Lynsey Addario is one of the few photojournalists with experience in Afghanistan. She really is an amazing woman, we can’t wait to publish her memoir about love and war in February!  

Photo credit: Lynsey Addario

This photo was created using a primitive single-lens camera and silver chemistry, techniques that date back to the 1850s and the early years of photography.  
Lewis Dartell, author of The Knowledge: How to Rebuild Our World from Scratch describes the process in his book-
"The crucial chemistry behind photography is simple enough: certain compounds of silver darken in sunlight and so can be employed to record a black-and-white image. The trick is to create a soluble form of silver that can be spread evenly in a thin film, but then convert it into an insoluble salt that sticks on the outside surface of your photographic medium and doesn’t get washed away again. First, coat a sheet of paper with egg whites containing some dissolved salt, and allow it to dry. Now dissolve some silver in nitric acid, which will oxidize the metal to soluble silver nitrate, and spread the solution over your prepared paper. The sodium chloride will react to create silver chloride, which is both light-sensitive and insoluble, and the egg albumin will prevent the photographic emulsion from soaking into the paper fibers. If you scavenge in the post-apocalyptic world, a single solid-silver teaspoon will contain enough of the pure element to produce over 1,500 photographic prints. When light rays hit this sensitized paper, they provide the energy to liberate electrons in the grains and so reduce the silver chloride back to metallic silver. Large lumps of silver, such as a polished platter, have a bright luster, but a speckle of tiny metallic crystals scatters the light instead and so looks dark. On the other hand, areas of the sensitized sheet not exposed to light remain the white of the paper behind. The key follow-up step after the exposure is to kill this photochemical reaction and so stabilize the captured shadows. Sodium thiosulfate is the fixing agent still used today and is relatively easy to prepare. Bubble sulfur gas through a solution of soda or caustic soda, then boil with powdered sulfur and dry for crystals of “hypo” (a nickname derived from its old name, hyposulfite of soda). Using a lens set into the front of a light-tight box to project an image onto sensitive paper on the back wall produces a photographic camera, but even in bright sunshine it can take many hours for this rudimentary silver chemistry to take a “photo.” Luckily, you can increase the sensitivity of your camera enormously with a developer—a chemical treatment that completes the transformation of partially exposed grains, reducing them entirely to metallic silver. Ferrous sulfate works well, and can be synthesized easily enough by dissolving iron in sulfuric acid. And as the chemical proficiency of the post-apocalyptic society improves, in place of chlorine salt you can substitute that of one of its atomic siblings, iodine or bromine, which produce far more light-sensitive photographic emulsions.”
Read the rest of the excerpt here

This photo was created using a primitive single-lens camera and silver chemistry, techniques that date back to the 1850s and the early years of photography.  

Lewis Dartell, author of The Knowledge: How to Rebuild Our World from Scratch describes the process in his book-

"The crucial chemistry behind photography is simple enough: certain compounds of silver darken in sunlight and so can be employed to record a black-and-white image. The trick is to create a soluble form of silver that can be spread evenly in a thin film, but then convert it into an insoluble salt that sticks on the outside surface of your photographic medium and doesn’t get washed away again.
 
First, coat a sheet of paper with egg whites containing some dissolved salt, and allow it to dry. Now dissolve some silver in nitric acid, which will oxidize the metal to soluble silver nitrate, and spread the solution over your prepared paper. The sodium chloride will react to create silver chloride, which is both light-sensitive and insoluble, and the egg albumin will prevent the photographic emulsion from soaking into the paper fibers. If you scavenge in the post-apocalyptic world, a single solid-silver teaspoon will contain enough of the pure element to produce over 1,500 photographic prints.
 
When light rays hit this sensitized paper, they provide the energy to liberate electrons in the grains and so reduce the silver chloride back to metallic silver. Large lumps of silver, such as a polished platter, have a bright luster, but a speckle of tiny metallic crystals scatters the light instead and so looks dark. On the other hand, areas of the sensitized sheet not exposed to light remain the white of the paper behind. The key follow-up step after the exposure is to kill this photochemical reaction and so stabilize the captured shadows. Sodium thiosulfate is the fixing agent still used today and is relatively easy to prepare. Bubble sulfur gas through a solution of soda or caustic soda, then boil with powdered sulfur and dry for crystals of “hypo” (a nickname derived from its old name, hyposulfite of soda).
 
Using a lens set into the front of a light-tight box to project an image onto sensitive paper on the back wall produces a photographic camera, but even in bright sunshine it can take many hours for this rudimentary silver chemistry to take a “photo.” Luckily, you can increase the sensitivity of your camera enormously with a developer—a chemical treatment that completes the transformation of partially exposed grains, reducing them entirely to metallic silver. Ferrous sulfate works well, and can be synthesized easily enough by dissolving iron in sulfuric acid. And as the chemical proficiency of the post-apocalyptic society improves, in place of chlorine salt you can substitute that of one of its atomic siblings, iodine or bromine, which produce far more light-sensitive photographic emulsions.”

Read the rest of the excerpt here

Check out more photos of Phil Klay’s tour in Iraq with the Marines at www.philklay.com. Phil’s short story collection Redeployment comes out in March. 

Outsider artist Henry Darger’s apartment, courtesy of Thomas Dyja

Outsider artist Henry Darger’s apartment, courtesy of Thomas Dyja

Courtesy of Thomas Dyja's book on Chicago, The Third Coast:
A Vivian Maier Contact Sheet from the archive. © Vivian Maier/Maloof Collection

Courtesy of Thomas Dyja's book on Chicago, The Third Coast:

A Vivian Maier Contact Sheet from the archive. © Vivian Maier/Maloof Collection

via Thomas Dyja's research for The Third Coast: When Chicago Built the American Dream.
"Another influential Third Coast creator—Institute of Design graduate and Moholy-Nagy’s protege, Robert Brownjohn, as he directs the opening credit sequence of GOLDFINGER."

via Thomas Dyja's research for The Third Coast: When Chicago Built the American Dream.

"Another influential Third Coast creator—Institute of Design graduate and Moholy-Nagy’s protege, Robert Brownjohn, as he directs the opening credit sequence of GOLDFINGER."

Photography by Danny Wilcox Frazier

In Detroit: An American Autopsy, Pulitzer Prize winner Charlie LeDuff returns to his native city, where his mother’s flower shop is firebombed in the pre-Halloween orgy of arson known as Devil’s Night; where his sister loses herself to the west side streets; where his brother, who once sold subprime mortgages, now works in a factory cleaning Chinese-manufactured screws so they can be repackaged as “May Be Made in United States.”

LeDuff on NPR’s “Fresh Air”: “Look, people go to Rome to stare at the ruin porn. [Detroit] is a very fascinating place to look at. It’s difficult to live in it, and basically you see the pain’s not over. It hurts because that factory is where my dad was working. That’s why it’s hard. … When they say ‘ruin porn’ they’re talking about empty, abandoned structures. My work has to do with living, breathing people and the difficult task of getting through this moment — which we will — and building a future. So no, I don’t look at it as ruin porn at all. This is a document of us getting ourselves back together.”

In Detroit: An American Autopsy, Pulitzer Prize winner Charlie LeDuff returns to his native city, where his mother’s flower shop is firebombed in the pre-Halloween orgy of arson known as Devil’s Night; where his sister loses herself to the west side streets; where his brother, who once sold subprime mortgages, now works in a factory cleaning Chinese-manufactured screws so they can be repackaged as “May Be Made in United States.” (Newsweek says: “Others have written well about the city, but none with the visceral anger, the hair-tearing frustration, and the hungry humanity of LeDuff.”)
Photograph by Danny Wilcox Frazier

I reached down the pant cuff with the eraser end of my pencil and poked it. Frozen solid. But definitely human.
"Goddamn."
I took a deep breath through my cigarette. I didn’t want to use my nose. It was late January, the air scorching cold. The snow was falling sideways as it usually did in Detroit this time of year. The dead man was encased in at least four feet of ice at the bottom of a defunct elevator shaft in an abandoned building. But still, there was no telling what the stink might be like.
I couldn’t make out his face. The only things protruding above the ice were the feet, dressed in some white sweat socks and a pair of black gym shoes. I could see the hem of his jacket below the surface. The rest of him tapered off into the void.
In most cities, a death scene like this would be considered remarkable, mind-blowing, horrifying. But not here. Something had happened in Detroit while I was away.
I had left the city two decades earlier to try to make a life for myself that didn’t involve a slow death working in a chemical factory or a liquor store. Any place but those places.
But where? I wandered for years, working my way across Asia, Europe, the Arctic edge working as a cannery hand, a carpenter, a drifter. And then I settled into the most natural thing for a man with no real talents.
Journalism.
It required no expertise, no family connections and no social graces. Furthermore, it seemed to be the only job that paid you to travel, excluding a door-to-door Bible salesman. Nearly thirty years old, I went back to school to study the inverted pyramid of writing. I landed my first newspaper job with the Alaska Fisherman’s Journal, where I wrote dispatches in longhand on legal pads and mailed them back to headquarters in Seattle.
So I went out into the Last Frontier with my notepad and a tent and wrote what I saw: stuff about struggling fishermen, a mountain woman who drank too much and dried her panties on a line stretched across the bow of her boat, Mexican laborers forced to live in the swamps, a prince who lived under a bridge, a gay piano man on a fancy cruise liner. People managing somehow. My kind of people. The job suited me.
Working off that, I tried to land a real job but couldn’t find one. The Detroit Free Pressdidn’t want me. Not the San Francisco Chronicle. Not the Oakland Tribune. I was thinking about returning to the Alaskan fishing boats until a little Podunk paper called me with an offer of a summer internship — the New York Times.
Luck counts too.
I ended up working at the Gray Lady for a decade, sketching the lives of hustlers and working stiffs and firemen at Ground Zero. It was a good run. But wanderlust is like a pretty girl — you wake up one morning, find she’s grown old and decide that either you’re going to commit your life or you’re going to walk away. I walked away, and as it happens in life, I circled home, taking a job with the Detroit News. My colleagues in New York laughed. The paper was on death watch. And so was the city.
It is important to note that, growing up in Detroit and its suburbs, I can honestly say it was never that good in the first place. People of older generations like to tell me about the swell old days of soda fountains and shopping stores and lazy Saturday night drives. But the fact is Detroit was dying forty years ago when the Japanese began to figure out how to make a better car. The whole country knew the city and the region was on the skids, and the whole country laughed at us. A bunch of lazy, uneducated blue-collar incompetents. The Rust Belt. The Rust Bowl. Forget about it. Florida was calling.
No one cared much about Detroit until the Dow collapsed in 2008, the economy melted down and the chief executives of the Big Three went to Washington, D. C., to grovel. Suddenly the eyes of the nation turned back upon this postindustrial sarcophagus, where crime and corruption and mismanagement and mayhem played themselves out in the corridors of power and on the powerless streets.
Detroit became epic, historic, symbolic, hip even. I began to get calls from reporters around the world wondering what the city was like, what was happening here. They wondered if the Rust Belt cancer had metastasized and was creeping toward Los Angeles and London and Barcelona. Was Detroit an outlier or an epicenter? Was Detroit a symbol of the greater decay? Is the Motor City the future of America? Are we living through a cycle or an epoch? Suddenly they weren’t laughing out there anymore.
Journalists parachuted into town. The subjects in my Detroit News stories started appearing in Rolling Stone and the Wall Street Journal, on NPR and PBS and CNN, but under someone else’s byline. The reporters rarely, if ever, offered nuanced appraisals of the city and its place in the American landscape. They simply took a tour of the ruins, ripped off the local headlines, pronounced it awful here and left.
And it is awful here, there is no other way to say it. But I believe that Detroit is America’s city. It was the vanguard of our way up, just as it is the vanguard of our way down. And one hopes the vanguard of our way up again. Detroit is Pax Americana. The birthplace of mass production, the automobile, the cement road, the refrigerator, frozen peas, high-paid blue-collar jobs, home ownership and credit on a mass scale. America’s way of life was built here.
It’s where installment purchasing on a large scale was invented in 1919 by General Motors to sell their cars. It was called the Arsenal of Democracy in the 1940s, the place where the war machines were made to stop the march of fascism.
So important was the Detroit way of doing things that its automobile executives in the fifties and sixties went to Washington and imprinted the military with their management style and structure. Robert McNamara was the father of the Ford Falcon and the architect of the Vietnam War. Charlie Wilson was the president of General Motors and Eisenhower’s man at the Pentagon, who famously said he thought that “what was good for our country was good for General Motors, and vice versa.”
If what Wilson said is true, then so too must be its opposite.

You can read the rest of this excerpt in Jalopnik.

In Detroit: An American Autopsy, Pulitzer Prize winner Charlie LeDuff returns to his native city, where his mother’s flower shop is firebombed in the pre-Halloween orgy of arson known as Devil’s Night; where his sister loses herself to the west side streets; where his brother, who once sold subprime mortgages, now works in a factory cleaning Chinese-manufactured screws so they can be repackaged as “May Be Made in United States.” (Newsweek says: “Others have written well about the city, but none with the visceral anger, the hair-tearing frustration, and the hungry humanity of LeDuff.”)

Photograph by Danny Wilcox Frazier

I reached down the pant cuff with the eraser end of my pencil and poked it. Frozen solid. But definitely human.

"Goddamn."

I took a deep breath through my cigarette. I didn’t want to use my nose. It was late January, the air scorching cold. The snow was falling sideways as it usually did in Detroit this time of year. The dead man was encased in at least four feet of ice at the bottom of a defunct elevator shaft in an abandoned building. But still, there was no telling what the stink might be like.

I couldn’t make out his face. The only things protruding above the ice were the feet, dressed in some white sweat socks and a pair of black gym shoes. I could see the hem of his jacket below the surface. The rest of him tapered off into the void.

In most cities, a death scene like this would be considered remarkable, mind-blowing, horrifying. But not here. Something had happened in Detroit while I was away.

I had left the city two decades earlier to try to make a life for myself that didn’t involve a slow death working in a chemical factory or a liquor store. Any place but those places.

But where? I wandered for years, working my way across Asia, Europe, the Arctic edge working as a cannery hand, a carpenter, a drifter. And then I settled into the most natural thing for a man with no real talents.

Journalism.

It required no expertise, no family connections and no social graces. Furthermore, it seemed to be the only job that paid you to travel, excluding a door-to-door Bible salesman. Nearly thirty years old, I went back to school to study the inverted pyramid of writing. I landed my first newspaper job with the Alaska Fisherman’s Journal, where I wrote dispatches in longhand on legal pads and mailed them back to headquarters in Seattle.

So I went out into the Last Frontier with my notepad and a tent and wrote what I saw: stuff about struggling fishermen, a mountain woman who drank too much and dried her panties on a line stretched across the bow of her boat, Mexican laborers forced to live in the swamps, a prince who lived under a bridge, a gay piano man on a fancy cruise liner. People managing somehow. My kind of people. The job suited me.

Working off that, I tried to land a real job but couldn’t find one. The Detroit Free Pressdidn’t want me. Not the San Francisco Chronicle. Not the Oakland Tribune. I was thinking about returning to the Alaskan fishing boats until a little Podunk paper called me with an offer of a summer internship — the New York Times.

Luck counts too.

I ended up working at the Gray Lady for a decade, sketching the lives of hustlers and working stiffs and firemen at Ground Zero. It was a good run. But wanderlust is like a pretty girl — you wake up one morning, find she’s grown old and decide that either you’re going to commit your life or you’re going to walk away. I walked away, and as it happens in life, I circled home, taking a job with the Detroit News. My colleagues in New York laughed. The paper was on death watch. And so was the city.

It is important to note that, growing up in Detroit and its suburbs, I can honestly say it was never that good in the first place. People of older generations like to tell me about the swell old days of soda fountains and shopping stores and lazy Saturday night drives. But the fact is Detroit was dying forty years ago when the Japanese began to figure out how to make a better car. The whole country knew the city and the region was on the skids, and the whole country laughed at us. A bunch of lazy, uneducated blue-collar incompetents. The Rust Belt. The Rust Bowl. Forget about it. Florida was calling.

No one cared much about Detroit until the Dow collapsed in 2008, the economy melted down and the chief executives of the Big Three went to Washington, D. C., to grovel. Suddenly the eyes of the nation turned back upon this postindustrial sarcophagus, where crime and corruption and mismanagement and mayhem played themselves out in the corridors of power and on the powerless streets.

Detroit became epic, historic, symbolic, hip even. I began to get calls from reporters around the world wondering what the city was like, what was happening here. They wondered if the Rust Belt cancer had metastasized and was creeping toward Los Angeles and London and Barcelona. Was Detroit an outlier or an epicenter? Was Detroit a symbol of the greater decay? Is the Motor City the future of America? Are we living through a cycle or an epoch? Suddenly they weren’t laughing out there anymore.

Journalists parachuted into town. The subjects in my Detroit News stories started appearing in Rolling Stone and the Wall Street Journal, on NPR and PBS and CNN, but under someone else’s byline. The reporters rarely, if ever, offered nuanced appraisals of the city and its place in the American landscape. They simply took a tour of the ruins, ripped off the local headlines, pronounced it awful here and left.

And it is awful here, there is no other way to say it. But I believe that Detroit is America’s city. It was the vanguard of our way up, just as it is the vanguard of our way down. And one hopes the vanguard of our way up again. Detroit is Pax Americana. The birthplace of mass production, the automobile, the cement road, the refrigerator, frozen peas, high-paid blue-collar jobs, home ownership and credit on a mass scale. America’s way of life was built here.

It’s where installment purchasing on a large scale was invented in 1919 by General Motors to sell their cars. It was called the Arsenal of Democracy in the 1940s, the place where the war machines were made to stop the march of fascism.

So important was the Detroit way of doing things that its automobile executives in the fifties and sixties went to Washington and imprinted the military with their management style and structure. Robert McNamara was the father of the Ford Falcon and the architect of the Vietnam War. Charlie Wilson was the president of General Motors and Eisenhower’s man at the Pentagon, who famously said he thought that “what was good for our country was good for General Motors, and vice versa.”

If what Wilson said is true, then so too must be its opposite.

You can read the rest of this excerpt in Jalopnik.

Daniel Horowitz

Penguin Press - Best Articles of 2012

We’re highlighting our favorite articles and stories from the past twelve months or so. Enjoy:

Errol Morris stops by Radiolab to talk about the near-impossibility of finding truth in an historical photograph. Specifically, two photographs by Roger Fenton, from the Crimean War in 1855. (Morris writes about this at length in his acclaimed book Believing Is Seeing: Observations on the Mysteries of Photography.)

Oh, and Jad Abumrad calls Morris a “truth fascist.”

Quebec’s Garden of Knowledge, started in 2010, has been sprouting moss and mushrooms.