JTF (just the facts): Published in 2024 by the J. Paul Getty Museum/Trust (here). Hardcover, 9×11 inches, 304 pages, with 288 color reproductions. Includes essays by Karen Hellman, Carolyn Peter, Paul-Louis Roubert, Eléonore Challine, Art Kaplan/Tania Passafiume, Jillian Lerner, Anne de Mondenard, Nancy B. Keeler, Michel Frizot, James A. Ganz, Sarah Freeman/Ronel Namde, Luce Lebart, Anne McCauley, and Anne Lacoste, and a conversation between the editors and Paul Mpagi Sepuya. (Cover and spread shots below.)
This volume was published to accompany an exhibition on view at the J. Paul Getty Museum at the Getty Center from April 9 to July 7, 2024 (here).
Comments/Context: As we approach the 200th anniversary of the invention of photography, it would be logical to assume that we’d long ago settled the history of who actually invented the medium, when he or she did it, and what exactly was invented at that pivotal moment. And usually, the French inventor Joseph Nicéphore Niépce is given first credit for an 1827 image made from his window (using a camera obscura-based process he called héliographie or sun writing), with early experiments using different technical methods by William Henry Fox Talbot (in 1834) and Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre (fleetingly in 1816, but more durably in 1835) nearly always mentioned in the same breath. Further refinements and discoveries continued in the succeeding years, with Daguerre inventing his daguerreotype in 1838 and Talbot perfecting (and in particular speeding up) his approach (which he named the calotype) with alternate chemistries in 1840.
One other name that gets consistently thrown around in this early history conversation is that of Hippolyte Bayard, who began his own experiments with light sensitive image making in 1838. But Bayard’s story has been much less well researched and understood than that of his competitors/contemporaries, at least until this meticulously compiled scholarly effort by curators at the Getty. In 1984, the Getty acquired an album that included some 145 works by Bayard and another 60 works by other photographers of that early period (including Talbot), but given the fragility and sun sensitivity of the prints, it had largely stayed out of sight. For this ground-breaking exhibit (and its accompanying catalog), a complete digital facsimile of the the album was created and conservation specialists were consulted to reconsider which prints might actually be displayed in some manner. The result was the first ever exhibition of Bayard’s works in North America, which ran through this spring and early summer in Los Angeles.
The catalog begins exactly where it should, with a painstakingly compiled chronology that weaves together the activities of Daguerre, Talbot, Bayard, and others into a single integrated timeline, with specific announcements, publications, lectures, meetings, and other events noted down to the granularity of individual days. What becomes clear is that the action was surprisingly fast and furious (for the 19th century) in both England and France, and that Bayard was undeniably in the middle of it all, at least in terms of his timing and his successful experiments. What also comes out is that like many inventions, the way a new product is introduced and how broadly it is supported impacts adoption quite substantially; in this case, Daguerre essentially sold the rights to his process to the French government, which then promoted it widely, Talbot patented his and made it publicly available for purchase (the patent was voided a decade later), and Bayard largely kept his recipes secret, thereby limiting his audience significantly. All through the 1840s and 1850s, Bayard is in the mix, continually updating and improving his processes, displaying his works, and communicating with other photographers, but without more substantial institutional and governmental support, other technical approaches ultimately gain more momentum. In many ways, what happened in early photography is altogether similar to the ways innovative new technologies become dominant (or don’t) in Silicon Valley today.
The catalog then goes on to fill in more of Bayard’s background, from his early history and his job at the Ministry of Finance in Paris, to his first discoveries and his participation in various photographic societies. In his later years, Bayard continued to experiment with different techniques, pushed to find an effective French source for the paper he needed, became a teacher of photography, corresponded with many of the leading figures in the early medium (including Talbot and others), opened a portrait studio, and was ultimately recognized for his achievements by the French government in 1863 as Chevalier of the Legion of Honor.
The Getty Album itself is densely packed with Bayard’s images (and in one section, intermingles his works with those of Talbot and others), and is generally arranged by subject matter. One section gathers together photograms of flowers and plants, feathers, and woven fabrics (some as salted paper prints, others as cyanotypes) that highlight forms and textures. In another, Bayard makes reproductions of other artworks, particularly sculpture as seen from multiple vantage points and gatherings of smaller statues and other objects in studio setups.
Gardens and bouquets of flowers fill yet another chapter, including still life vase arrangements seen with formal clarity, and baskets, watering cans, and pots providing visual accents. Bayard’s gardens also provided the outdoor setting for surprisingly engaging staged portraits, with leafy backdrops, garden gates, and doorways adding context and structure to the compositions. He posed himself in various spots (in a chair, at work near potting materials, in a doorway with a basket of peaches, and even replaced by a watering can as a stand-in), and then brought together larger groups in seated or standing ensembles. When he moved inside, the setup became more conventional, with a simple cloth backdrop draped behind seated figures, which isolated them from their surroundings.
Much of the rest of the Getty Album finds Bayard out and about, making images of Paris monuments, city rooftops, fountains, street scenes, and buildings under construction, before moving to the outskirts of Paris, where he made images of the windmills at Montmartre, the market at Batignolles, and various buildings and ruins even farther afield. The catalog then bookends the Getty Album photographs with early experiments and Bayard’s famous portrait as a drowned man (“Le Noyé”), as well as a selection of his later studio portraits. At the back of the catalog, the technical specifics of Bayard’s various process inventions are laid out, in the form of translated letters, notes, and dated submissions, making clear once and for all just how he made he his latent images, direct positives, and other previously obscure preparations.
All of this comes together as a remarkably functional reference volume, and one that readily clarifies Bayard’s previously murky (or contested) position in the early history of the medium. I doubt there will be a better piece of thoughtfully executed and unexpectedly relevant photo-historical research published this year. This scholarly gem can be easily slotted into any early photo library, sliding next to the pioneering histories of Daguerre and Talbot and further enriching the shifting stories of photographic curiosity and technical innovation that they tell.
Collector’s POV: Given the scarcity of Bayard’s early prints, it isn’t at all surprising that very few of his works have come up for auction in the past decade. In fact, the number may be as little as two (since 2014), with one selling for $32500 and the other being withdrawn before the sale. Interested collectors would likely be best served by contacting the specialist 19th century photography dealers, who may have unearthed a rare Bayard print or two over the years.
