The City Through the Lens: A Century of American Photography and Its Unspoken Stories
There’s something profoundly intimate about looking at old photographs, especially when they capture the essence of a city. It’s like peering through a keyhole into another time, another world. That’s exactly what Portrait of a City at Dulwich Picture Gallery invites us to do—but it’s so much more than a mere retrospective. This exhibition, the gallery’s second-ever photography showcase, is a quiet yet gripping meditation on how the American cityscape has been both built and interpreted over a century. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it intertwines the evolution of urban environments with the language of photography itself.
The Photographers as Storytellers
One thing that immediately stands out is the lineup of photographers. From Alfred Stieglitz and Edward Steichen to Dorothea Lange, Diane Arbus, and Roy DeCarava, this is a who’s who of 20th-century photography. But here’s the twist: the exhibition is limited to works from the DNB Savings Bank Foundation collection, which means the curatorial choices are constrained. Personally, I think this limitation actually adds depth. It forces us to see these iconic images not just as standalone masterpieces but as part of a larger, interconnected narrative.
Take Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Mother, for instance. It’s an image so ingrained in our collective memory that it’s easy to forget its context. But a 44-second film clip of the White Angel soup kitchen in San Francisco, where Lange’s Great Depression image was taken, offers a jarring contrast. Set to upbeat swing music, the footage shows a bustling, almost cheerful community—a stark departure from the grim loneliness of the photograph. What this really suggests is that photography, like any art form, is inherently subjective. It captures a moment, but it doesn’t always tell the whole story.
The City as a Canvas
Many of the early photographers in the show trained as painters, and it shows. Aaron Siskind’s Harlem Document, for example, feels more like an abstract painting than a photograph. His focus on torn posters and peeling paint isn’t just about aesthetics; it’s a form of social protest, a way of finding beauty—and meaning—in decay. From my perspective, this is where the exhibition truly shines: it reminds us that the city isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a living, breathing canvas.
But as we move through the decades, the city takes on a darker tone. Louis Faurer’s Looking at the RCA Building captures this shift perfectly. An anonymous figure in a fedora gazes up at the towering skyscraper, dwarfed by its immensity. It’s a moment of existential isolation, a reminder of how easily individuals can be swallowed by the urban machine. What many people don’t realize is that this tension between the individual and the city is a recurring theme in American photography—and it’s one that still resonates today.
The Nighttime City: A World of Shadows and Secrets
If you take a step back and think about it, cities are never more alive than at night. The exhibition leans into this with Weegee’s sensationalist snapshots of New York after dark. His images are ominous, almost voyeuristic, capturing the city’s underbelly in all its raw, unfiltered glory. But it’s Roy DeCarava’s Hallway that truly stops you in your tracks. A dimly lit corridor in a Harlem tenement building, it’s a study in shadows and solitude. What makes this image so powerful is its simplicity. DeCarava doesn’t just show us a hallway; he makes us feel the weight of the space, the history it holds.
The Immigrant’s Lens
A detail that I find especially interesting is that almost all the photographers featured are first- or second-generation European immigrants. This isn’t just a coincidence. The city, for them, was both a challenge and an opportunity—a place to redefine themselves and their art. Garry Winogrand’s quote about disappearing into the city, about coming closer to “not existing,” sums it up perfectly. Photography, for these artists, wasn’t just about capturing the city; it was about making sense of it, about finding their place within its chaos.
The Subway as a Microcosm
The exhibition ends with Bruce Davidson’s 1980s Leica shots of New York’s graffiti-covered subway trains. These images are a masterclass in capturing the diversity and dynamism of urban life. People from all walks of life—different cultures, ages, races, classes—are thrown together in a confined space. It’s a reminder that the city, for all its flaws, is a place of constant collision and connection. The crimson light of sunset skies bathing the carriages in a sensuous glow? That’s just the cherry on top.
What This Exhibition Really Tells Us
In my opinion, Portrait of a City isn’t just about photography or urban landscapes. It’s about the human condition. It’s about how we build cities, and how cities, in turn, build us. It’s about the quiet moments—the glimmer of raindrops on a car windscreen, the solitude of a hallway—that make life worth living. This raises a deeper question: in an age of digital overload, do we still have the capacity to see these moments, to truly appreciate them?
As the exhibition closes and the train keeps moving, I’m left with a sense of both nostalgia and hope. The city, like photography, is a work in progress—always changing, always evolving. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes it so beautiful.
Portrait of a City: A Century of American Photography is at Dulwich Picture Gallery, London, until 4 October. If you’re anywhere near, I urge you to go. It’s not just an exhibition; it’s an experience.
