I spotted it in a bookstore, this hefty slab called Ichundichundich. Picasso im Fotoporträt, lounging on the shelf like it owned the place. Cracked it open, and there they were—Picasso’s familiar mugs, the ones I’d seen in grainy mags years back. David Douglas Duncan’s shots jumped out first—Picasso in shorts, paintbrush waving, smirking like he’d just outsmarted the sun. Then came Cartier-Bresson’s brooding shadows, Man Ray’s odd tilts, Capa’s raw edges. A lineup of masters, all crammed into one book.
I’ve got a soft spot for Leica and Nikon, the kind of soul who’d rather fiddle with a shutter than a screen, so this was gold. These legends didn’t just snap Picasso—they pinned him down with gear I’d trade an arm for. Duncan, probably with a Leica, catching the old man mid-cackle; Cartier-Bresson stalking light like it owed him. In China, this book’s scarcer than a quiet corner in Beijing, so I forked over the cash and hauled it home. It’s a keeper.
It’s more than photos. It’s what happens when Picasso—wild enough to paint the wind—meets shooters who live by f-stops and split seconds. Sparks fly, and you get this: a striped-shirt joker mugging for the lens, or a hunched figure squeezing a canvas dry. Flip through it, and you think, hell, this is why cameras exist—not for selfies, but for moments that cling like burrs. Makes me itch to grab my Leica and hunt something half as alive.
This book rolls out a red carpet of shooters: David Douglas Duncan, likely with his trusty Leica, snagging Picasso’s candid chaos; Henri Cartier-Bresson, Nikon or Leica in hand, framing the master in timeless black-and-white; Lee Miller, maybe with a Rolleiflex, catching sharp slices of life; Robert Capa, armed with a Contax, chasing raw energy; and Man Ray, tweaking a large-format rig for his surreal spins. Gear and genius, all in one stack.