David Katzenstein's photographs explore the daily life
and communal rituals of people and places from around the world--Zulu dancers
in South Africa, Islamic religious ceremonies in Egypt, Easter processions in
Guatemala, Hasidic rabbis in Brooklyn, Krishna widows in India, Buddhist festivals
in Bhutan, bathers in France. His poetic images celebrate the complexity and
richness of diverse cultures with a unique boldness and sensitivity, and create
a vibrant mutlicultural layered world of form, balance, texture and shape. Whether
his subjects are aware of his presence or he becomes almost invisible within
a scene, Katzenstein is always sensitive to the subtleties of character and
human relationships. His photographs are an exploration of the human spirit,
laying bare in each image essential truths.
Katzenstein's evocative and vividly rendered photographs
have appeared on the pages of Rolling Stone, The New Yorker, Conde
Nast Traveler, Travel & Leisure, and the L.A. Times Magazine,
to name a few. He has also produced album and CD covers for such musicians as
Branford Marsalis, Pat Metheney and Claudio Abbado. A self-taught photographer,
Katzenstein was strongly influenced early on by the work of Henri Cartier-Bresson
and continues to use a Leica rangefinder camera for the majority of his artistic
and documentary work. His photographs have been exhibited at several galleries
in the United States including Marlborough, DTW, Photonica, and Bone, all in
New York City, and the Anne Reed Gallery in Ketchum, Idaho. "Distant Journeys:
Cultural Explorations of David Katzenstein," opened in February, 2000, at the
Lamont Gallery in Exeter, New Hampshire.
Three Girls, Bhutan
Three Girls, Bhutan 1999
I was sitting in a valley at 9,000 feet having
a picnic of hardboiled eggs, yak cheese and tomatoes when three girls asked
if they could sing and dance for me. To the north were the high mountains and
Tibet, and to the south was India. I had entered the Tang valley in central
Bhutan with my guide to visit the yearly festival commemorating the defeat of
the Tibetan intruders 400 years ago. The monks were chanting in the temple to
my right, as men dressed in their finest robes danced with masked intruders,
swords in hand. Earlier in the morning we had hiked two hours into the valley
from the nearest road, and I felt as if I had stepped back in time. There were
no vehicles of any kind or electric lines to remind me of the civilization that
I had left behind. My guide's father, who was a renowned astrologer, greeted
us with an open smile as his wife hid in the shadows silently weeping in joy.
Her son had not been home to visit for 18 months, and she was overwhelmed with
emotion. The three girls danced in a circle, singing songs of yak herding and
love. I was in another time and place, and as I sat there sipping tea I realized
how fortunate I was to witness such a scene in such a wonderful setting.
Masked Dancer, Bhutan
Student, Bhutan
Girls Bathing, Egypt
Hat/Soldiers, Peru
Road to Market, Senegal
Road to Market, Senegal, 1987
This hot and steamy morning I found myself journeying
by horse and cart three hours each way to a weekly market in the middle of nowhere
in central Senegal. My goal was to purchase a large goat and 50 kilos of rice,
onions and bread--enough to feed the entire village I was visiting. I was hosting
a celebration of sorts: the second anniversary of the construction of a one-room
schoolhouse by a Peace Corps volunteer from the Midwest, who I did not really
know but who had kindly written a letter of introduction to the village chief
where he had spent two years of his youth. When I arrived at the village, after
a torturous 10-hour journey by truck and foot, I was greeted by the villagers
as the returning Peace Corps volunteer, whom they had grown to accept as a member
of their community. The problem was that he was a 6'3" Irish American with
red hair and freckles, and I was almost six inches shorter with brown wavy hair.
I finally learned that, to the villagers in this remote part of West Africa,
all white people look alike. I was now an honored guest of the chief, sleeping
in a thatched hut in his compound, with his elder uncle snoring beside me at
night. Each morning the wife of the chief would enter the hut carrying a tray
of coffee and biscuits and sit on a straw mat on the dirt floor beside my bed
breast-feeding her newborn while surrounded by two or three other young children.
The celebration was very successful. The goat was ritually sacrificed and all
were fed. The next day, when I visited the one-room schoolhouse, the children
were all sitting at their desks with pencils and paper before them. After I
took their portraits my guide informed me that the only thing missing was a
teacher. They had been waiting each day for over a year for the central government
to send a replacement for the one who had left.
Dancing Lubavitchers, New York
Men and Totems, Vanuatu
Young Girls with Henna Hands, India
Funeral Party, India
Funeral Party, India, 1995
I asked my driver to stop by the side of the road so
that I could walk alone into a village I had seen in the distance when we came
over the last hill. He reluctantly pulled over and turned off the van, and I
got out and walked alone down a dirt path to my left, between recently plowed
fields. There was no one around as I started my hike, but within minutes I was
surrounded by the usual array of young boys. I continued walking as the entourage
quickly grew to over 20 excited villagers, none of whom spoke a word of English.
It seemed as though no foreigner had stepped into their world before, and their
excitement grew with each new addition to the group. We skirted the village
center and headed towards a river, and I noticed a large proportion of the men
and boys that were walking towards me were bald. When I finally wound my way
back around to the village center I discovered a large gathering of men and
boys, and found out through broken English that I was witnessing a funeral ceremony.
At this point two men motioned for me to turn around and then lifted me up onto
a mound of dirt that was in the middle of the small square. At this point the
crowd faced me, and I silently took their portrait. While standing atop this
mound of dirt, I felt that I had been initiated into a special moment in the
daily life of this village and hoped that I was able to capture it on film.
As I started my descent from the mound the crowd parted, creating a path for
me to walk down, and, as the people move aside a dignified man appeared seated
in the middle of group. He was the middle-aged son of the man who had died,
and I once again raised my camera and took another portrait.
Krishna Widows, India
Krishna Widows, India 1995
Traveling by car from New Delhi to Agra, I asked the
driver to stop for a while in the town of Vrindivan, which was famous for being
the birthplace of Krishna. Reluctantly he turned off the main road: the throng
of walking pilgrims, reckless rickshaws and young boys hawking all kinds of
paraphernalia immediately surrounded us. First I visited a new Hindu temple
dedicated to Krishna and built with funds from Hari Krishnas from all over the
world. In the marble-faced courtyard sat various groups of western pilgrims
with clean-shaven heads, wrapped in orange cloth. I left the temple and headed
into the old part of town through an open market and makeshift carnival. The
center of town was a tangle of narrow dusty alleys, with small temples or altars
interspersed throughout. At one point I heard some chanting and followed the
sounds to a rundown building with a courtyard. Upon entering I discovered an
amazing scene that could have been from 200 years ago (except for the microphone
and fan). Hundreds of women were sitting and singing with a leader standing
in the middle. They were described to me as Krishna widows who come from all
over India and will spend the rest of their lives living, working and chanting
in this building. As a photographer, I pray that when I am introduced to a scene
like this I will be able to capture its essence before it disappears. Often
the experience of being in the middle of a scene like this is stronger than
the photographs that come out of it. In this instance I was lucky enough to
capture the spirit and mystery of the moment.
Nation of Islam Rally, New York
Islamic Festival #1, Egypt
Easter Procession--Jesus, Guatemala
Easter Procession--Jesus, Guatemala, 1997
In the spring of 1997 I traveled to Antigua, Guatemala,
which is famous throughout Latin America for its Easter celebrations. During
Holy Week the city welcomes throngs of pilgrims, and different barrios create
incredible street paintings of colored sawdust, pine needles and eggs. They
work all night perfecting their creations which measure up to six feet wide
by 100 feet long. In the mornings the long processions begin, and the street
paintings are trampled by numerous hooded men carrying huge religious statues.
Once they slowly pass through each barrio, led by brass bands and children,
the artists from the night before sweep up their former creations, clean the
street and, unbelievably, begin the process all over again. The process of creation,
procession and destruction continues for about five days until finally Jesus
himself is marched through the streets on his way to the crucifixion. This photograph
was taken during this final march. I stepped out of the crowd lining the streets
throughout the city, and Jesus stopped the procession in its tracks and proudly
posed for what seemed like a formal portrait. When I finished seconds later,
I stepped back into the crowd, and he resumed his long slow march to his death,
accompanied by the dirge of wailing instruments.
To see more examples of Katzenstein's work from around
the world, go to his web
site.
