In many ways, Josef Koudelka Next, a visual biography by Melissa Harris could have been called “How to be an artist and not a very good person”.
Most biographies are in essence ‘how I did it’ in nature and while you can definitely learn important lessons reading them, you would be foolish to try to live the life of another person.
First thing first — Josef Koudelka is without a doubt a genius artist but in his own admission, and the conclusion of many close to him, a horrible friend/human.
Like many great artists, Koudelka is good at ‘documenting’ himself, as if he knows that one day, the world will be interested to know everything about him.
His notes and notebooks are legendary and in themselves, are worthy of another book and exhibition.
How can someone who is supposed to be a vagabond without much material attachments be so systematic and anal about writing down the most minute details?
You would assume that as a photographer who is known to be able to sleep anywhere albeit when he was much younger, his methodology, if there is even one, involves him just wandering around. Perhaps on many lucky occasions, he walked into good visual possibilities.
Quite the opposite.
While he is nonchalant about ‘non-essential’ things, Koudelka channels most of his energies to photography-related affairs, especially when it comes to things that matter to him.
Nothing about Koudelka happens by chance.
For instance, his early dummies of Gypsies. This book will tell you how his obsession with his early project shaped his relationship with his friends, supporters, patrons, acquaintances.
To Koudelka, a person’s worth is determined by his usefulness to him.
“Can the person smuggle my dummy out?”
That is of paramount importance, nothing else.
You will find out that while he was great friends with Robert Delpire, who championed him in more ways than one, Koudelka was unhappy with Delpire’s vision for Gypsies, and decades later, went to great length to put out what he deems is the right version.
And while he was very close and owed much to Henri Cartier-Bresson and Martine Franck, he had no qualms about voting against Franck when she applied to Magnum.
You will also read about his big falling out with Anna Fárová, who accused Koudelka of being selfish, for his refusal to acknowledge the contributions of others in his ascent.
One can posit that biographer Harris’s task was made easier because Koudelka was a willing subject who has been very dogmatic in chronicling his own life, and in his later half of his life, eager to be immortalised.
But I think that is far from the truth.
In the face of a giant, it would have been very easy to cave and yield to irrational admiration.
That is not the case with this book.
The greatest thing about this biography, which is thoroughly researched and beautifully written, is its brutal honesty.
For that to happen, Harris would have to be honest, brave, critical and ready to exert her own independence.
Sure it is a biography of a living person who is worshipped by many but nowhere is it mandated that it cannot be critical.
While Harris is no doubt an admirer, it has not prevented her from showing Koudelka’s true colours, even if he photographs almost exclusively in black and white.
