In the fall of 1985 I drove down from Northern New Jersey to the Philadelphia Museum of Art to see the retrospective show of W. Eugene Smith's work for which this book was the catalog. I walked through the rooms and people stood in front of his Minamata photographs, weeping. Smith paid for those pictures with his eyesight, probably the better part of his sanity. If he drank before, the stories are that after his return from Japan he plunged into the bottle full-bore. If one can talk of a man's life and work in religious terms, W. Eugene Smith's career was a prolonged and self-willed crucifixion, a sacrifice in the name of a Truth that I'm not sure we're ready for yet.
I haven't photographed seriously in quite a few years, but whenever I made a print, there in the darkroom I could feel Smith's presence saying two things to me: "You're lousy at this" and "Don't ever stop."