JOHN ZEAMAN

Photography

Photography and Art

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 “Visions From America” at the Whitney Museum, a survey of about 60 years of photography from the museum’s collection, has a funny hitch about halfway through. Around the mid-1970s, much of it stops being about photography.

Yes, they’re still photographs, but they no longer speak for themselves. You feel like you need a program to figure them out. Why is that illuminated light bulb sitting in that glass of water? What’s with the big camera with the pair of legs? And that fake setup of robins with the mystical circle of eggs?

Joel-Peter Witkin, “Face of a Woman.”

These are photographs in the service of ideas, ideas that are more important to the meaning of the works than the medium. And yet, that revelation by itself is worth the price of admission, because it tells you how much art and photography have changed roles in the past 25 years.

In the Forties and Fifties, photography had its own territory and values. Slice-of-life photographers such as Robert Frank moved into the gap left by the move of artists into abstraction. Photography still sat lower on the aesthetic ladder, and much of it was indistinguishable from the kind of thing seen in Life magazine, but it was a poetry of the real: pedestrian herds on Fifth Avenue, train commuters enveloped in their newspapers, glittering theaters on 42nd Street, a tangle of teenagers at Coney Island.

Some of it was socially conscious, the dark side of the “Family of Man,” with a focus on the poor and the outcasts: black transvestites outside the 1963 opening of “Cleopatra,” a group of retarded children in a playground, an illiterate scrawl on a tenement wall (“A decetive lives here”).

Another, more aesthetically minded group, which included Minor White, turned away from the social scene and looked so close at blotches of tar or a shadow on a sidewalk that the images became near abstract.

Then, with pop art, the line between art and photography was blurred. Andy Warhol and Robert Rauschenberg silk-screened photographs onto canvas. The subjects, even when painted, were often drawn from commercial photography — billboards, tabloid sensationalism, newspaper ads.

From then on, the idea of two tracks for art and photography was finished. Conceptual artists, such as John Baldessari, combined photographs and words to pose philosophical conundrums.  Other artists used photographs to record works that weren’t accessible to the viewer, such as Robert Smithson with his “Spiral Jetty.” Still others toyed with the relationship between artist and model by making nude photographs of themselves, such as Adrian Piper and the corpulent John Coplans.

Others subverted the idea of photography as a mirror on the world by photographing fabricated scenes. Cindy Sherman made mock movie stills starring herself in different guises. William Wegman took mock serious portraits of his Weimaraners.

The show is also a reminder that the culture wars of the late-Eighties and Nineties probably wouldn’t have happened without the ascendancy of photography. Would there really have been such a fuss if Robert Mapplethorpe had been a painter? Andres Serrano, notorious for submerging a crucifix in a jar of urine, is represented here by what looks like a twisting beam of light, clarified by the title, “Untitled X (Ejaculate in Trajectory).” Joel-Peter Witkin, the most gruesome of the death-and-body-part-obsessed photographers, contributes his infamous “Man Without a Head” (1993). This is no sideshow fake, but something out of a morgue, a decapitated body propped on a stool, ludicrously attired in black socks, its neck a gaping wound.

One of the ironies of the ascendancy of photography in art has been the growing conviction by some artists that photography — at least the commercial kind — has become a monster. According to this thinking, we are so inundated with images from advertising, movies, and video that no one really knows what’s real anymore. We are submerged in a simulated reality. These artists try to comment on this image-world phenomena by using — what else? — photography. Barbara Kruger makes satirical in-your-face advertisements, or, as here, a “Thinking of You” greeting card with a picture of a safety pin being jabbed into a finger.

And, now, all this reality business has been taken a step further by the digital altering of images by computers. At least one image here, a bleakly empty office lobby, has no basis in reality at all, although it looks plausible enough.

Looking at all this idea-based photography, much of it now detached in time from the zeitgeists of 15 or 20 years ago, it’s sometimes hard to remember what it was supposed to be all about. You have to work too hard to remind yourself why Coplans photographing his body from so many odd angles ever seemed like a good idea. Likewise for Sherman’s porno-horror grotesque with rubber breasts and gleaming razor teeth.

All this is not to say that photography has been completely subsumed by art theory. Along the way, some people have kept to the old ways of doing things.

It’s nice to see that someone is still photographing abandoned motels along deserted highways, or some hollow-eyed hard-luck family in a rundown car, or an interesting tangle of tree branches in some remote landscape.

But the big news, though hardly a surprise, is that photography — not painting, not sculpture — has become the common language of art.

 

Whitney Museum of American Art

2002

 

Andreas Gursky

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His world is one of awesome scale and frightening artificiality: hotel atriums that seem to soar into infinity, and massive office buildings, viewed at night, in which workers look as trapped as battery-reared chickens. Or a midnight rave where a sea of young bodies wave their collective arms like the cilia of some huge organism.

It’s the futuristic yet contemporary vision of German photographer Andreas Gursky, a rising star in the art world, with a bold claim on the 21st century zeitgeist, which, in case you haven’t guessed, is the phenomenon known as globalization.

Gursky makes bigger photographs than you’ve probably ever seen, both in their actual size and in the amount of space they seem to contain. And, he is global in his locations: Atlanta, Paris, Hong Kong, New York, Shanghai, Cairo, Salerno.

He has favorite motifs, such as the floors of stock exchanges, where traders swarm like panicked ants. The ants are black and white in Tokyo, red and white in Hong Kong, and every kind of color in Chicago. He is drawn to the anonymous, gridded facades of huge buildings. And he embraces the world of consumer goods, whether row upon row of gaudily wrapped gum and candy in a 99-cent store, or Nike sneakers reverently arrayed in softly lit museum-like displays.

His immense color photographs – some as long as 16 feet – can be seen at the Museum of Modern Art. The 46-year-old photographer’s background is equal parts German academic avant-garde and slick commercial photography. Some of what he does is not that different from corporate annual report work, where industrial subjects are cleverly shot so as to capture an appealing abstract design. Think aerial views of highway cloverleafs.

The difference is in scale and intent. Most of his photographs easily fill your entire field of vision, and the color can be lush and seductive. Those of natural landscapes – the forbidding gray-and-silvery zone of an alpine glacier – have a grandeur akin to Hudson River School painting or German romanticism. But, usually his aesthetic mix is more complicated. There’s grandeur, but it’s artificial, man-made grandeur.

Humanity, meanwhile, is reduced to an anonymous herd. There are no individuals in Gursky’s photographs, and no real human emotions on display – unless you count the mass psychology of the mega-sporting event or rock concert. The energy and movement you see is that of a colony, a collective, faceless entity. And what does this burgeoning consumer colony feed on? Mass-produced goods. Shiny electronics, things with logos on them.

Gursky’s view of Salerno, Italy, is a stunning panorama of a harbor totally dominated by man-made structures. Almost every surface has been paved over to accommodate commerce. Containers are stacked as high as small buildings, and new cars and trucks are lined up by the thousands. Cargo ships load and unload with the aid of cranes. In the background, high-rise buildings march up the ancient hills like an advancing army.

The thing is, it isn’t an ugly picture. The mountains, the ships, the colorful containers all combine into a strong composition. Even more striking is the way every part of the picture is in sharp focus. Everywhere you look, except the distant mountains, there is crisp detail.

Gursky also has a penchant for art historical games and references. A photograph of one of Jackson Pollock’s abstractions seems to ask, can a photograph of an artwork be an artwork? Another is a close-up of some brushstrokes from an unspecified painting, so you don’t know what you’re looking at, Lady Hathaway’s coiffure or the fur of her dog.

With certain kinds of images – such as highways and rivers – Gursky tries to reduce to semi-abstract stripes that invite comparisons with color field paintings. Gursky’s version of the classic monochromatic canvas? A photograph of gray carpeting.

But, it is the convergence of these two impulses – the documentary and the art historical referencing – that gets Gursky into trouble.

The problems stem from his decision, in the Nineties, to alter his pictures with digital manipulation. In the beginning, he confined himself to editing out unwanted details in the service of clearer abstract statements. But, as he continued to play with symmetries and repetitions, he began to make more radical changes. His weird view of the atrium at the Times Square Marriott Marquis hotel, for example, are really shots of different facades that have been combined to create an enclosure that doesn’t exist. He rearranged the walls of the Hong Kong stock exchange to create another fictitious space.

Both of these photos have a documentary character. They contribute to Gursky’s overall narrative about our impersonal, globalized world. His changes don’t just make for a neater, more interesting abstraction, but exaggerate the dehumanizing quality of these contemporary scenes and places, giving them a stranger, sci-fi appearance.

These issues are addressed, but not really resolved, in the catalog essay by curator Peter Galassi. In essence, he argues that the ability to manipulate photos or to create photo-like images will eventually undermine the whole notion of documentary truth. A new generation will approach photographs without our hangups about factual representation, he suggests. And besides, he says, photographs were never really truthful to begin with.

On some level, that may be true, and there’s no question that photographers in the past made alterations. Edward Steichen and other turn-of-the-century pictorialist photographers altered gum negatives with brushes, giving them a painterly quality. But this was for poetic effect. These were photographic fantasies and didn’t purport to show real places.

Gursky’s work can have a stunning visual impact. And it feels like now. But as you catch on to what he’s doing, an uneasiness creeps in, which isn’t helped by such non-explanatory titles as “Atlanta” and “Times Square.” These pictures’ claim on our imaginations stems from what they purport to tell us about our world. Frankly, if we lived in the world that Galassi foresees, in which photographs are routinely suspect, we’d find them much less interesting.

Museum of Modern Art

2001

 

 

Walker Evans

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When Walker Evans began taking photographs in the late 1920s, America’s most famous photographers were Edward Steichen and Alfred Steiglitz, both masters of a highly polished and poetic style, a photography of mist and soft edges that seemed to mimic painting.

Evans, a frustrated writer who admired the lean, plain prose of Ernest Hemingway, resolved to go another way. “I felt angry, and anxious to go in the opposite direction of these two men.” He set out to create a style that shunned artifice and allowed his subject to reveal itself directly and simply.

Now some 175 vintage prints are on display in the Metropolitan Museum’s “Walker Evans,” the first comprehensive retrospective of the photographer. It includes work from every period of his career, beginning with his earliest street scenes, taken in New York City and Italy in the late 1920s and early 1930s, and ending with Polaroids he took near the end of his life in the 1970s.

Evans once said of his work that he considered anything fair game for his camera “as long as it was man-made.” He wasn’t interested in nature or the abstract beauty of the human body. His landscapes were layered with human activity. Like an archaeologist probing a dig, he gathered as much evidence as possible into each photograph: papers strewn on the street, reflections in windows, signs, street furniture, telephone poles.

Evans showed us that anything could be art, that the most mundane objects, the most seemingly insignificant people had poetry and meaning.

His human subjects were as plain, as ordinary as he could find them; dockworkers, subway riders, and, of course, his most famous subjects: the Alabama sharecroppers of the book he did with writer James Agee, “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.”

His celebration of the ordinary required a plain style, too. He perfected a style that has come to be seen as artfully neutral and calculatedly dispassionate. It was as far from what he called the “overstatement” of Steiglitz and Steichen as he could get.

The project with Agee had started out as an essay for Fortune magazine about tenant farmers. Although Fortune ultimately rejected Agee’s long text about three families of Hale County, he and Evans developed it into a 500-page book. When it was finally published in 1941, it sold only 600 copies and went out of print. It was reissued in 1960 to an enthusiastic new generation of Americans in search of a national identity.

Agee’s text – hyperbolic Whitmanesque prose alternating with tracts about farming – has not stood up as well as Evans’ pictures. In one portrait, a farmer rests in the doorway of a simple shack while his barefoot daughter sits gracefully on a chair, hands folded in her lap. Both look directly at the camera without a trace of self-consciousness.

His portrait of Allie Mae Burroughs, the “Alabama Tenant Farmer Wife,” has been called a Depression Madonna or Mona Lisa, because of the ambiguity of its expression, a tight-lipped set of the mouth that somehow straddles grimace and brave smile. Critic Lionel Trilling called it “one of the finest objects of any art of our time.”

Some criticized Evans for not being a true documentarian because pictures such as this one were posed, not candid. Evans did his share of candid work – at one point hiding his camera in his shirt to snap subway riders sitting right across from him – but he also recognized that a person who is aware of being photographed reveals no less of himself, and often more.

He trusted his camera to capture the person by carefully recording every detail that presented itself to the eyes. By keeping his spaces shallow Evans was able to keep everything in sharp focus – the swirl of grain in a floorboard, the tattered fringe of old work jeans, the stubble on a chin. In his portrait of sharecropper Bud Fields, you can see the scab of a skin cancer on his lip and you can see, by the way his hair is damp and flat on the top of his head, that he has taken his hat off for the picture.

These pictures exposed an American tragedy, the terrible exploitation of a class of people who refused to surrender their dignity, but they also revel in the nobility of facts. He could bring that same passion for detail into a picture of an Alabama contractor’s storefront. The cheap metal building with the pile of dirt out front, is about as bleak and unpromising as a subject could be, but Evans’ composition, with its subtle shades of gray, makes the texture of the corrugated metal look as elegant as a pin-striped suit.

Although these scenes are not devoid of some social content – Evans never quite stopped being a writer – they are more striking because of the dignity they instill in ordinary reality. It’s right there in front of your eyes, Evans seems to tell us. You just have to look.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

2000

Edward Steichen

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It’s one of the most famous images in American photography: a dark, rainy street scene with an odd V-shaped building looming large against the twilight sky.

The building is The Flatiron, and the 1904 photograph, by the same name, is by Edward Steichen. Like all of his early photographs, it is moody and mysterious, all inky shadows, blurry street lights, and reflections off rain-slicked pavement.

But, the more you look, the more subtle effects you discover: the way the lines of buildings converge at the top-hatted figure in the foreground. Or, the way the Flatiron building runs off the picture, flattening it into a stronger two-dimensional shape. It is as carefully composed, in fact, as a painting – no easy feat for a photographer – but then again, Steichen was a painter, too.

That’s only one of the surprises of the Whitney Museum’s current exhibit, which has about 200 vintage prints and several paintings and shows this 20th century photographer to be a much more complex figure than I, for one, had thought. It’s not so much that he painted, too; others have done that – Man Ray, for one. But over the course of about a half-century, Steichen seemed to reinvent himself every decade or so, adopting a style or philosophy of photography that might have seemed irritatingly contradictory in a lesser artist.

He’s often confused with photographer Alfred Stieglitz, husband of Georgia O’Keeffe, and about 15 years Steichen’s senior. The two had an important association for several decades, centering on a group called the Photo-Secession, which was committed to establishing photography as fine art. Together, the two started the 291 Gallery on Fifth Avenue. Steichen spent a lot of time in Europe, where he championed the modernist work of Brancusi, Cezanne, and Rodin and helped make the 291 Gallery a showcase for avant-garde art.

Steichen started out as a proponent of the pictorialist style, which employed moody, atmospheric effects like those of “The Flatiron” and owed much to tonalist painting and the near-abstract “nocturnes” of James Whistler. Steichen’s oil paintings – phosphorescent trees that seem to billow up like smoke clouds against the midnight blue sky – look too saccharine, too fanciful next to the photos. The photos are dreamlike, too, but rooted in reality, and are much more convincing.

But mainstream photography at the time favored the sharply focused and literal, and there was open hostility to the eerie, moonlit groves and heavily shadowed, dreamy nudes of the pictorialists.

To achieve these effects, Steichen sometimes shot through colored lenses or sprinkled water on his lens to blur the image. Other times, he used a gum process that allowed him to manipulate the print with a brush or scraping tool. The resulting chiaroscuro and painterly brushstrokes lent his photographs the appearance of drawings or lithographs, causing one critic to dub them “paintographs.”

Actress Gloria Swanson

But Steichen continued to experiment, trying out three-color prints and montaging negatives to create combined images, such as one that juxtaposed the meditative profile of his friend Rodin with his famous sculpture, “The Thinker,” and a marble statue of a white-bearded man.

In response to photographic purists who said that Steichen’s innovations violated the integrity of the medium, Steichen argued that all photographs were “faked” because of camera mechanics and printing techniques. But many photographic competitions began excluding manipulated photos on the grounds that they were not photographs.

Steichen, however, had apparently already grown tired of pictorialism’s limited range of moods and expression, and, in the years before and after World War I, seemed to join the opposition, with subtle and sharply focused studies of still-life subjects, including close-up images of fruits and vegetables, such as one of a split avocado.

Steichen also continued to paint. On view is one of the seven mural panels he made for the foyer of a rich couple’s Park Avenue town house, a series that he worked on for four years. The 10-foot-tall panels were dominated by images of flowers and diaphanously draped female figures, and painted in a highly stylized, luminous style, employing gold leaf and bright colors, a style that looks like a combination of pre-Raphaelite art, Gustav Klimt, and art deco.

Steichen donned a new persona in the 1920s, returning to New York from Europe to become chief photographer at Conde Nast publications. From 1923 to 1938, he photographed celebrities each month for Vanity Fair and did fashion photographs for Vogue. He became America’s court portraitist.

As a commercial photographer, he wasn’t charged with looking behind the facade of his celebrity subjects, but to enhance, and to further glamorize, their public personas.

Actress Gloria Swanson, for example, stares out at us from behind a patterned lace veil, her heavily made-up eyes so intensely feline that she looks supernatural. The ultra-sophisticated Noel Coward stands aloof – the omniscient playwright – his face crisscrossed with light and shadow, the trademark cigarette sending up a lazy trail of smoke. Marlene Dietrich is seen asleep in a wing chair, her face emerging from the nest of a black ruffled collar or boa, as if offering up its perfection. The young Gary Cooper is bursting with vitality and good looks.

In his advertising work, he created scenes, such as those for Kodak, which showed idealized slices of middle-class American life. During this period, Steichen – perhaps somewhat defensively – insisted that there was no difference between fine and commercial art. This, of course, angered the fine artists who felt that what they did represented a search for something higher.

As abruptly as he had taken it up, Steichen quit commercial photography in 1938. In the last phase of his career, Steichen embraced the documentary approach to photography. Instead of photographs as poetry or celebrations of fashion, he saw photography as a tool for mass communication. He became curator of photography at the Museum of Modern Art and organized the famous “Family of Man” exhibit of 1955, considered by many to be the greatest photographic exhibit of all time. Steichen collected 503 photographs from around the world and organized them according to universal themes, such as marriage, childhood, work, and religion, in a modernist, montage-like display that is evoked in the Whitney show.

The last section of the exhibit is devoted to Steichen’s final years (he died in 1973 at age 94), when he worked with color film and focused on a single subject – a shadblow tree that he could see from the window of his Connecticut home. Although the style is nothing like his early pictorialist phase, there is something in the meditative attitude and focus on nature that suggests a life come full circle.

Whitney Museum of American Art

2000

 

 

Robert Capa

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For a long time, war photography was a rigid, almost static form of documentation. Photographers had big, bulky cameras, and they could rarely get close enough, or maneuver fast enough, to convey the action of battle.

But, in 1936, when Robert Capa went to Spain to cover the civil war, he took a 35mm Leica, which allowed him to plunge into the thick of things, to catch events on the run, and to search among soldiers and bystanders, the wounded and the refugees, for the one expression or gesture that would tell it all.

In so doing, he gave war a human face.

“If your pictures aren’t good enough, it’s because you didn’t get close enough,” said Capa, who covered five wars, and died in the last one because he got too close to a Vietminh land mine.

D-day picture from Omaha Beach.

Tragically, Capa was only 40 when he took his last picture of French soldiers fanning out across a grassy field in Vietnam in 1954. It’s amazing because he seems to have put his stamp on our century – or let it put its stamp on him – in a career that lasted little more than two decades.

Now, Capa’s best photographs can be seen at the International Center of Photography’s Midtown Gallery in a show that reveals a photographer of surprising emotional range. Capa was no mere sensationalist, no scavenger of human misery. He produced many pictures of lyrical tenderness and outright exuberance, the kinds of things associated with more overtly artistic photographers like his friends Andre Kertesz and Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Capa is something of a legend among photographers, like a character in a Hemingway novel come to life. Born Endre Friedman in Budapest, Hungary, in 1913, he invented Robert Capa – a glamorous and successful American photographer – in order to sell his work to French photo agencies. When the ruse was discovered, he simply became Capa. The pictures were that good.

Staged or real? Capa’s photo of Spanish Loyalist militiaman at the moment of death has been questioned by scholars.

He and the great love of his life, German photographer Gerda Taro, went to Spain to photograph the war – not just for journalistic ends, but, like many idealists of their generation, to enlist support for the Loyalist movement. Taro was killed there in 1937, a loss, it is said, from which Capa never fully recovered. But the photographs he made there gained him an international reputation. One gallery of the exhibit is devoted to photographs taken by Taro and Capa when they were together.

Capa lived Paris’ movable feast in the Thirties and after the war. He was a friend of Hemingway’s (when the writer cracked up his car on the way back from a Capa party, Capa photographed him, head bandaged, in his hospital bed). He knew Picasso and Matisse, traveled with Steinbeck, hobnobbed with Gary Cooper and Humphrey Bogart, fell in love with Ingrid Bergman, waded onto Omaha Beach with the soldiers on D-day, saw the liberation of his beloved Paris, and witnessed the founding of the state of Israel. Even his death in the Indochina war seemed a portent of the tragedy that would involve his adopted country in the decades after his death.

Capa’s great gift was to find the Everyman amid the chaos of war. It’s easy to forget, in looking at these pictures, that life – real life – doesn’t pose for anyone. Capa could give us a sense of perilous action, the split second when a bullet ended a life, or, he could find the story on the perimeter, among the forgotten people, the wounded civilians, the hopeful refugees, the children playing in rubble.

Capa’s last frame. It was taken just before his death from an exploding landmine in Thai Binh, Vietnam on 25th May 1954.

The exhibit resolves a controversy over Capa’s most famous image, that of a Spanish Loyalist militiaman at the moment of death. In the mid-1970s, a British journalist suggested that Capa’s image was made during a staged event, a simulated battle put on by Franco’s troops. But subsequent documentation – presented in an exhibit pamphlet and in a film on Capa – appears to prove the photo was real. Capa’s whereabouts, the place and day it occurred – even the identity of the soldier – have all been determined, and the photo now carries the scholarly title “Death of a Loyalist Militiaman (Federica Borrell Garcia), Cerro Muriano (Cordoba Front), 1936.”

Viewing the picture, which, like many here, originally appeared in Life magazine, it’s hard to see how anyone could doubt its veracity. The man is literally stopped by the bullet, his legs advancing down the hill, but his upper body blown back by the impact. It’s not a glamorous, Hollywood death. He’s dead before he can even bleed, before his limp body hits the ground. In his shirtsleeves and his billowing pants, he doesn’t even look like a proper soldier, just an ordinary man, brave but ill-equipped, who dies in a losing cause. Often called the greatest war picture ever taken, it looks now like a warning to a naive world about the ruthlessness of fascism.

Capa’s pictures were often made on the run, flawed by graininess, blurriness, poor cropping. And, yet, these technical details seem beside the point and often add drama to the picture. In his photo of a woman in Barcelona racing for shelter in an air raid, the backround is a blur, the dog bounding beside her is a blur; only the woman is in focus. And so, the viewer becomes her, hears the clatter of her heels on the pavement, the yip of the dog, the blare of the sirens.

Similarly, in his D-day picture from Omaha Beach, the thin-faced GI inching forward in the shallow water is all a blur, not from his own minimal movement but from Capa’s, who waded in with the troops as “bullets tore holes in the water around me,” and who, unlike the soldier, must have had to get momentarily upright, to take this picture. Sadly, only 11 of Capa’s D-Day pictures survived; the rest were destroyed by an overeager lab technician in a London studio.

So much of photography’s power is in its ability to capture a moment, a split second in time. This is obvious when the event itself is only of a moment’s duration, like the death of the militiaman, but Capa also knew to put something fleeting in his pictures of non-urgent events, to give them a sense of immediacy. In his simple 1936 picture of four Parisian boys tossing pieces of debris from a crumbling wall, each is a bit off balance, caught in a stage of action, throwing, bending, running, or transfixed by the actions of another.

There is, throughout Capa’s pictures, a sense of human courage, resilience, and adaptiveness. The vast majority of his pictures are not of death itself, but of survivors struggling to go on, often carrying their wounded relatives. In a picture taken during the London blitz, an English couple in the Underground prepares a makeshift formal tea. A little girl rushing along the streets with her mother during an air raid has, in the excitement, buttoned her coat unevenly. And, Capa had pity for those on the other side of wars, as can be seen in a picture of a crowd taunting a French woman – her head shaved in punishment for bearing the child of a German soldier during the occupation – as she cradles her baby in her arms.

Although he was a brave man who risked his life in war countless times, he was something of a pacifist who used to say that he looked forward to the day when he wouldn’t be able to find employment as a war photographer. It seems fitting that he was buried in a Quaker cemetery.