Developing the Best Radar Detector

In military world, radar is the most important device to detect the enemy’s action. The military should have the decent radar that could give them the excellent ability to detect any kinds of enemy’s action. It would be important to secure their own perimeter from some enemies’ spying action. In some countries, the weapon makers have developed some radar detector that has been considered as the best radar detector.
It would be important for the military to have the best radar detector. Why it would be so important.

Imagine, in some countries, they have already got some excellent missiles, or it would be more proper if we called it as the smart missile that could avoid the radar detection. The best radar should be able to detect something like it.

Most radar has been developed to detect the enemies by the wave pulse. But the other weapon makers have developed some ways to avoid the radar detection. One of the most famous radar-prove missiles is the tomahawk that currently is being used by the US Army. To detect this missile, the weapon makers should develop the best radar detector system. It would be something important to avoid the smart missile’s attack.

Paul Raphaelson: Urban Disjunction
Paul Raphaelson is something of a 21^st century Timothy O’Sullivan, although this Brooklyn-based photographer uses his camera to explore what might be termed the “new urban wilderness” — that vague, undefined terrain where decay and regeneration coexist in uneasy symbiosis. His work encompasses reportage, geography, autobiography and metaphor, and it raises interesting questions about the nature and identity of our cities. It’s about dead ends and new beginnings, but challenges our assumptions about whether those two concepts are antagonistic or compatible. 

Paul Raphaelson

How did you happen to connect with photography?  

I got into photography through climbing. I was jealous of college friends who came back from the mountains with cool pictures — I wanted to look cool too! That idea put a camera in my hands, but was short-lived. I discovered it was hard enough just getting up and down without being artistic or self-aggrandizing along the way. But I had the camera, and became obsessed with it. I started looking at my parents’ books of Magnum photographers, whose work I liked and wanted to emulate. So my first serious attempts were at street photography.

 

What types of art inspire you?

Many kinds. I learn from music, film, literature. Contemporary poetry has been especially interesting lately. That world has been inspiring me more than the photographic one. I’m also interested in painting but have done a bad job keeping up with it.

Do you feel an affinity with landscape photographers who preceded you?

My most conscious affinity has been with the American early modernists, like Weston, Strand and Stieglitz, and early documentarians like Walker Evans and Dorothea Lange. My tastes were quite conservative and backwards-looking when I first started out; I was in college and in my 20s, studying old men from nearly a century earlier. It was a while before I started noticing the late modernists, William Eggleston, Robert Adams and his followers … work that more closely resembled what I was doing. I also look farther back, to the 19th century survey photographers. Particularly Timothy O’Sullivan. He figured out how to turn empty space into magic, and did it decades before anyone even noticed. Lately I’ve become more interested in engaging the present world than the history of the medium. Unfortunately, the work that I’ve seen lately hasn’t inspired me much. Neither has my own recent work. But this has actually been liberating; I feel little motivation either to copy anyone or to keep doing what I’ve been doing.

Untitled from the Wilderness series.

Your website describes you as an artist who photographs the urban and cultural landscape. How do you define the term ‘cultural landscape’?

I mean places that have been shaped substantially — though not completely — by the activity of people. But really, since there’s so little landscape left that we haven’t altered substantially (and this was true back in Ansel’s day, even though we like to pretend otherwise), I’m referring at least as much to how we look at the landscape. For example, what aspects we emphasize or de-emphasize when photographing and editing. Am I going out of my way to avoid the power lines, or do I consider them essential to the experience of the place?

Your earliest work, the Chicago series, seems more firmly placed in the urban documentary mode. Were you conscious of making a shift towards a more landscape-oriented approach?

In college I took a landscape photography class from Edward Ranney. It opened me to the subtleties of the genre. I still liked some of my earlier street pictures, but I started to see many of them as easy, maybe even a bit trite. It’s not hard to get a viewer’s attention by putting a person and some action on a stage; this doesn’t necessarily mean that what you’re showing has depth. I found it more challenging to engage people with subject matter to which they have a less obvious or direct connection. That kind of challenge has been important to me. I admire Eggleston for declaring war on the obvious. Not to suggest that street photographs are intrinsically obvious — Eggleston’s never are — but I found more un-obvious opportunities in landscape.

Untitled from the Wilderness series.

Can you describe the inspiration, or starting point, for the Wilderness series?

I was drawn to run-down and overgrown places in part because they were all around me. They also resonated with how I felt about life generally. I was lost, going through a recession and the end of a long relationship. The fit between my inner and outer worlds was hard to ignore. It’s funny; I didn’t realize then that in spite of my hardened modernist rhetoric, my work had a romantic streak — all that emotional metaphor, and that old trope of the majesty of ruins. I’m ok with this now … I realize that a lot of my favorite modern art is really romantic art that’s trying hard not to be. Stiegltz’s Equivalents? Romantic as can be. But they fought against that identity. And that fight somehow encourages more depth and subtlety than what I see in the more indulgent romantic art from the 19th Century. Never mind that Stieglitz would have punched me in the nose for saying this. Wallace Stevens said the same thing about William Carlos Williams’ poetry, and I think he was right.

Did you seek out particular types of images, or did the images come to you?

Some of both. I took most of the pictures within walking distance of where I lived, both in Providence and in Brooklyn. The work reflects what my world looked like, what I passed through every day. Familiarity has always intensified my photographic curiosity. But I had some guiding ideas. These were sparked by elements from my older pictures that I kept returning to. And as the project matured, so did my sense of what I wanted to explore next.

Untitled from the Wilderness series.

 
Is the Wilderness work more about urban decay, or the resilience of nature, or a more or less equal balance of the two?

That’s a question I liked never having to address. There were always so many examples of both qualities in the places I photographed. Sometimes one or the other would dominate, but the interactions between the live things and crumbling things — physical or visual or metaphorical — were usually the interesting part.

What does the work say about the way we perceive our surroundings, urban and otherwise?

I like drawing attention to things that go unnoticed. Whether or not we’re in the built environment, the way we see the world is shaped by habits, which often get handed to us. Some of our most basic ideas about what’s worth noticing, like “scenery” and “landscape,” are cultural inventions. They represent values that we inherit but rarely challenge. But they do change, so we know they’re not immanent. Europeans once thought mountains were hideous! They were examples of God’s wrath, and didn’t show up in pretty pictures. Just as empty lots aren’t scenery for most of us today. We’re in the habit of tuning them out on the assumption that they're ugly or uninteresting.

Untitled from the Wilderness series.

 
I want to show that they can be beautiful — if you stop and really look. I try to encourage this through all the formal tricks of picture making, but really the most basic role of a photographer is pointing. By putting a picture on the wall, you’re saying, “look at this.” That’s not much of a superpower, but it can be an effective one if you wield it carefully. Now, obviously, I’m not the first person to find this stuff interesting or to point to it. The deeper questions are about how and why it’s interesting. What, specifically, is being explored by a particular picture or sequence of pictures. I’ll leave those questions to someone who isn’t me.

Does this work have positive or negative resonance for you? (Another way of asking whether your take on the modern cityscape is affirmative or pessimistic.)

Mostly positive. But this is in part because the work played a transformative role for me. I used it to make something positive out of a time and place that felt bleak. My hope is that it can play a similar role for others. If landscape art serves any purpose at all, then its highest one may be to enrich people’s relationship with their own corner of the world.

Does it have spiritual connotations for you?

Once upon a time I might have said yes, but not anymore. I don’t feel the need to invoke magical thinking to explain my sense of mystery or awe or anything else that resists easy understanding.

Untitled from the Wilderness series.

 
I meant spiritual in a secular, not religious sense.

If spiritual includes anything that’s not of the material world, then I suppose it could include metaphor. That’s a subject I think about a lot in relation to this work. And it’s one area where the discourse might be richer in the visual arts than the literary ones; writers can fixate on the technicalities of figures of speech (is it a metaphor or a metonym?), but I’m interested in the concept broadly. I like that it comes from the Greek metapherein, which simply means transference. Like when Minor White said that a photograph is about what the subject is, and also what else it is: He’s not concerning himself with syntax or mechanics. And he’s describing something richer than the simple binary relationships of symbolism. I actually wish he’d said, “what it is, and what else it is, and what else it is, and what else it is …” Some of those “what elses” rumble too far below the surface to talk about. But they’re powerful. I think that’s central to the beauty of great art — the mysteriousness of its hold on you. 

To what degree, if any, does the Wilderness series have a political undertone?
Well, I don't think it's possible to photograph anything that we'd call a cultural landscape without producing political undertones and overtones. So much about how we interact with our environment is political. But my emphasis wasn't there. I wasn't thinking primarily of political concerns, nor was I thinking rhetorically at all. I've approached this as a personal project first, and a documentary project maybe a distant second. As Lee Friedlander said, photography is a generous medium. For better or worse, it tends to give you much more than you're looking for. And often more than you understand. The political element might be more central to my more recent work. 

Untitled from the Wilderness series.

   
It’s very true what you say about photography giving you more than you’re looking for (although sometimes it gives you less if you’re not on your game). Photography is kind of a high-wire act, isn’t it? I suppose all art is to a certain degree, but photography seems to really embody this.

Sure. You grab big pieces of the world, with detail finer than you can see, in the literal blink of an eye. It’s hubris to think you’re in control. You’re doing well if you just stay on the horse! I love that aspect of photography — how you go from confronting chaos while taking pictures, to the measured tinkering of the darkroom or computer, to the more heady process of editing and trying to form a cohesive whole.

I’m wondering if that’s another reason you continue to utilize it as medium of creative expression.

Absolutely. It helps get me out of my head and into the world, where I can be spontaneous and intuitive. Then it gets me into my tools, where I can be obsessive, and then back to the world of ideas.

Untitled from the Lost Spaces, Found Gardens series.

   
Why did you shift to color for Lost Spaces, Found Gardens?

I’d been interested in color for a while, but the cost held me back: 4x5 color film and processing cost ten times what I’d been paying for black and white, which I processed myself. Without a benefactor, I didn’t see how to be playful and experimental and to learn anything without going broke — besides going back to my 35mm camera, which didn’t seem right for the project. So I found a middle path: I borrowed an old Hasselblad and scanned the film. It worked pretty well.

Were there thematic reasons as well as the fact that improvements in digital technology made using color more feasible from a technical perspective?

My reasons were more formal than thematic; I started seeing color relationships and not just tonal ones.

A color image has a completely different resonance from a black-and-white photo of the same subject matter. Color shifts emphasis to different areas of the print, changes the emotional tonality, etc. Was there something specific you hoped to gain from using color for the Lost Spaces series?

Well, I hoped to do something with those color relationships I’d been noticing. And I wanted to do something different from my old work — anything. I’d worked on the Wilderness pictures for so long, I was afraid I’d never be able to do anything else. When it felt like time to pick up a camera again, I needed to prove I could learn new tricks. Color was one. So was the square format, and so was doing some of the work handheld. I don’t mean that I thought of the project as an exercise, but it served that purpose at a time when I needed it.

Untitled from the Lost Spaces, Found Gardens series.

   
Conversely, would the Wilderness series have worked as well had it been shot in color?

It would have been a completely different project. More than anything else I’ve done, that work depended on the materials and on looking a certain way.

There’s an old divide between photographs that try to be transparent, like windows that you look through, and ones that try to draw attention to themselves, like paintings, as tactile objects. I wanted the Wilderness pictures to be objects — “events on the page,” to borrow a phrase from poets. I wanted to create tension between the rough subject matter and polished prints. The intrinsic abstraction of black and white contributed to this, as did the richness of the particular papers and techniques I chose.

The Lost Spaces images are thematically related to the Wilderness series, although it seems like there’s a more pronounced emphasis on the grass, flowers and weeds.

I was forced to move from my old waterfront neighborhood to one that’s less scenic — ok, there’s that prejudicial idea again. The new neighborhood isn’t actually less scenic, it’s just different, and it took me a while to figure out what I was interested in looking at. I no longer had the big landscapes of factories and suspension bridges, so I had look more closely. What I found was like landscape in microcosm: grasses and weeds invading the sidewalks, garden-like spaces cloistered behind cyclone fences. The themes are similar, but the ways of looking are different.

We’re talking about your work in terms of urban landscapes, but you also have this body of work on the southwest. Only with these pictures you achieve a subtle inversion of the city imagery. Instead of nature intruding on the concrete and steel environment, you focus on how man intrudes on the natural landscape through his fences, his structures (commercial and residential), his roadways, even his refuse. Did you consciously set out to effect this inside-out vision?

It didn’t occur to me that I was inverting anything. I was trying to see if what I’d learned about putting a picture together in the city could work in such a different place. It was also a kind of homecoming, since my earliest work came from the mountains and deserts.

Untitled from the Southwest series.

   
Have you ever shown this work in conjunction with the city imagery?

I haven’t shown it at all. There are individual images that I like, but I don’t see it yet as a finished body of work. It doesn’t really have a shape. But it’s interesting that you ask that. While taking those pictures, I wondered if they’d comprise a new body of work or if they’d be part of the Wilderness project. I kept it an open question. Now I’m skeptical about that possibility. I kind of like the idea of a big, rambling series that raises questions all over the place and barely holds together. But experience suggests that this kind of thing confuses people. An editor once treated me like a slow child because I’d put pictures of Providence next pictures of Brooklyn. 

I think I find this work even more poignant somehow. It’s not enough that we create inhospitable, sterile urban environments; we have to leave our marks on the wide-open spaces between cities, too. 

This is true, but it’s also well-trodden territory artistically. Guys like Robert Adams and Lewis Baltz were making iconic pictures of our messes in the West back when I was in diapers. Adams especially; he developed a whole visual and ideological vocabulary. So here’s a case where I feel I have to do a lot more than point. I want to bring something fresh to the party. And there may be something fresh, but it’s still nascent. I don’t know if I can articulate it yet.

Regarding your switch from street pictures to landscape, do you now avoid photographing people entirely? Do you find their metaphorical representation more evocative than a literal depiction?

I’m going to try not to psychoanalyze myself, even though its been said this is what critics do for a living. The Wilderness work had a lot to do with loneliness. It felt right to banish people from the landscape. And I was immersed in that project for a long time, so barrenness became a kind of habit. Meanwhile my people-picture skills withered. And those are definitely a different set of skills — people move around more than trees and fences. They also express opinions about how they want to be photographed. Anyway, some day I’d like to learn how to photograph people again. I like people. Really.

Untitled from the Southwest series.

   
Do you enjoy other photographers’ street pictures? What kind of photography do you like, outside of landscape?

I’m crazy about Kertesz and Robert Frank and Lee Friedlander. And Winogrand, at least before his photography devolved into a nervous tic. And I like good portraiture. I think it’s rare, and it fascinates me in part because I don’t know how to do it. Julia Margaret Cameron’s portraits still give me chills.

What are you working on now? Is it a continuation or development of your previous bodies of work?

My latest work is about the interaction of images and text. I like words as much as I like pictures, but I’ve never found art that combines the two in a way that I like. There’s always been a clash, or a redundancy, or a triteness, or a dominance of one medium over the other. Or in some cases the words (and even ideas) are just used decoratively. This has become a puzzle for me … how can I get words and pictures to work together naturally, like words and music? I have a lot of ideas, and for better or worse most of them are less straightforward than pop songs. But it’s been an interesting project. I’m having an easier time getting words and pictures to work against each other than with each other, if that makes any sense. There’s going to be an element of satire, of mock-criticism and disjunct. But I want it to be serious overall.

Untitled from the Southwest series.

  
(You can spend more time with Raphaelson’s thought-provoking work at www.paulraphaelson.com)

Sid Avery: Transforming the Hollywood Icon

Screen stars during Hollywood’s first several decades were typically packaged and sold to the public in images that emphasized glamour, elegance and sex appeal. But it wasn’t enough to elevate them to mere star status. With an instinctive grasp of the power of hype, the studios’ publicity machines decreed that the industry’s most high-profile assets assume mythic proportions. And so photographers like George Hurrell, Robert Coburn and Laszlo Willinger transformed flesh-and-blood creatures into the grandiose gods and goddesses of the New Babylon. The postwar era brought things down to earth a bit. No longer depicted as lofty inhabitants of a celluloid Olympus, the stars were cast in a lower-key, more casual mode. Perhaps the most gifted practitioner of this candid style was Sid Avery (1918-2002), whose work balanced on a fine line between irony and admiration. Avery had a knack for getting close to stars and earning their trust, yet his photographs retain a cool detachment that attests to his artistry and integrity. His peak years were 1946-1961, during which he photographed virtually everyone who was anyone in the world’s film capital. Many of his best images were published in the book Hollywood at Home: A Family Album 1950-1965 (1990). I spoke with him for a 1994 Camera & Darkroom feature, but this is the first time our complete conversation has seen the light of day.

Sid Avery (Photo: Kurt E. Fishback)

 

You were born in Akron, Ohio, but almost qualify as a native Angeleno, as your family moved there when you were nine months old. You were unusual in that you learned what you wanted to do with your life while still a child.

I vividly recall my childhood introduction to the medium, courtesy of my uncle Max Tatch, who was a professional photographer. He invited me into the darkroom to watch him print. I stood on a little box so I could see into the tray. I saw him put a piece of paper in what I thought was water, and all of a sudden this magic thing happened — a beautiful image appeared. That experience stuck with me for a long time.

I subsequently took a photography course at Roosevelt High School and occasionally accompanied my uncle on assignments. Meanwhile, I produced the majority of the photos for my high school yearbook. After I graduated, I went to work at Morgan’s Camera Shop on Sunset Boulevard as a darkroom technician processing celebrity portraits for Life photographers. Every spare moment I had I took pictures on my own and attended night classes at the Los Angeles Art Center, where I studied portraiture under Fred Archer.

From Morgan’s, you went to work with Hollywood photographer Gene Lester, right?

Yes. Lester hired me to work in his darkroom and to photograph the Hollywood scene by night. I soon found myself covering nightclubs, parties and other social events, and my pictures started appearing in magazines like Photoplayand The Saturday Evening Post. The industry was literally at my fingertips, which was quite a heady experience for a 20-year-old. I subsequently opened my own studio on Hollywood Boulevard. Besides photographing the usual film-industry related activities, I also took pictures for lobby cards and posters.

Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall and son Steven at home in Los Angeles, 1952.

Things were looking good, but about this time, I got a letter from Uncle Sam. And he said he would like very much for me to join his company. It was 1941. Luckily, I got a posting to a photography unit and ended up in London, where I headed up the laboratory for the army’s pictorial service. Under strict security, I worked on plans for the Normandy invasion, and photographed maps and books so that Allied soldiers would be able to find their way around France.

It must have been gratifying to serve your country, but I imagine a little frustrating not to be able to do personal work. After your discharge, you formed Avery and Associates and got back into the Hollywood scene at a time when celebrity portraiture was undergoing a transformation.

When I compare portraits I did with portraits by Hurrell, mine were much less of a production. I just focused on working with people. Consequently, many celebrities liked to work with me, because they recognized that I reflected their image instead of trying to create a work of art. I never considered myself an artist. I considered myself someone who brought forth people’s character for reproduction.

When I went to celebrities’ homes, rather than using direct camera flash and having people sitting down stiffly, my approach was always, “What are you doing?” They would answer, “Well, I’m unpacking” or “I was just changing my baby.” And I would tell them to just go ahead and do whatever it was they were doing. Little by little, I managed pictures, directed pictures, but very subtly. My attitude was always to do things with people running their lives the way they normally did as much as possible. Sure, there were times when you compose, direct and build a picture, but I was most conscious of trying to reflect the other side of someone’s personality.

Joan Collins, ca. 1950s.

 

You had a knack of revealing unfamiliar facets of familiar personalities. Your subjects seemed much more natural and off guard.  

What I came to realize is that a good actor, when he’s working on a film, is very successful and comfortable when he’s given an interaction and a line to read and a concept for a scene But if you take the script and the context of a scene away, and say that you want to take his picture, he really doesn’t know who he is in that context. It then becomes a question of how to make this man or woman comfortable. What do you do to get them to react to you to really put out? That’s why I let them do things in the house that were very normal and natural for them.

Yet you also captured the intangible qualities that propelled these individuals to screen stardom.

Actors have a certain amount of personality. That’s why they’re actors. You can’t help but be with someone on occasion that you don’t feel something they do or say comes out of a film. They can’t build a personality for every film and not have some of that personality left for their normal course of events. There’s always a little bit of celebrity in what they do.

Marlon Brando taking out the trash at his home, 1955.

 

Many of your images have a collaborative air to them. You were able to elicit a level of cooperation that’s hard to imagine today. I can’t picture someone like, say, Tom Cruise allowing himself to be photographed taking out the garbage. Yet that’s exactly what you got Marlon Brando to do in 1955.

Understand, I didn’t stage that situation. I didn’t say to him, “Hey, will you take the trash out?” I was at his house taking pictures when I happened to wander into the kitchen, which was a goddamn mess. It was waist-high in crap — paper, cartons bottles, ants, roaches, you name it. I didn’t say anything, just kept working with him in other areas of the house. And then I casually said, “You know, I’d love to get some shots of you in the kitchen, but it’s such a goddamn mess, I can’t get in there. Would you do me a favor and clean it up?” So he and a friend he was playing chess with worked for a half hour cleaning up that kitchen. And every time they took a box of trash out to the incinerator, I took pictures. But they were really doing something. It wasn’t a fabricated situation.

Although most stars were cooperative, I imagine you occasionally ran into problems with some of them.

At first, Bogart and Brando wouldn’t even let me into their houses. I pleaded for weeks to get five minutes of their time. But that five minutes was usually extended into hours or days once people perceived that I didn’t pose a threat. Bogart even took me out sailing, out to dinner and to recording sessions. I also found Danny Kaye to be a very moody individual. On and off, you never knew where you stood with him. I rarely felt comfortable with Danny Kaye, even though he was a member of the Hillcrest Country Club, and I used to be a caddie there, which gave us something in common. I did a lot of photography with him at the club, so there were moments when it was easy. But most of the moments were rather difficult. He was supersensitive, tense on occasion and a little bit abrasive to some people. Tough guy.

Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward at home in Beverly Hills, 1958.

I understand that Ed Wynn was another favorite subject of yours.

Ed Wynn was the most underrated actor I’ve ever worked with and a very sweet, thoughtful, intelligent man. He was a comedian, but after he broke the dramatic barrier, he became an incredible actor. One of my favorite pictures is of Ed Wynn eating a sandwich out of a plastic bag. He’s so elegant and dignified, and he’s so human that you don’t feel like he’s putting you on at any time.

Your pictures were made with a minimum of equipment. You liked to keep things simple and natural.

My favorite film remains 35mm, which allows me to be less obtrusive, putting as little distance between myself and my subject as possible. It makes it easier to look, to see, to shoot and not to impose. Also, I rarely used a light meter. You can over-dependent on them and forget how to read light. I used to be able to walk into a room and know what the exposure was. Same thing outdoors, because you were doing it all the time. I once tried using a Weston meter, but I could never figure out the Zone System. For Christ’s sake, who’s got time to sit there and figure out a Zone System? You’ve got to shoot a celebrity in five minutes. I mean, come on.

How did the demise of the picture magazines affect you?

When the picture magazines went broke in the 1960s, I was so busy shooting that I never thought to ask them for my negatives back, and when I did start to think about it, the people who were there when the magazines went under were gone. Nobody knew where the stuff was. I spent thousands of dollars with attorneys and investigative people trying to track down where it all went. Someday I’ll find all the original James Dean and Marilyn Monroe stuff I shot — maybe. It might be buried someplace, or they could have tossed it.

James Dean on the set of Giant, 1955.

It was around this time that you got into advertising photography, correct?

Yes, although it was tough some months before I started getting assignments. But once I got my foot in the door, I never looked back.

And from there to television commercials, including the famous Chrysler Cordoba ads featuring Ricardo Montalban.

That’s right. But by the early 1980s I no longer liked the working environment, which placed more emphasis on the bottom line than on quality. I began looking for new challenges, and in 1982 I founded the Hollywood Photographers’ Archive, which is a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving the work of great Hollywood photographers of the past. I could identify with others whose film industry images had vanished. I wanted to accumulate, record, exhibit and publish these photographers’ work. A lot of them had fallen through the cracks, great photographers who just disappeared.

It’s been quite successful. Photographers are bringing their stuff in here now, because we’re very concerned about archival storage and keeping everything organized. I tell them, “For Christ’s sake, take care of your stuff, it’s going to be important historically one of these days.” So I’m trying to educate the photographers. I send them notes, give talks, get them on the phone, tell them how important it is to get their negatives and prints out of their garages, and let me get it collated and organized for them. I can put it in archival storage, or donate it to a museum. In the meantime, it’s just sitting there. Not only is it decaying, but it isn’t earning anything for the photographers who shot it.

Bob Newhart at the Beverly Hills Hotel, 1961.

 

(Avery’s Hollywood Photographers Archive is now known as MPTV, and represents many leading Hollywood photographers.)