The images are grim, in that I find no joy in what he sees and chooses to express.

My life is too short and precious to pander to that attitude.

The above comments were made by someone regarding the book The Americans by Robert Frank. The Americans is a book of black and white photographs shot by Robert Frank, published in 1958, and with an introduction written by Jack Kerouac of On the Road fame. The comments were made in an on-line discussion group in which I participate, following the death in September 2019 of Mr. Frank at age 94. They represent a personal opinion and are therefore perfectly legitimate, neither 'right' nor 'wrong'. Quite likely this opinion of Frank's book would be in the majority. In any case, what follows is a cleaned-up and slightly expanded version of my response to the comment poster originally written back in Sep 2019.

To the commenter: I certainly don't wish to fault or criticize your opinion of Frank's photography but the sentiment expressed in your two sentences troubles me personally. I haven't seen The Americans in decades so have forgotten most of it. I've seen maybe a half dozen of the images in the past few days with the announcement of Frank's passing. For me personally, it was photography of this sort along with the work of Eisenstadt and the other Life Magazine and depression era photographers that influenced me greatly as I came of age in the 1960s. Yes, one can in general, and with one word, describe his (and much work of these other photographers) photographs as 'grim' but they do portray fundamental aspects of the day-to-day human condition. I don't experience 'joy' in looking at such work but I experience an inner prodding to reflect on the human condition. Also, while 'joy' may not be in strong visual evidence I sense a strength of character in many of the faces of those portrayed, in their dealing with the circumstances and situations in which they reside, that I admire and am compelled to sympathize with. Perhaps it's imagined but pondering the human condition revealed in these sorts of photographs is more meaningful to me - and a better use of my short life - than gazing at images of the 'joy' I see in the smiling faces of folks posing for selfies and group shots in front of this or that monument or geologic wonder. And while I might find some momentary joy in looking at books of sunrise and sunset landscape photographs from Iceland, Tierra del Fuego, or Alaska I don't get nearly the same satisfaction that I do looking at Frank's and other similar sorts of works. That's my quick two cents, and given my wonder and and amazement at the variety of humanity, I respect your two cents as well. I thank you for sharing it and prompting me to think more about it and to write out my muddled thoughts.