Another Way of Telling the News: The Rise of Photojournalism in Russia, 1900-1914

Article excerpt

Widespread circulation of photography through the popular illustrated press turned readers of the news into spectators of social performance. Pictures of current events addressed consumers more directly than the daily papers. They offered a realistic depiction of lived experience, gave the impression of bearing witness to history, and allowed readers to interpret what they saw in conjunction (or in counterpoint) to what they read. Through the camera's lens, people were transported to faraway places and brought face-to-face with strangers, each image establishing an intimate connection between the private lives of consumers and the public "world outside." (1) The immediacy of photography and the visceral reactions it evoked, so unlike the neutral language of print journalism, made news magazines both immensely popular with readers and highly profitable publishing ventures. But more important, the advent of photojournalism marked the birth of a modern mass media, one dominated increasingly by photography and capable of drawing millions of spectators into an artificial reality, which had the power to inspire real-world actions.

The story of Russian photojournalism is fundamentally about the creation of a new visual language that transformed illustrated journals into full-fledged news magazines. Together, publishers, editors, and photographers took advantage of innovations in photography and print technology and produced a slick weekly that appealed to a general, middle-class audience. In contrast to serialized fiction and hand-drawn images, which dominated magazines initially, photography was used to communicate the news. Though international in scope, these pictures primarily focused on the activities of Russia's rising professional class, which had evolved since the Great Reforms into a politically ambitious and influential segment of society. (2) In a sense, as prominent members of this class, publishers produced news magazines for themselves. The illustrated press offered members of civil society immense, nationwide exposure--the photographs both reflecting and reinforcing their values, public identity, and sense of social integration. However, these publications did not truly take off until they embraced a wider audience, which consisted increasingly of migrant workers from the countryside, who saw in magazines living models of the bourgeois success they aspired toward. Photographers and editors collaborated to turn the visual landscape of photo journalism into a convincing pseudoenvironment, which Russia's middle classes shared with celebrated figures from around the world. (3) Through the illustrated press readers saw themselves as they wished to be seen--as modern, European, and politically relevant. And as editors adopted more sophisticated techniques of visual storytelling, the social reality constructed on the page became an increasingly convincing portrait of Russia at the beginning of the 20th century.

This article locates photojournalism at a crossroads in communications technology, specifically at the moment when magazine publishers began reproducing high-quality photographs alongside text. (4) The audience for early Russian photojournalism varied in terms of interest, education, and social standing, and this diversity was reflected on the newsstand. The range of publications included supplements to daily papers, periodicals that catered to interests in science, hunting, and the theater, and so-called "family journals," which in themselves covered a wide spectrum of literary and artistic tastes. (5) How consumers used these publications depended largely on the magazine's profile. Initially, essays and serialized fiction outweighed all other content; magazines offered the reader an elevated literary experience, often supplemented by sketches and drawings. But as the news media became increasingly mixed, many publications began to eschew prose in favor of more photography. At the same time, the amateur market in cheap, handheld cameras encouraged people to regard images as signifiers of social information. Family photography shared a common syntax with photojournalism and played a large part in determining how photo-stories were produced and received. The expansion of news photography also pointed to a general shift in the positioning of the reader as a privileged spectator--that is, a viewer not necessarily connected with the news but still "paying close attention at a distance." (6) The news, expressed photographically, inherited the complex aesthetic and social functions that give meaning to pictures, regardless of context. Photos informed and provided evidence, but they also established an emotional connection between the spectator and the passage of time. Because of these overlapping functions, news photography in the Russian illustrated press developed into a powerful means of mass communication, combining the expressive qualities of art with the reach and transparency of modern media.

Technology and the Market

Russia experienced a consumer revolution at the turn of the century. Goods from abroad flooded the marketplace, and middle-class Russians spent conspicuously on clothes and entertainment. Among the luxuries that trickled in from the West were cameras and photographic accessories. Although photography had had a presence in Russia since the mid-19th century, this wave of imports featured new designs and cutting-edge technology that allowed more people to take pictures than ever before. Developed by large international firms, new lenses, more versatile film stock, improved photometers, and other equipment were widely distributed by suppliers based primarily in urban centers. Cameras, in particular, became smaller, more durable, and generally easier to use. Foreign manufacturers, such as the Dresden-based Erneman, offered models that were "elegant," "light," and "constructed so that they could be used in a variety of situations." (7) The American firm Eastman Kodak specifically targeted female customers with its advertisements, which featured young women with handheld models fitted with shoulder straps like ladies' purses. But more than just improving portability and design, manufacturers also sold these newer models at relatively affordable prices. Kodak, for example, offered cameras ranging in cost from 16 rubles to 158 rubles, with children's models for as little as 2.50 rubles. (8) Though still a luxury by most standards, these cameras placed the production of photography into the hands of a growing number of nonprofessionals and produced a genuine market of middle-class amateur photographers.

At the same time, advances in print technology expanded the circulation of pictures and tied photography to Russia's booming publishing industry. During this so-called "golden age of postcards," cheap reproductions of celebrities, landscapes, and historical landmarks became readily available in stores and city kiosks. (9) Stereographs, which created the illusion of depth with the proper viewing equipment, could also be purchased and enjoyed at home. More significant, however, was the adoption of the halftone process, which enabled publishers to print black-and-white photographs alongside text. This eliminated the need for woodblock engravings and produced an image that was virtually indistinguishable from the original. Halftone became commercially viable in Russia almost two decades after its first application in the New York Daily Graphic in 1880. Once in place, the process streamlined the publishing industry, integrating the reproduction of images with the printing of books and periodicals.

At first, the financial savings were not great. Professional engravers were underpaid and easily replaceable, making the older method inexpensive by comparison. Nonetheless, publishers continued to invest in this technology because halftone "appeared to be a facsimile rather than a translation," and therefore acquired some of the value of actual photographic prints. (10) For the majority of Russians, who could only afford postcards or prints occasionally, magazines were a cheap substitute for the real thing, offering a wide variety of pictures for about 5 or 6 kopecks per issue. Photography also raised the status of magazines, placing them on par with the "European" or "Western" periodicals that Russian publishers tried to emulate. (11) Thus the presence of photography made illustrated journals doubly alluring, both as vehicles for pictures and as sophisticated commodities associated with the West.

First among these was Niva, which was Russia's most popular magazine at the turn of the century, surpassing all competitors in terms of circulation. (12) The publisher Adol'f Marks made Niva into the model "thin" publication by offering middle-class readers a mix of fiction, biography, and reproductions of fine art. (13) This success was soon eclipsed, however, by newer publications that capitalized on the public's interest in current events. Modeled on foreign periodicals, news magazines such as Iskry and Ogonek often started out as literary supplements to daily papers. (14) Iskry, for example, was attached to Ivan Sytin's Russkoe slovo, and Ogonek was initially published alongside the business daily Birzhevye vedomosti. (15) A regimen was established where Monday through Friday the dailies reported on the news, while on weekends the supplements provided short stories, poetry, and other light reading. The higher-quality paper and large format of weeklies also made them ideal for photography and other types of illustration. Typically, handmade drawings accompanied the fiction, while photographs recapped the major news stories from the previous week. This basic model proved highly profitable; and several periodicals managed to attract large followings in Moscow, St. Petersburg, and the provinces. By 1914, Stanislav Propper's Ogonek was the most widely read Russian publication of any kind. The editors boasted a circulation of 700,000 per week and claimed that each issue reached an estimated 6 million readers. (16) Ogonek's winning formula was simple: broad social appeal, a focus on current events, and page after page of news photography. For many publishers like Propper, what began as a literary endeavor quickly turned into a pictorial one, and photographs soon became the signature feature of the new illustrated press.

The burgeoning trade in cameras also created a market for specialized books and journals for photographers. This included a wide range of instruction manuals, which tutored readers in the basics of photography, and several monthly publications featuring essays, reviews, and practical advice. Often these periodicals were published by firms that manufactured and sold camera equipment, combining genuine pedagogical aims with an overtly commercial agenda. A magazine such as Liubitel' kodakist (Kodak Amateur), for example, used photographs taken in exotic locations to persuade novice photographers of the virtues of Kodak's merchandise. Local distributors adopted similar strategies. The entrepreneur Ioakhim Steffen, who owned a chain of photographic supply stores, published the monthly Fotograficheskie novosti. (17) This journal featured advice and short essays for amateurs but also formulae, tables, and technical schematics for more advanced practitioners. Much like Kodak, Steffen used photographs to promote particular brands of equipment, the captions underneath informing the reader what camera or lens was used to produce the image ("picture and reproduction with Zeiss lens"). (18) Each issue also contained a large section for advertising that directed readers to Steffen's warehouses and other locations where the featured items could be purchased (Figure 1). Salesmanship aside, these journals also provided a large amount of helpful information, which allowed amateurs to improve the quality of their pictures and encouraged a deeper personal investment in the craft of photography. Although cameras were getting simpler, picture taking still seemed like a complicated procedure. Firms such as Kodak wished to demystify the experience for consumers and to demonstrate how easy it was to capture wondrous landscapes with one simple operation.


Amateur photography focused primarily on family and friends; and camera manufacturers, well attuned to this social dimension, tailored their advertising around this tendency. (19) Ads in magazines, for example, used illustrations of women taking pictures of young children, which not only reinforced photography's social function but also anointed mothers as the official chroniclers of family life. Consumers were urged to take pictures everywhere, especially on vacation where photography commemorated the experience of travel and its concomitant associations of wealth and worldliness. (20) Even modest trips, such as bicycle tours through the countryside, were worth capturing on film. Special manuals offered instructions on how to plan and equip such vacations and explained how pictures would "preserve memories," which could later be "sent to relatives, friends, and acquaintances." (21) Tourism, whether at home or abroad, allowed the middle classes to form an identity around aristocratic values of leisure and refinement; and photography was the means to control, affix, and communicate this identity. (22) The camera was an instrument of self-fashioning; and to take a picture of oneself surrounded by signs of prosperity was evidence that one was, in fact, prosperous. Kodak, which was the most visible supplier of photographic equipment in Russia, regularly employed this narrative. The message was always the same: with a click of the button, photographers could record their happy memories for friends and future generations to admire.

But amateur practice also extended beyond traditional subjects to include whatever happened to interest the photographer. As cameras became commonplace, more types of images--including natural disasters, important personalities, historic events, and objects valued for aesthetic reasons alone--were considered photographable. (23) Cartoonists working for Ogonek constantly satirized the public's seemingly insatiable desire to photograph everything and anything. One sketch showed a group of Muscovites eagerly training their cameras up at the sky, hoping to capture a plane as it flew by. (24) Another featured tourists at the beach crowding around a bodybuilder with their cameras, the caption snidely remarking how every event, no matter how insignificant, required one to always "take a picture, and then another, and then another." (25) Concerns about photography's encroachment on privacy were brought up in trade journals; and noted celebrities, such as Lev Tolstoi, attracted swarms of photographers who hounded the writer like modern-day paparazzi. (26) Magazine editors took notice of this expanding network of unofficial photo-correspondents and began soliciting pictures from readers. Advertisements called on "amateurs and professionals" from all over Russia to send photographs "of catastrophes, celebrations, [and] conferences," "portraits of important individuals," and "topical events of the day." (27) This sort of recruitment not only ensured better access to current events; it also conveyed the sense that the public's interests had a real venue for representation. Alongside the serious news, editors increasingly included sensational stories that gripped the public imagination. Pictures of celebrity scandals and miraculous prison escapes represented a "democratized form of intelligence," which entertained as much as it informed. (28) News magazines were essentially consumer-oriented and editors, looking to attract readers who otherwise showed little interest in current events, often selected visual content with an eye toward a broad audience and popular taste.

Professional studio photographers, meanwhile, prospered amid the rise of middle-class practitioners. Russia's oldest photographic institution, the portrait studio, continued to attract well-off patrons willing to pose for carefully staged portraits, which still emanated an aura of exclusivity. Most professionals learned their trade through a traditional apprenticeship, which equipped the novice with the artistic and business acumen required to run a successful studio. The celebrated photographer Karl Bulla, for example, started out running errands and assembling film plates for a photographic supply firm in St. Petersburg. (29) Eventually Bulla graduated to the portrait studio next door, where he worked tirelessly to perfect his craft and to build a comfortable rapport with his clients. In similar fashion, Bulla's two sons, Aleksandr and Viktor, worked in the family studio for years before completing their training abroad. The apprenticeship and careful recruitment, which often limited enrollment to family members, conferred exclusivity on the profession. But beyond the basic training, studio photography did not require any professional or aesthetic qualifications. The photographer was a sort of "master of ceremonies" who "specialized in charismatic techniques designed to stage-manage the high points of solemnities and arrange gestures and fix smiles." (30) Furthermore, the status of the studio was linked directly to its patrons. Having a famous clientele allowed photographers to attract customers wishing to partake, however symbolically, in a prestigious social milieu. In fact, when promoting their businesses, photographers often listed their most celebrated clients. Advertisements for Bulla's studio, for example, mentioned his professional acquaintance with the king of Romania and the royal family of Persia. (31) He also listed galleries, museums, and other prestigious institutions, each serving to indicate his connection to specific "valorised objects." (32)

But the advent of smaller cameras, sensitive film, and flash photography also encouraged professionals to develop marketable specializations beyond portraiture. Many photographers left the studio and pursued real-life subjects outside. In the 19th century, documentary photography had been produced mostly by amateurs for scientific purposes. (33) Among professionals, however, Karl Bulla was a real pioneer in commercializing the genre. In the early 1880s, Bulla received permission to photograph on the streets of St. Petersburg, and over the next three decades he captured a wide range of city scenes. Sold as postcards and framed prints, these portraits commemorated Russia's capital in the post-emancipation era, when social migration and industrialization were bringing immense change to the urban landscape. (34) More than simply products of the photographer's intentions, these pictures expressed "a system of perception, thought and appreciation common to a whole group"--one that wished to preserve history in time and to commemorate a world that was vanishing or had already disappeared. (35) Outside the studio, photographers gradually moved away from the trademark theatrical style of the posed portrait. Some studio conventions persisted, however; and the static poses of subjects, who stood stone-faced like actors solemnly acknowledging the audience, disrupted the sense of detachment that became the trademark of photo-reportage. The formal composition, and the photographic ritual it signified, transformed the picture into an artifact that preserved subjects in time and place, immortalizing their participation in an "important area of collective life." (36) The studio aesthetic reflected photographic values that did not square easily with a modern understanding of authorship or journalistic authenticity. (37) Ultimately, however, a clear, technically proficient image, which made the subjects instantly recognizable, was far more important than any stamp of authorial intentionality.

War and Visual Narrative

The Russo-Japanese War was a watershed moment in the history of photojournalism. Following the outbreak of hostilities in early February 1904, photo-correspondents from around the world converged on the Far East and over the next two years produced a spectacular record of the conflict. No prior war had been so thoroughly photographed or so widely observed abroad. It was, in the words of one historian, "the first armed conflict to be treated as a pure spectacle for the entertainment of an uninvolved mass audience." (38) The American magazine Collier's Weekly alone sent five correspondents, including their preeminent war photographer Jimmy Hare. Work conditions for Hare and his colleagues proved incredibly demanding. Inclement weather, harsh terrain, and poor darkroom facilities were "all exacerbated by an unprecedented amount of bureaucratic red tape. In the past, foreign correspondents had maintained an uneasy working relationship with the military. Censors guaranteed reporters open access to the front, but screened photographs for sensitive content. (39) Russian and Japanese commanders proved far less cooperative; they provided journalists with limited access to the battlefield and monitored the activities of the press closely throughout. In fact, official restrictions prevented Collier's from placing their own correspondents on the Russian front; and as a result, the magazine had to purchase images from the relatively small contingent of photographers working on the other side. Fortunately, the editors managed to acquire exclusive rights to the pictures of Russia's most prolific chronicler of the war. This photographer's name was Viktor Bulla.

Hoping to make names for themselves, many photographers abandoned the studio and dedicated their careers exclusively to photo-reportage. Russia's first generation of professional photo-reporters was young, studio-trained, and fairly independent. In 1901, the journal Fotograficheskoe obozrenie expressed admiration for the profession as a whole, praising the courage and integrity of its practitioners while also noting their relative disorganization. Unlike in France, where photographers had rallied around a strong union, Russian photo-reporters possessed no central representative body and therefore received none of the support or benefits that came with collective organization. (40) Nonetheless, the profession offered great opportunities for social and economic advancement, and much like the newspapermen of the day, photo-reporters came from diverse social backgrounds. (41) Aleksei Savel'ev, for example, was the son of poor peasants. At the age of 16, he arrived in Moscow, managed to secure an apprenticeship at a well-regarded studio, and eventually became the full-time correspondent for Iskry. (42) Petr Otsup also grew up in the provinces; he later relocated to St. Petersburg, where he worked as an assistant lab technician before apprenticing with the photographer Aleksandr Elkin. (43) Both Aleksandr and Viktor Bulla, in contrast, grew up well-off thanks to the immense success of their family's studio. But when their father Karl originally arrived in St. Petersburg as a young man, he barely spoke Russian and had only a few kopecks in his pocket. In each case, studio photography offered a way to develop technical skills, procure an urban trade, and gain admission to reputable social circles. The jump to photojournalism simply brought these photographers' social and economic priorities in line with the cultural values of the period. The news had become a valuable commodity in Russia; and weekly magazines possessed a national audience, which gave the likes of Otsup, Savel'ev, and the Bullas the opportunity to partake in some of the most significant events of the 20th century.

Many of these photographers came of age during the Russo-Japanese War. The widespread interest in the conflict and the immense risk associated with reporting from the front lines made pictures of the war especially valuable. Some magazines even offered free cameras to anyone who was willing to send back pictures directly from the front. (44) Photo-correspondents were typically embedded with medical detachments, where they shared rations, slept in muddy trenches, and suffered through torrential rains alongside the common soldier. Combat photography was a young man's endeavor. In 1904, Petr Otsup was 20 years old and working for Propper's Ogonek. Viktor Bulla was even younger, only 19, when he boarded a train for the Far East. Covering the war seemed like a romantic adventure; and Bulla cultivated an idealized public image of the war correspondent, equal parts photographer, journalist, and soldier (Figure 2). (45) In America, the terms of his agreement with Collier's restricted distribution of his pictures to just one publication. But at home, where Bulla was a freelance correspondent, he could sell negatives and prints to whoever was willing to pay. Furthermore, the politically elastic quality of his pictures, and of the photographic medium more generally, allowed publishers from across the ideological spectrum to use the same photographs to project different perspectives on the war. The same series of photos sometimes appeared simultaneously in the left-leaning Iskry, the family-oriented Niva, and the more conservative Letopis' voiny s Iaponiei (Chronicle of the War with Japan), each magazine claiming Viktor Bulla as its own "special correspondent." (46) His perspective alone, regardless of the immediate context, often defined how people saw the war all around the world.

The everyday practices of war photographers like Bulla fundamentally changed what magazines looked like. On the surface, this transformation was a product of the photographic process--that is, of what kinds of pictures could be taken outside the studio. But there was also an important social dimension to this shift. When Iskry first began printing photographs, almost all the pictures were studio portraits: they were idealized representations that allowed the subject, in collaboration with the photographer, to craft a flattering image. During the war, this type of image was printed on the cover of Iskry, usually featuring an admiral pictured from the shoulders up and addressing the audience directly. Studios were devoid of any clear markers of time or place, and this tended to transform subjects into symbolic representations of themselves. They appeared to exist, as it were, "outside of time." (47) Because of the great expense associated with studio photography, this mode of representation excluded most Russians, especially before the war. Carefully posed portraits were only within reach of a small, wealthy, or otherwise prominent segment of society. Workers, peasants, and the urban middle classes were largely absent; and if they did appear, they were photographed outside, smiling awkwardly at the camera. (48) To a degree, the illustrated press reflected two levels of photographic representation. (49) On the one hand, prominent figures were depicted inside the studio, where the sitter controlled the "rules of his own perception" and could demand a dignified image. (50) The remaining population, on the other hand, was captured outside, where the photographer caught the subject off-guard and often looking foolish. In essence, the formal portrait allowed the subject to engage in a type of self-fashioning, which those outside the studio were customarily denied.


The war, however, created a stage where previously underrepresented members of Russian society played an important and widely publicized role. The sacrifice of regular infantrymen, drawn mostly from the peasantry, required a heroic presentation. (51) Officers and the common soldier were photographed in roughly the same manner, which in turn bestowed the social benefits of photography more equally. War photography also featured nurses, doctors, journalists, military engineers, and various charitable associations that organized medical aid on the home front. Convention dictated that these groups pose inside the studio around furniture and decorative props. At first, magazines featured soldiers grouped in this way, usually according to rank or military unit, but as the conflict drew out, more pictures were taken in authentic locations in the Far East. Although these photographs lacked the theatrical accoutrements of the studio, the basic compositional aesthetic remained unchanged. The soldiers wore formal regalia, including military decorations and ceremonial accessories. Typically, they were organized into three rows--standing, sitting, and crouching--and they posed sternly for the camera. (52) Even in the sunburnt valleys of Manchuria, the ritual of studio portraiture was preserved. The frontal pose introduced a timeless quality to the picture, regardless of when and where it was taken. The studio aesthetic dehistoricized the image; the group portrait was not one moment lifted out of the temporal stream but a universal expression that transformed the represented camaraderie into an eternal ideal. This formal aspect ensured that the reader recognized the solemnity of the occasion and, at the same time, allowed soldiers to participate in their own commemoration.

Of course, how these images were used, and how the public would ultimately respond to them, depended on their presentation on the magazine page. Editors, along with the magazine's design staff, wove news photography into a dramatic framework, which simplified the conflict and engaged the emotions of the audience. Though war was naturally photogenic, the photographs from the front lines could not speak for themselves. No matter how riveting, any given picture out of context had little meaning to the average spectator. Photojournalism required actual journalism. (53) During the Russo-Japanese War the careful addition of text, such as titles and captions, gave meaning to pictures. The basic function of these texts was to inform the reader about the photograph, about who or what was represented, but they also provided the news with narrative drive. The written material placed the images within a specific chronology that "stretched the time of the image" and conveyed the impression that events had occurred before and after the captured moment. (54) On the magazine page, the facts were reported as news but they were also told like stories, often structured around a clear beginning, middle, and end. The immense quantity of pictures arriving from the Far East even allowed the editors of Iskry to construct visual narratives that were made solely on the basis of photography and with little supporting text. In these cases, a few words merely prompted the audience to make the narrative leaps that the photographs themselves implied.

In this period, news magazines belonged to an expanding media landscape that used images to tell traditional stories. Experiments in visual communication, in photographic movement and projection, achieved immense popular success and became the basis of new forms of mass entertainment. As technology coalesced, the public grew accustomed to the fluid interplay of image and text in different media environments. Magic lanterns, for example, which projected images onto a screen, served an important pedagogical function in schools and provided visual accompaniment to children's stories. Photographic experiments, like those of Eadweard Muybridge, and new technological gizmos, like the zoopraxiscope, encouraged people to see photographs as single moments sliced out of a continuous timeline. Eventually the movies supplanted these early attempts to represent movement photographically, and in Russia cinematography was inextricably linked to photography at almost every level. Photography trade journals regularly published articles on film technology, and film and photography shared the same manufacturing sector.

Furthermore, many of Russia's professional cameramen started out as photo-reporters. (55) Some photographers, such as Petr Novitskii, remained active in both newsreel cinema and photo journalism throughout their careers. More important, the public was attending the movies on a regular basis. In the darkened theater, the audience was immersed in the filmic illusion whereby images projected in quick succession created a sense of continuous action. The narrative strategies of film and the illustrated press developed in parallel. Both emerged out of the same technological and aesthetic context, and just as film imitated books, the characters "made to look like illustrations brought to life," news magazines possessed a filmic quality that translated the motions of real life into still images. (56)

The editors of Iskry were among the first to incorporate a greater sense of narrative drive to photographic coverage of the news. The publication was redesigned following the Japanese sneak attack in 1904, and all extensive text was replaced with illustration. At first, handmade sketches outweighed photography as Iskry's Moscow office waited for up-to-date images of post-bombardment Port Arthur. In the interim, the editors used maps, drawings, and stock images to introduce the war's geography and dramatis personae. Eventually, as news channels established a regular flow of information, the magazine became a photographic travelogue, which followed soldiers as they headed east, crossing the frozen continent toward the empire's easternmost territories. Pictures of the journey were organized over one- or two-page spreads and included scenes of soldiers boarding trains, of endless tundra, of the Trans-Siberian Railway and the tortuous road around Lake Baikal--each subsequent issue bringing the spectator closer to the front. (57) On reaching the war zone, photographers reported on specific events and personages and provided detailed visual accounts of battles and military maneuvers. A typical two-page spread, for example, featured ten photographs taken by Viktor Bulla, who reported on Russian engagements on the island of Sakhalin. (58) The headline provided the story's overarching narrative framework: "Our Army in Battle: The Battle for the Dolinsk Valley on 14 June 1904." The short captions underneath the pictures identified the action and subjects within each frame. The 12 photographs were organized into three columns and the pictures in each column were related thematically. When read left to right, these images plotted out a basic sequence of events--the army arrives in the valley; the soldiers await the enemy; and finally, the battle begins, the distant puffs of smoke indicating military engagements on the horizon. This vignette was then brought to a sobering conclusion on the last page of the issue. Three images showed the casualties suffered on both sides: a Japanese corpse, a doctor struggling to keep a patient alive, and a memorial service held on the battlefield in honor of the recently dead. (59)

These visual narratives placed the audience in the role of the storyteller. Unlike traditional print journalism, news photography required the spectator to provide the interpretive thrust that propelled the story forward in time. In the 19th century, the intelligentsias "thick" journals offered a predigested interpretation; the writer was both reporter and commentator, whose analysis was intended to enlighten the reader and direct public opinion. (60) By contrast, journalists who worked for newspapers embraced a detached mode of reporting that transferred the interpretive work to the reading public. Likewise, news photographers and magazine editors provided a basic structure and point of view but ultimately allowed the audience to interpret events as presented. Although the pictures often appeared weeks after the original event, the photo-story held the news together in the present, the battles seeming to unfold in front of the spectator's eyes. Photojournalism restructured the conventional experience of the passage of time; it created a "new synthetic temporality," which was "paced by reading and looking at the assembled sequence." (61) One person could look at a series of photographs, bemoan the futility of war, and reflect on the fate of a close friend; another could see the bravery of young Russians, feel pride at their dogged resistance, and grow staunchly opposed to Japanese aggression. In either case, photojournalism offered the spectator a vessel in which to pour oneself emotionally and thus created a sense of personal involvement with events transpiring thousands of miles away. From this distant perspective, the public witnessed history as a national melodrama, which reduced armed conflict into a series of encounters between us and them, good and evil, heroes and villains. The interactions of pictures and words on the magazine page thus effectively turned "all of life's relationships into literature." (62)

The News and Magazine Design

The popular illustrated press continued to attract readers after the war as tensions on the home front became front-page news. The 1905 revolution thrust photographers into a new kind of struggle that pitted Russia's ambitious middle class against the traditional ruling elite. During the next ten years, as photo-correspondents publicized the activities of civil society, editors refashioned magazines to convey news images more effectively. More space was reserved for pictures. Fiction was cut down and replaced by short articles that fleshed out visual storylines with background information. Popular weeklies such as Ogonek became self-contained, less dependent on outside sources of information, and thus more attractive to readers who purchased issues periodically at city kiosks. (63) The publisher Stanislav Propper announced that each issue of Ogonek "will be an independent entity," and readers would no longer have to wait until the next edition for the continuation of stories. (64) Though designed primarily to improve the readability of serialized fiction, this approach had far-ranging consequences that affected the layout of the entire magazine.

The increased focus on the news encouraged photographers to adopt work methods that translated objectivity into visual terms. Unlike in America, where photo-reporters expressed professional detachment by remaining anonymous, Russian news photographers usually received credit below each picture. (65) The objectivity of the photograph, however, was taken for granted. At Ogonek, for example, editors compared the publication to a "mirror" that "reflected all the events of the day"--a metaphor used widely to denote the faithfulness with which photographs reproduced reality. (66) In the popular imagination, the mechanical nature of the camera seemed to eliminate the human factor and thus ensured a true, unmediated representation. In fact, even under the best circumstances, it was difficult to erase all sign of this intermediary. In public, camera technology was a major impediment; photographers were easy to spot, their cumbersome equipment drawing the attention of passersby. Furthermore, once the image was exposed, the theatricality of the studio aesthetic was a constant reminder of the ritual that still governed photography. (67) Without exception, subjects adopted stiff postures in a conscious effort to present themselves favourably to the beholder. The ability of photography to capture reality was in tension with people's desire to influence how they were seen, and this undermined the perceived authenticity of the image. To combat theatricality, photographers sought out subjects in real locations, without props, personal embellishments, or anything else that could compromise the verisimilitude of the final report. Pictures where the subject appeared unaware of being photographed became de rigueur. This created the illusion of objectivity: the news appeared unmediated and genuinely observed rather than staged, and thus more believable as a true reflection of current events.

Focus on the news also transformed how these pictures were exhibited in magazines. At first, photography was set apart from written material and other types of illustration. Because photographs functioned independently as news, editors placed them in separate sections or demarcated them visually from the text. Information about these pictures was limited to headlines and brief captions; the reader was presumably aware of the picture's operating context from other news sources, such as the daily papers. Furthermore, to create a visually stimulating magazine spread, editors modified photographs and relied on designers to offset the monotony of halftone with various artistic elements. (68) Intricately detailed borders were added and images were cropped to resemble framed prints, which gave the impression that the pictures, regardless of the subject matter, were unique objects of art. (69) In one story, covering the daily operations of the St. Petersburg telephone station, each of the ten featured photographs was surrounded by a unique, decorative frame (Figure 3). (70) The off-kilter arrangement added depth to the flat reproductions, the pictures overlapping along the edges as if they were haphazardly laid out on a crowded surface. Overall, these touchups and flowery designs spruced up the photographs and lent them the appearance of material artifacts, which transferred the commodity value of actual prints to the magazine page.


But as the public gravitated toward written and visual reports of the news, editors jettisoned many of these decorations. More pictures appeared per issue, slowly crowding out serialized fiction, and news photography was no longer segregated in special sections. Intricate borders were replaced with simple black outlines, until even these separations disappeared. Editors moved away from the tendency to objectify the photograph, to see it as a commodity object, and embraced its power as a means of communication. For the first time, they acknowledged the work of news photographers, publicizing the wide networks of correspondents who provided visual reports of current events from all over the country. (71) The growing volume of images also permitted editors to be more creative. A story about members of the State Duma on vacation, for instance, featured a photo-collage framed entirely by the magazine page. The 18 photographs, distributed over two pages, were arranged so closely together that each page resembled a large rectangular picture with distinct image components throughout. (72) The collage showed fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, all enjoying leisure time in the countryside. Playing off the social function of photography, photojournalism encouraged the spectator to identify with the politicians and to view them through the lens of family and friendship. The audience was placed in the role of a close relative, imaginatively reliving a family vacation; and the stripped-down design focused attention on the content of photographs, which allowed these social signals to flow more smoothly.

More radical layouts appeared in journals such as Salntse Rassii, which catered to upscale tastes in theater and contemporary painting. This magazine managed to transcend mere news coverage and became a canvas for a new type of graphic design, which was valued for its formal properties as well as for being a vehicle for cultural information. The typical issue included portraits of actors in costumes, snapshots from stage productions and movie sets, and the occasional photograph chronicling the world of international politics. These photographs were cropped into unconventional geometric shapes, and individual subjects were often lifted from pictures and organized into creative collages. Attention was brought to the actual organization and presentation of photography, rather than the photographs themselves. In one issue, portraits of actors were cut into rhombus-shaped images and arranged in strips that ascended across the page; another two-page spread featured snapshots taken in the city and then arranged in a diagonal cross (Figure 4). (73) Individually, the photographs were simple and skilfully executed: headshots of actors from the Mariinskii Theater and everyday scenes from an outdoor market. But the actual layout of Solntse Rossii--the composition and symmetry of the arrangement, which transformed the photos into elements within a larger graphic design--remained the most innovative and attractive feature on the page.

Most news magazines, however, reported on current events in a straightforward manner. Every week, photographs introduced a broad spectrum of social types and highlighted the different roles played by people in civil society. Driven by broadening consumer interests, magazines promoted new categories of celebrity, which were defined by new means of achievement and individual expression. Aviators, for instance, proved especially photogenic. Equal parts daredevil and fearless explorer, the flying ace was a bright star in a new celebrity constellation, which also included motorists, sportsmen, and philanthropists. Biographical accounts of such prominent citizens usually combined an in-depth article with a series of photographs, which provided an intimate glimpse into the subject's life and work. The profile of "capitalist" and "patron of science" Nikolai Shakhov featured a two-page article and five photographs taken by the Moscow-based news photographer S. G. Smirnov. (74) Two of the pictures were portraits, which reflected the established conventions of studio photography. The other three, however, were more detached and naturalistic. Despite being clearly posed, these images nonetheless attempted to capture an authentic and unmediated representation of Shakhov at home. In one, the subject reclined in bed as he answered the telephone. His casual, perhaps even undignified pose undermined the expected formality of photography. The apparent lack of overt self-presentation suggested an authentic moment, rather than one knowingly constructed for the camera. In another image, Shakhov's intense focus while reading letters communicated a lack of awareness of the photographic process. He is caught unawares, the picture intimates, and therefore reveals his true, unaffected self. No doubt, these photographs were deliberately constructed by the photographer; and Shakhov was performing, however badly, to convey an antitheatrical attitude. But by explicitly avoiding the theatrical trappings of photography, Smirnov produced the illusion of domestic activity, which allowed the reader to explore the philanthropist's home like an invisible guest.


The illustrated press also offered immense exposure to various professional and voluntary associations. In this period, such groups constituted the organizational core of Russian civil society, and the publicity provided by the illustrated press allowed them to advertise their activities and philanthropic agendas. (75) Usually news magazines covered important gatherings that commemorated an anniversary or a special event. A full-page photograph in Iskry, for instance, showed the opening of the Third All-Slavic Beekeepers Conference in the main chamber of the Moscow city duma (Figure 5). (76) The picture was taken from a high vantage point, at the back of the room, and the assembled participants all turned to face the camera from their seats on the floor. A statue of Mother Russia stood behind the head table; a portrait of Tsar Alexander I hung on the wall. The caption below informed the spectator that both the mayor of Moscow and the provincial governor were present at the pictured proceedings. Yet despite the dignitaries and imperial paraphernalia, the diverse gathering of beekeepers dominated the frame. These subjects were, of course, conscious of the photographer and the camera, their stern frontal poses addressing the spectator directly, but unlike the snapshots of the State Duma on vacation, there is nothing inviting or intimate about this representation. The large number of people overwhelmed the picture flame, and the projected sense of social integration was magnified by the massive layout of the photograph, which filled the issue's entire back page. Here, the photographer captured the humble beekeepers as a real force--a mass of people showing respect and demanding it in return. (77)


These reports of Russian current events appeared alongside representations of similar activities from around the world. International news, though mostly from Western Europe and America, functioned like a compass that located Russia's social and political development in relation to other nations. When in 1906 photographs of the State Duma were juxtaposed with photographs of various European parliaments, these images were clearly intended to cast the empire in a positive light. (78) The grand facades of the Reichstag in Berlin and Westminster in London, among others, were offered to Russians as positive models, worthy of emulation, and as a tacit endorsement of the country's first tentative steps toward popular representation. News of unsavory trends also served to flatter the Russian spectator. The "excesses of English suffragettes," which featured unflattering portrayals of protestors coming up against the law, provided a negative foil for the great achievements of women in Russia, especially those who succeeded in professions traditionally occupied by men, such as science, law, and aviation. (79) Reports of Russian expatriates, visiting and socializing with foreigners, were common in the illustrated press, and this pictorial intermingling bolstered and legitimized the achievements of Russian civil society, showing it to be modern, up-to-date, and in some cases more advanced than the West. Stories of "ours abroad" demonstrated the global reach of Russian culture and encouraged readers to see their lives not only within a local or national context but also as unfolding on the international stage. (80)

On the eve of World War I, photographers and magazine editors had developed a means of visual communication that was particularly well-suited to covering the tumultuous days that lay ahead. Editors took advantage of the large format of weeklies to dazzle their readers with epic vistas featuring thousands of people marching in the streets. In the past, illustrating crowds had been technically difficult, and artists had usually opted for impressionistic or symbolic representations of the masses. In 19th-century illustrations, for example, a larger-than-life Russian peasant or Cossack soldier was the traditional stand-in for the Russian nation. (81) News photographers, however, could capture thousands of people in one easy operation. They could also take pictures from various angles, which, when arranged on the page, created the sense of a great number of people. The photo-reporter Aleksei Savel'ev employed both these strategies when he covered the demonstrations held in response to Austrian incursions into Serbia in July 1914. His photos appeared across two pages in Iskry under the headline "Nation and War" (Figure 6). A short article under the title provided context, noting the bombardments of "peaceful, defenceless cities" and the widespread "patriotic demonstrations" throughout Russia. (82) The cumulative effect of these pictures was, however, more than simply a depiction of current events. "Nation and War" placed the pictures of the demonstrations into a comprehensive narrative that reshaped the reality they claimed to represent.


The report consisted of seven pictures of large crowds, marching on Red Square and waving banners through the streets of Moscow, but the overall impression created is of an entire nation up in arms. Individually, the photographs in "Nation and War" conveyed a detached, seemingly unmediated representation of the events. None of the pictures were staged, the protestors did not pose for the camera, and all the participants seemed fully caught up in the moment, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the photographer. Most of the pictures were taken from an elevated point of view; Aleksei Savel'ev's camera seems to float just above the crowd. This heightened perspective allowed him to capture a panoramic view of the demonstrations, which emphasized the immensity of the masses congregating below. The elevated viewpoint also masked Savel'ev's physical location and created the illusion that no actual person was taking the pictures (Figure 7). The demonstrations thus appeared to present themselves "without the agency or interference of an observer." (83) Finally, the photographer's position relative to the crowd encouraged the spectator to view the masses collectively. This was reinforced by the headline and the article, both of which addressed the protestors in collective terms, such as "nation" and "Russian society." Furthermore, the brief captions encouraged this association by obfuscating the agency of the demonstration's individual participants. For example, the caption "At the Skobelev monument" did not mention who, in fact, was present, but the obvious implication was that the "nation" was standing there at the Skobelev monument. Both the headline and the article primed the spectator to associate the protestors with a larger, more symbolic entity and the captions simply drew on this association.


By treating the protestors collectively, as representative members of a larger community, "Nation and War" engaged the spectator both as a detached observer, reflecting on events from a distance, and as a virtual participant. In a sense, the protestors became stand-ins for Iskry's reading public. News magazines attracted a large audience because they were entertaining and informative, but also because they created an interactive community where the experiences of the reader were fused with those of society at large. The tendency of photography to aestheticize, to elevate subjects to symbolic heights, allowed the spectator to relate personally to the demonstrations, just as an audience becomes immersed in the fate of characters in the theater. The various texts activated this tendency, placing the images into a comprehensive narrative, and thus transformed the particular circumstances reported by the photographer into something inclusive of all Russians. The "nation" stood on Red Square on that day, which by extension included the readers of Iskry. As John Berger has argued, photography often operates "dialectically," preserving the "particularity of the event recorded" and at the same time choosing "an instant when the correspondences of those particular appearances articulate a general idea." (84) Having left the studio, photographers who worked for the illustrated press invented a visual language that expressed this dialectic. Their photography was powerful precisely because it transformed the particular moment in history into a symbolic or universal expression of human experience. This ability to create "highly dramatic, compositionally arresting, and instantly legible fragments of larger situations" became the photo journalistic norm at the end of Russia's imperial era, and it remains the photojournalistic norm to this day. (85)


How accurately real events were represented in news magazines was, in the end, less important than what those events were made to signify. After all, as William Ivins pointed out, "the accepted report of an event is of greater importance than the event, for what we think about and act upon is the symbolic report and not the concrete event itself." (86) The detached style of news photographers, and the attempt to embrace journalistic objectivity, was a commercial and aesthetic decision, and not an ontological one. The written objective report was preferable to predigested interpretations because it allowed the reader to make judgments about the news independently. Following on from this, photojournalism translated the objective report into visual terms, and what made it appealing as an accurate reproduction of reality was also what made it convincing as a dramatic depiction of historical events. The unmediated picture looked good and sold well largely because it appeared to be objective. But it also convinced the spectator that what it showed was relevant and intimately connected to one's personal experience. Photo-stories, such as "Nation and War," walked a fine line between reality and art; they offered a carefully constructed worldview, which used real events to encourage people to play an active part in the world around them. Indeed, the demonstrations captured by Aleksei Savel'ev were likely provoked by news reports and not by firsthand accounts of Austrian bombardments. Perhaps, in turn, the photographs featured in Iskry also played a role in shaping public opinion and Russia's response to Serbia's plight.

Dept. of History

Johns Hopkins University

Gilman 301

3400 N. Charles Street

Baltimore, MD 21218 USA

(1) This argument is drawn primarily from Walter Lippmann, Public Opinion (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1922), chap. 1; see also W. Russell Neuman, Marion R. Just, and Ann N. Crigler, Common Knowledge: News and the Construction of Political Meaning (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992).

(2) The literature on Russia's hard-to-define middle class is vast. Here, I am drawing on Terrence Emmons's definition of Kadet leaders, as "a professional middle class, whose educational and social status naturally cultivated a desire to participate in the formulation and execution of public policies, to have a say in the governing of the country commensurate with their status," in The Formation of Political Parties and the First National Elections in Russia (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 73. This link, however, comes via Louise McReynolds, The News under Russia's Old Regime: The Development of a Mass Circulation Press (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991), 200, which extends Emmons's definition to publishers and civil society more generally. See also Edith W. Clowes, Samuel D. Kassow, and James L. West, eds., Between Tsar and People: Educated Society and the Quest for Public Identity in Late Imperial Russia (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991).

(3) Neuman et al., Common Knowledge, 1.

(4) This approach splits the traditional historiography, claiming a relatively ignored middle ground between scholars who examine the roots of photojournalism in the 19th century and those who focus narrowly on the 1920s and 1930s. On the history of 19th- and 20th-century Russian photography, see S. A. Morozov, Russkaia khudozhestvennaia fotografiia: Ocherki iz istorii fotografii 1839-1917 (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1955); Morozov, Sovetskaia khudozhestvennaia fotografiia (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1958); G. M. Boltianskii, Ocherki po istorii fotografii v SSSR (Moscow: Goskinoizdat, 1939); and V. T. Stigneev, Vek fotografii, 1894-1994: Ocherki istorii otechestvennoifotografii (Moscow: KomKniga, 2005); on photojournalism, see Gary Beegan, The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduction in Victorian London (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Michael Carlebach, The Origins of Photojournalism in America (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992); Michele Martin, Images at War: Illustrated Periodicals and Constructed Nations (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006); Ulrich Keller, The Ultimate Spectacle: A Visual History of the Crimean War (Australia: Gordon and Breach, 2001); Tim Gidal, Modern Photojournalism: Origins and Evolution, 1910-1933 (New York: Macmillan, 1973); Gisele Freund, Photography and Society (London: G. Fraser, 1980); and Hanno Hardt, "Pictures for the Masses: Photography and the Rise of Popular Magazines in Weimar Germany," Journal of Communication Inquiry 13, 1 (1989): 7-27.

(5) For a description of the prerevolutionary Russian press, see P. E. Esperov, Chto dolzhen trebovat 'chitatel'-intelligent ot organa pechati? (St. Petersburg: Samopomoshch', 1904).

(6) On spectatorship, see Kevin G. Barnhurst and John Nerone, "Civic Picturing vs. Realist Photojournalism: The Regime of Illustrated News, 1856-1901," Design Issues 16, 1 (2000): 70-71; also see Luc Boltanski, Distant Suffering: Morality, Media, and Politics, trans. Graham Burchell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 27-28.

(7) Ogongk, no. l0 (10 [23] March 1913): 2.

(8) For example, Solntse Rossii, no. 22 (225) (May 1914): 18. Kodak's advertisements in Solntse Rossii included prices and brief descriptions of its cameras. For comparison's sake, in 1914 a pocket watch cost 1.95 rubles, an annual subscription to Ogonek 2.50 rubles, a cheap three-piece suit 6.75 rubles, and an upright piano around 240 rubles.

(9) Jon D. Carlson, "Postcards and Propaganda: Cartographic Postcards as Soft News Images of the Russo-Japanese War," Political Communication 26, 2 (2009): 217.

(10) Beegan, Mass Image, 187.

(11) In Solntse rossii, no. 2 (42) (November 1910): 10, the editors compared their publication to "foreign" journals, such as the French weekly L'Illustration or London's The Daily Graphic. Also see Ogonek, no. 1 (6 [19] January 1908): 1.

(12) Jeffrey Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read: Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861-1917 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985), 113.

(13) "Thin" periodicals attracted a popular audience, in contrast to the "thick" publications produced by the literary elites of the 19th century.

(14) Ivan Sytin had his designers study The Illustrated London News and L'Illustration (among others) before launching his own publications (Charles A. Ruud, Russian Entrepreneur." Publisher Ivan Sytin of Moscow, 1851-1934 [Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1990], 53-54).

(15) For this study, I examined five long-standing and widely read magazines of this period. These were Ogonek, Iskry, Niva, Sinii zhurnal, and Solntse Rossii. I also looked at (in less detail) Vsemirnaia panorama, Priroda i liudi, Rodina, Zhurnal-kopeika (Moscow and St. Petersburg editions), Vokrug sveta, and Zerkalo zhizni. This survey is not representative of all photojournalism. It does, however, provide a significant sample from which, I believe, we can draw some general conclusions about the institution as a whole.

(16) Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read, 115. Brooks cites circulation figures provided by Ogonek in subscription advertisements. One such example can be found in Ogonek, no. 51 (21 December [3 January] 1914): 20; see also Ogonek, no. 43 (26 October [8 November] 1914): 19.

(17) Many photography journals had similar profiles. For example, the firm F. Iokhim & Ko. published Fotograficheskii listok, which directed consumers to Iokhim's stores. Kodak also published Professional-fotograf, which despite its name catered to a popular audience. Other publications included Fotograficheskii vestnik, Fotograficheskoe obozrenie, Vsia Rossiia, Fotograf liubitel, and Vestnik fotografii.

(18) Fotograficheskie novosti, no. 12 (December 1908), "free insert from issue 12 of FN."

(19) For photography's "family function," see Pierre Bourdieu, Photography: A Middle-Brow Art, trans. Shaun Whiteside (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990), 19, 94.

(20) Solntse Rossii, no. 23 (226) (May 1913): 18.

(21) B.A. Evdokimov, Fotografvelosipedist: Progulki i puteshestviia na velosipede s fotograflcheskim apparatom. Prakticheskie sovety i ukazaniia dlia liubitelei-fotografov (St. Petersburg: V. I. Gubinskii, 1912), 4.

(22) Louise McReynolds, Russia at Play: Leisure Activities at the End of the Tsarist Era (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003), 12, 183.

(23) Bourdieu, Photography, 6.

(24) Ogonek, no. 28 (9 [22] July 1911): 1.

(25) Ogonek, no. 32 (6 [19] August 1911): 1.

(26) Vsia Rossiia, no. 4 (April 1905): 112; Ogonek, no. 39 (26 September [9 October] 1909): 1.

(27) These appeared regularly: some examples include Ogonek, no. 2 (9 [22] January 1910): 21; Ogonek, no. 10 (10 [23] March 1913): 2.

(28) McReynolds, News under Russia's Old Regime, 116.

(29) Leonid F. Volkov-Lannit, Istoriiapishetsia ob "ektivom (Moscow: Planeta, 1971), 116-17.

(30) Bourdieu, Photography, 172.

(31) Vladimir Anatol'evich Nikitin, Rasskazy o fotografakh i fotografiiakh (Leningrad: Lenizdat, 1991), 85.

(32) Bourdieu, Photography, 163.

(33) On documentary photography, see Sergei Morozov, Russkie puteshestvenniki-fotografy (Moscow: Geografgiz, 1953); Boltianskii, Ocherki po istorii fotografii, chap. 4; and Elena Barkhatova, "Realism and Document: Photography as Fact," in Photography in Russia, 1840-1940, ed. David Elliott (London: Thames and Hudson, 1992), 41-50.

(34) James H. Bater, "Between Old and New: St. Petersburg in the Late Imperial Era," in The City in Late Imperial Russia, ed. Michael E Harem (Bloomington: Indiana University Press), 44-46; on changing images of Moscow, see Joseph Bradley, Muzhik and Muscovite: Urbanization in Late-Imperial Russia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 61-68.

(35) Bourdieu, Photography, 6; James H. Bater writes how, despite the perception of imperial "grandeur and gentility," migration, industrialization, and widespread poverty had rendered these images "anachronisms" ("Between Old and New," 46).

(36) Bourdieu, Photography, 20.

(37) Ulrich Keller, for example, states that "early photojournalism was marked by a clear aesthetic deficit" as opposed to later photographers, such as Felix Man and Henri Cartier-Bresson, who "managed to impress recognizable 'authorial,' if not artistic, signatures on their work" ("Photojournalism around 1900: "[he Institutionalization of a Mass Medium," in Shadow and Substance: Essays on the History of Photography, ed. Kathleen Collins [Bloomfield Hills, MI: Amorphous Press, 1990], 290).

(38) Ibid., 289.

(39) Michael Carlebach, American Photojournalism Comes of Age (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1997), 75.

(40) "Novye fotograficheskie professii: Reportery i naturshchiki," Fotograficheskoe obozrenie, no. 6 (April 1901): 232.

(41) See Louise McReynolds, "Imperial Russia's Newspaper Reporters: Profile of a Society in Transition, 1865-1914," Slavonic and East European Review 68, 2 (1990): 277-93.

(42) Volkov-Lannit, Istoriia pishetsia ob "ektivom, 157.

(43) Irina Chmyreva, "Master iz teni: Petr Otsup (1883-1963)," in Petr Otsup: Prostranstvo revoliutsii. Rossiia, 1917-1941 (Moscow: Izdatel'stvo Golden-Bee, 2007), 8-9.

(44) "Teatr voennykh deistvii," Vsia Rossiia, no. 6 (June 1904), separate advertisement.

(45) Viktor Bulla, "Iz vospominanii starogo fotoreportera," Sovetskoe foto, no. 11 (October 1937): 11.

(46) For example, two photos appear in three different journals: Niva, no. 36 (4 September 1904): 709; Iskry, no. 35 (5 September 1904): 276-77; Letopis ' voiny, no. 26 (1904): 475-76.

(47) Bourdieu, Photography, 76.

(48) For example, Iskry, no. 20 (25 May 1903): 160.

(49) Here, my thinking follows Erich Auerbach and the "doctrine of the ancients regarding the several levels of literary representation." See his Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, trans. Willard R. Trask (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003). According to this doctrine, everyday reality could only be framed in the low or intermediate style (i.e., comedy), while sublime subjects warranted the high or tragic style.

(50) Bourdieu, Photography, 83.

(51) On the social makeup of the Russian army during the Russo-Japanese War, see Allan K. Wildman, The End of the Russian Imperial Army: The Old Army and the Soldiers' Revolt (March-April 1917) (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980), 19-31.

(52) Niva, no. 29 (17 July 1904): 573; Iskry, no. 11 (14 March 1904): 84-85.

(53) David Campany, Photography and Cinema (London: Reaktion Books, 2008), 28.

(54) Ibid.

(55) Philip Cavendish, "The Hand That Turns the Handle: Camera Operators and the Poetics of the Camera in Pre-Revolutionary Russian Film," Slavonic and East European Review 82, 2 (2004): 207-8.

(56) Yuri Tsivian, "Some Preparatory Remarks on Russian Cinema," in Silent Witnesses: Russian Films, 1908-1919, ed. Paolo Cherchi Usai, Lorenzo Codelli, Carlo Montanaro, and David Robinson (London: British Film Institute, 1989), 34.

(57) Iskry, no. 13 (28 March 1904): 98-99; no. 15 (18 April 1904): 116-17.

(58) Iskry, no. 35 (5 September 1904): 276-77.

(59) Ibid., 280.

(60) McReynolds, News under Russia's Old Regime, 117-18.

(61) Campany, Photography and Cinema, 61.

(62) Walter Benjamin, "A Small History of Photography," in One-Way Street and Other Writings. trans. Edmund Jephcott and Kingsley Shorter (New York: Verso, 1997), 256.

(63) Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read, 111.

(64) Ogonek, no. 1 (6 [19] January 1908): 1.

(65) Carlebach, American Photojournalism Comes of Age, 3.

(66) Ogoneh, no. 50 (9 [22] December 1912): 2; see also David Elliot, "The Photograph in Russia: Icon of a New Age," in his Photography in Russia, 11 ; Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography from 1839 to the Present (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1982), chap. 3.

(67) My use of the term "theatricality" should be understood as meaning aimed at or implying the presence of a beholder. Following from this, a photograph would be antitheatrical if the picture "treated the beholder as if he were not there." See Michael Fried, Absorption and Theatricality: Painting and the Beholder in the Age of Diderot (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960), 5; and Fried, "Art and Objecthood," Artforum 5, 10 (1960): 12-23.

(68) Beegan, Mass Image, 175.

(69) By contrast, reproductions of art were presented without frames; these images were presented simply, at right angles to the page, with only the title and artist noted underneath. For example, see Ishry, no. 1 (4 [17] January 1904): 2-5.

(70) Ogonek, no. 6 (10 [23] February 1908): 14-15.

(71) Ogonek, no. 1 (6 [19] January 1913): 4.

(72) Ogonek, no. 44 (3 [16] November 1913): 6-7.

(73) Solntse Rossii, no. 44 (195) (October 1913): 10-11; Solntse Rossii, no, 43 (194) (October 1913): 10-11.

(74) Ogonek, no. 11 (17 [30] March 1913): 8-9.

(75) Joseph Bradley, "Subjects into Citizens: Societies, Civil Society, and Autocracy in Tsarist Russia," American Historical Review 107, 4 (2002): 1094; see also Bradley, Voluntary Associations in Tsarist Russia: Science, Patriotism, and Civil Society (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009)--reviewed in this issue of Kritika; and Bradley, "Voluntary Associations, Civic Culture, and Obshchestvennost' in Moscow," in Between Tsar and People, 131-48.

(76) Iskry, no. 29 (29 July [12 August] 1912): 232.

(77) Bourdieu, Photography, 82.

(78) Niva, no. 14 (8 [21] April 1906): 223; no. 15 (15 April 1906): 233.

(79) Ogonek, no. 22 (1 [14] June 1914): 1; Sinii zhurnal, no. 10 (2 [15] March 1912): 6; Sinii zhurnal, no. 16 (13 [26] April 1912): 5.

(80) Sinii zhurnal, no. 26 (22 June [5 July] 1912): 6-7.

(81) Stephen M. Norris, A War of Images: Russian Popular Prints, Wartime Culture, and National Identity, 1812-1945 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2006), 111.

(82) Iskry, no. 29 (27 July [10 August] 1914): 229.

(82) Quoted in Michael Fried, Why Photography Matters as Art as Never Before (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 163.

(84) John Berger, "Appearances," in his Another Way of Telling (New York: Vintage International, 1995), 122.

(85) Fried, Why Photography Matters, 183.

(86) William M. Ivins Jr., Prints and Visual Communication (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1969), 180.