The first half of the book is an exercise of being seen. Walker Evans pushes his subjects to look into the camera. The subject directly looks at the observer, drawing you into their American experience. The distance of eight decades is inescapable, but it is also impossible to miss universality of our humanity.
The second half of the book is a crisply focused, a clinical series of distant townscapes and cityscapes. Every photograph is empty of humanity aside from our built structures.
Upon reflection Walker Evan’s stance becomes clear. America is both her people and its context.
But it isn’t clear what came first. Maybe it’s an irrelevant question. We shape our environment, and it shapes us. We are its residue as we leave our mark.
This book is rightly a classic, the craft is taut and the voice is clear. The only sour note is the turgid essay at the end of the book, so just skip the afterword. I have no regrets buying this book, primarily because the local library didn’t have its own copy (a damn shame). Even so, of the making of books there is no end, and I haven’t been back to this one over the past couple months.