perfectly balanced black and white image of a couch in a room. Overlying it, a photo of a leafless tree hung on the wall. On the couch, an impeccably organized row of seven leaves seemed to magically float. Had this image been tinkered with in Photoshop? It had to be, I thought. But it wasn’t.
This piece from 1987 is titled “Leaves Over Couch.” © Jerry Uelsmann, used with family permission
It was one of many masterpieces of fine art photography that you created. Later, I learned you photographed a variety of subjects in nature: trees, clouds, rivers, rocks. Elements that were captured by your camera at different times in different places during many of your trips. You then selected elements for the final photo montage. Perhaps a cloud from Florida, with a mountain in Yosemite and a river in South Carolina. You took the images that worked well together and blended them in the most subtle and surreal way to create a final print; one that invited the viewer to transcend the bidimensional planes of traditional photography.
And it was all done by hand in your darkroom with the alchemy only known to early photographers and to those few who still practice that old school craft today.
Uelsmann looks through contact sheets of old photos with a small mirror to explore how the reflection and symmetry might work as elements for a final montage. (Giuliano De Portu/Atrium)
And then, years later, I finally met you. I was an emergency room physician, and I was taking transfer calls for the hospital.
“We have someone that needs to come for an ultrasound,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, “His name is Uelsmann.”
The person started to spell your last name, as it is not common. “U-E-L.” I abruptly stopped the conversation.
“Jerry Uelsmann?” I said. “Yes, I know how to spell his name.”
So, Jerry, you came to the ER, and I took care of you, without telling you I used to be a professional photojournalist before going to medical school. I wanted to keep my cool and not tell you immediately how much I admired your work. I wanted to be a courteous, unbiased physician. But then the ER got frightfully busy, as it usually did. I was seeing other patients, and you left. I didn’t get to tell you how much of a fan I was. Luckily for me, it turns out another one of my colleagues, your dear friend Ramona, knew you very well, and I was able to meet you another time.
And for many years, I had the gift of your friendship. I would come over with lunch and we would talk about your experiences photographing in Yosemite National Park. I was able to peek into your magical brain and learn your creative process. Stories would range from your favorite recent New York Times Magazine article from that week to the first time you met your friend, the great Ansel Adams. These moments were precious to me, almost indescribable. Priceless. I compare them to being a young painter able to hang out with Pablo Picasso or Salvador Dali.
Uelsmann worked his magic in darkrooms for decades. “Journey into the night” (left) was produced in 2006, while “Boat with cloud and sphere” (right) was made in 1982. © Jerry Uelsmann, used with family permission
Our friendship evolved over the years. You joked that I was your “personal doctor,” and I laughed and told you I would bill your insurance. I visited you as much as I could. Birthday parties at your house were filled with close friends and musicians who injected good vibes and art into the occasion.
Jerry, in you I found a mentor and a friend. And although I was able to spend long hours taking about art and photography, these conversations were more than that. I met the human being behind the talented artist; I met the real Jerry. The passionate and humble man who always had a smile for everyone. You were a kind soul, with a unique sense of humor and a collection of really cool T-shirts and glasses. You were larger than life, a persona, a photographic genius. You were my inspiration. You still are. And you will always be.
Uelsmann poses in his darkroom in Gainesville. This is where he used traditional photographic methods to combine elements from several images into surreal photomontages. (Giuliano De Portu/Atrium)
I’m glad I was working that night in the hospital. I’m glad I picked up the phone for your transfer to the ER. It could have been any of my colleagues, but by a magical twist of fate, it was me.
You joked that when you died, your art would go up in value, but you also said, “It’s a career move I don’t want to take.”
A camera is in its essence a black box that captures light via a lens and creates an image. As photographers, we are keepers of that light that paints our history. Jerry, you took that light and bent it on a piece of silver gelatin paper in ways only you could do. I know you are looking down from your darkroom in the sky on all of us, and even in the darkness of that lab, your light will shine on us forever.
Goodbye, my dear friend.