Requiem for my friend..Richard Poole (1937-2008)
Today a good friend and mentor passed away. A number of you will know him.
Richard (Dick) Poole, my friend and mentor of some 20 years, died in his sleep yesterday morning after a battle with cancer. Like the late Brian Curtis, he was one of the grand old men of New Zealand photography, one of those people you take for granted, until their time has passed. So I want to take some time, to take some time to remember.
I remember the day I first met you, a tall, lanky, balding man in a brown jersey with a bushy beard fierce eyes and an uncompromising attitude. For years I marvelled at the sensitivity of the portraits you made, at your passion for photographing women beautifully and your unremitting concern for craft. I marvelled at the way you made light sing and dance and the way you made it look so easy, the sign of a true master.
I remember the day you took me into the Ilam Gardens and taught me to see light, and how in the space of 20 minutes you taught me to see that light in the field could be read in terms of studio lighting, and vice-versa. In doing so, you moved my photography forward immeasurably.
I remember the day, standing on the shores of Lake Pukaki, when you taught me the two-cigarette method. You never said anything much that day, but by then I had learned to read the lessons contained in your silences and on that day I learned that a good landscape photographer needs patience and the ability to be still inside. All your lessons were profound. You taught by example, always willing to freely share what you knew.
I remember the long conversations, where, of an evening, we would sit around an evaporating bottle of whisky and discuss the merits of D-76 and Rodinal, and the papers we each fancied (you Kodak Elite, me Agfa Brovira), and the intricacies of the Zone System. It took you ten minutes to show me the easy way to load a double-dark. You were that sort of teacher. You knew your subject so well that you could make it seem easy. I never ceased to admire your deep knowledge of the history of photography, and how well-read you were. From you I learned to mix and use Amidol and Ferri; I heard of the lives and philosophies of Weston, Bullock, Adams and Modotti; I learned about the Graflex and the Ur-Leica.
I remember the fear you struck into the amateur photographic community and the forthrightness of your opinions. Over time I came to see that for all your brusqueness and at times rough language, you were a deeply sensitive and caring person; that your forthright comments were there to help. I remember too the passion you had for amateur photography , the place you had come from, the discussions we had about it and the delight you showed when you saw an image in a club competition that pushed the boundaries.
Over the years you were my principal photographic guide, the person I went to when I needed the best possible advice. I knew I could put anything in front of you and that you would give me a carefully-considered response. Showing you my work took a lot of courage at times, but I always listened carefully to your suggestions, even when they were not what my ego wanted to hear. Only a few weeks ago, you looked at a piece of my work and suggested an improvement that was so simple but improved the image so immensely. Then you told me that perhaps, at last, I was starting to get the hang of it. That understated comment meant a lot to me.
But that time has passed and there will be no more of those memories to enjoy. You were one of the last of the old-timers, the photographers who taught themselves, because there were no polytechnics to train them. You discovered your own way and made it your own. Dick, you forgot more than I will ever know and I want to take this moment to publicly thank you for all you did for me, for being my friend and guide. Such deep understandings as I have today are the result of your interest and support, your enthusiasm and wise counsel.
So where are you now? I really don’t know, but somehow I can see you out there along the horizon, standing on the edge of the day, waiting for the light, your Toyo set up, shutter cocked and a sheet of Tri-X ready to go. The darkslide is lying on top of the bellows and there is probably a glass of Famous Grouse on the roof of the Peugeot, keeping you company.
Now I intend to get a glass of my own, put on Preisner’s’s Requiem for My Friend, sit back and remember a mentor, a friend and a mate.
Thank you, my friend.
Thank you.
Others of you who knew him may want to share your thoughts here.
October 22nd, 2008 at 2:07 pm
And the great memories bring tears to my eyes as I think of them too.
I did a one year course with Dick in 1996. Because there were only four of us, Dick opened his studio for us every Wednesday night and the two hour sessions were invariably 5 hours and I often returned home after midnight and long long chats about photography and everything. Dick was a great monochrome worker and he selflessly shared his knowledge. And his images. To mark the occasion of the course and our “passing” he made a mono portrait of each of us which I still have and which I treasure.
It was becasue of him, and a couple of other old timers (Tony there are still a few of Dick’s mates around - Lindsay McLeod and Matheson Beaumont to name a few who were/are all great Dunedin workers) that I achieved my apsnz in monochrome prints - he was a great sharer of knowledge as you say.
I also remember the two cigarette moments! And the changing of the light during that time. Dick was the one who said he learned everything he knew about photography in 6 months, but it took him the rest of his life to perfect it! I am not sure about that because he was just superb.
I also have lots of other memories - too numerous to list here.
I am sure his memory will live on in all our hearts
And I thank you too Dick - heaps
October 24th, 2008 at 7:54 pm
You guys are classics, thanks for sharing these experiences with us.
November 13th, 2008 at 8:19 am
I was saddened to hear that Dick had passed away.
I have many memories also and will treasure them always.
Having done a course with Dick in 1994 it was to be the start of my love for photography. Having helped Dick on jobs on the odd occasion it always struck me how easy he made it look.
I remember on one occasion when, one person present on a shoot, decided to become a little more involved then what Dick seemed neccesary. He casually walked up to them and asked if they had ever heard of the expression ‘too many cooks spoil the broth’. When they replied that they had he then mentioned that they were that one that made it too many. We had an easy day after that
Dick was a gentleman, but called a spade a spade and I always admired him for that.
They say a man can be judged by how many people will miss him once he has passed.
In that case Dick, you were a giant!
November 13th, 2008 at 11:24 am
Alfred:
Many thanks for your memory of Dick.
I seem to remember his asking a client whether he would prefer a job with sex and travel… then explaining it to him. The second word was ‘off’.
November 16th, 2008 at 8:45 pm
I read yesteday in the local paper that Dick had passed on. Many years ago, while in Kodak’s employ, I had the immeasurable pleasure of knowing this man and his images. I photographed too, but not nearly so well as him - but what I did know and what I did understand about these things largely came from Dick. He taught me to see, rather than just look. Aviation called me back, the camera was sold to finance an IFR rating, and it has been many years since I made a print. But you dont forget, and I still see images in my mind. Always will.
He was the most unpretentious photographer I knew, in a field which thrives on it. He was easily the best photographer I met during those years, the one with the most craft, the one who was true. He was my friend.
November 16th, 2008 at 9:43 pm
Terry:
Nice to hear from you. It has been a while. Many thanks for stopping by and sharing. I imagine that he would share the sentiments behind John Gillespie McGee’s poem. He certainly flung his eager camera through footless halls of light.
I hope all is well with you.
November 18th, 2008 at 11:05 pm
Not when I went with him to Castle Hill. His camera was firmly attached to a tripod. He and I used to argue about the merits of European lenses versus Japanese ones, and in those days I owned both Hasselblad and Nikon cameras. Despite what he said about Nikon, I’m certain he wouldnt have flung even Nikon cameras off into the sunset, but then again, there was always this kind of naughty little boy thing about Dick - you just never quite knew. I have a print he gave me - perhaps you know it - its a back lit shot of a breaking wave taken at Sumner on a winters morning. The wave has almost perfect symetry. The spray off the back of the wave is entirely where it ought to be. His sky is a challenging wilderness, a sky where one might want a seriously good rate of climb. For some reason the pic has always captured me, and I wouldnt presume to explain why. But I treasure it. As I treasure the time spent with him -
I dont know whether its wise to consider John McGee’s poem “High Flight” as a kind of adjustable cliche. With respect. McGee was describing flying and to any pilot, he couldnt possibly be describing anything else. But the last line in that poem - “and I put out my hand and touched the face of God” could apply to Dick and his mind and his lens and his darkroom. There are images that he made where perhaps he was there, in that place. I should have taken him flying and confirmed it.
All is well with me indeed, thankyou, and I hope all is well with you.
November 20th, 2008 at 6:45 pm
Hi Tony
What a great photo of Dick - it really captures him. Since doing his first Commercial course in 1993 at Canterbury, I got to know him a lot better. I appreciated all those insights he gave so freely. I remember him saying that he didn’t mind sharing his current methods, as he would be moving on to new ones anyway - so he would always be exploring fresh territory.
I managed to keep in touch during my time in Asia - and fondly remember trips we went on when I returned to NZ.
More recently he was slowing down and we would go round to his place on a Friday evening, share fish and chips and watch the rugby.
Since moving to Perth WA I saw less of him, but Amy caught up with him and Jan a few weeks ago.
Any skill I have in photography I owe to him - RIP Dick
Cheers
Andrew Phillips