Author Interview: Builder Levy

Intern Jack asks the hard-hitting questions we all want to know

Appalachia USA is an honest, unrelenting and thoroughly humanist look at the people of the Appalachian coal mining communities in southwestern Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania. Through his photographic lens and insightful commentary, Builder Levy illuminates the human stories and moments beneath the thin, black layer of coal dust and paints a deeply moving picture of the personal and environmental impacts of the mining industry’s ceaseless search for veins of black gold. In his photographs we see mothers struggling to protect their children, men and women fighting for their rights as workers, but above all we see the same warmth in their eyes that unites us all.

Builder Levy is a graduate of Brooklyn College of City University of New York as well as New York University. He has worked as a New York City teacher of at-risk adolescents for thirty-five years. He works to highlight the humanity of Appalachian coal miners in much the same manner that Walker Evans did for disadvantaged farmers in the dust bowl. His photographs are in more than 80 collections around the world.

Having studied Marxist critical theory at university, I took a deep interest in Levy’s portrayals of union culture and his focus on the working person, as well as the negative impacts of the energy industry’s operation in Appalachian America. His photographs are simultaneously sobering and heartwarming, and create a unique and endearing sense of familiarity between reader and subject. I asked him questions in order to learn more about his past experiences as a photographer, teacher and a union member.

As someone who grew up in Brooklyn and has lived in New York City for most of your life, how did you find yourself interested in photographing rural Appalachian mining towns?

Toward the end of the sixties, I felt I needed to see and experience more of America outside of NYC. I had spent most of the sixties photographing in the streets of Brooklyn and New York City. I had also photographed at the March on Washington where Martin Luther King gave his “I Have a Dream” speech. I had photographed at mass marches and demonstrations in New York City and a few more in DC for civil rights and peace. In addition, in April 1968, I flew to Memphis, Tennessee to photograph the “Martin Luther King Memorial March for Union Justice and to End Racism,” and then to Atlanta, Georgia to photograph the Martin Luther King Funeral. That summer I began my “Appalachia USA” project, although I didn’t come up with that title until 2008.

I had been raised in a family that encouraged art, and believed the world needed to be changed. As a little kid I listened to my parents’ records of Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie singing “Which Side Are You On,” a song about coal miners’ struggles, written by the wife of a striking miner in Harlan County, Kentucky, and many other songs including: “John Henry” and “Oh Freedom”. In the small multiracial progressive children’s summer camp I attended in Wilmington, Vermont, we sang those same songs. Today they still resonate with me.

Why did you select Appalachia for this project?

Appalachian miners [have] struggled against some of the most powerful industrial and corporate forces on earth to make life better for themselves, their families, and workers throughout the nation. (In the 1930s and ‘40s the United Mine Workers helped organize the United Steel Workers and the United Autoworkers.) During slavery, the Underground Railroad had many way stations manned by mountaineer settlers in Appalachia, and during the civil war, 250,000 southern Appalachian mountain boys volunteered for the Union army in the war against the Confederate slaveocracy. The Appalachians, the oldest and most biodiverse mountain range in North America, was originally the hunting grounds of the Cherokee and other indigenous people. Appalachian miners were not a monolithic ethnic group, but a polyglot that included African Americans, eastern Europeans, Western Europeans, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Italian, Mexican, Native Americans and others. This project allowed me to make photographs as art while immersing myself into the life of a very significant, yet often mischaracterized and misunderstood rural region of America, in the hope of finding and revealing deeper American reality and truths.

Would you say your teaching career has affected your photographic style or your outlook on life? If so, how?

My students were mostly adolescents of color from poor, working-class families. Some had been in gangs. Some came from foster homes. Some came from jails and/or prison. I talked with them. I listened to them. I got them to write about and photograph their own lives. They shared their lives with me. They enriched my life and my understanding of life. I learned that if you show people you are genuinely interested in them, their lives, their humanity, and culture, and are willing to listen and interact with them, they will often open up to share something of their own lives. I could be given so much from my students and my photographic subjects. I learned how to allow people—students/subjects to give [some] of themselves to me so that in return, I could give something back to them and the world, through my teaching and my photographs. I taught that the students could find their subject matter and vision in their own lives and within their families, their communities, heritage, culture, and struggles. I worked alongside my students, encouraging examples of strength, dignity, love, and camaraderie. I taught by my own example, but also with examples of the great photographers such as Henri Cartier-Bresson, Eugene Atget, Lewis Hine, Paul Strand, Dorothea Lange, Roy de Carava, W. Eugene Smith, Robert Frank and Peter Magubane. I approached teaching as a way to share and raise consciousness, and while interacting with my students and their lives, enriching and raising my own consciousness as well. By working with my students and getting them to create writing and photography about their own lives, they inspired and enriched my life — [this is] reflected in my own photographs as well.

You mentioned in the Adore Noir interview that several of the places you photographed have since been destroyed by mountaintop removal, flooding, highway construction, or other causes. ( The subject “Coal Camp,” for instance, was gone when you returned in the new millennium), what is it like to return to a location you previously photographed only to find it missing?  

The feeling is of a void, a sadness, an emptiness!   A way of life and a community is disappearing. The dying mines need to be replaced with new industry and living wage jobs. Such could be in education, the health/medical field, environmental reclamation, sustainable energy fields—wind power, solar power, music and visual arts and cultural centers, etc.

When I revisited Raleigh and Boone Counties, West Virginia, in the new millennium, I considered revisiting Stotesbury, where I had made my photograph “Oglesby Bedroom” in Luther Oglesby’s home, in 1982. But I was told there were only a few homes and families left out of the hundreds that I had seen in 1982. I had lost touch with the family. In May I heard from the Oglesbys. The daughter in the photograph, her daughter emailed me with info about the family, and we talked and emailed and caught up. And in June I spoke with Dora Oglesby (the one in the photo). Now there are only three houses left in the whole coal camp.

It is a feeling of loss. A void.

What is the state of mining unions in Appalachia today?  Is their power on the rise, or are they seeing stagnation?

Beginning in the 1980s and accelerating in the 1990s, many of the large coal companies aggressively tried to break the union contract and run non-union mines. One result was less down time in the mine to remedy safety issues. Safety was sacrificed for increased production and profits. There was a rise in mine accidents and fatalities. The worst was at Massey’s Upper Big Branch Mine in Montcoal, Raleigh County, West Virginia, where 29 miners died from a methane explosion in 2010. Mines have been closing all over Appalachia and employment is steadily declining. A number of large mining companies have filed for bankruptcy. Membership in the UMWA has been declining as well. The union is weaker in terms of numbers and influence today.

Could you tell us a little about your experience with the teachers’ unions during your time as a teacher in New York?

It is a long story, but the short answer is, I am a union man! I come from a union family. I like to say, “Coal miners and teachers are among America’s unsung heroes.” The union fought for and won smaller class size, no asbestos in the schools, pensions, a decent salary, paid holidays, and healthcare.

Why do you take pictures?

It gives me a heightened sense [of] being alive. It is my way of being intensely connected to the world. It allows me to explore/discover/experience/interact/teach/reveal/be involved in the real world and simultaneously be deeply immersed in the aesthetic process, to create something new—a photographic print as a physical art object that is imbued with a new consciousness in and of the world. I want my photographs to take on a life of their own. To change the world.

The humanity of your subjects is obviously an incredibly important part of your work.  Do you find your presence as an outsider in their community prevents them from opening up and being themselves, or is it the opposite?

I work till I am not looked at as an outsider—or at least considered an ally or friend. Sometimes I get introduced by someone who is already known. I always try to start off with some advanced contacts. I talk to people. I answer questions and explain what I am trying to do. I hang around. I return. I talk. I show people what I am doing. I give out samples of my work in the form of postcards, announcement cards etc. as small gifts. If I feel like an outsider, and if I am viewed as an outsider, I usually won’t get good photographs. I try to break down barriers. I introduce myself and tell them what I am trying to do: “I am a teacher from New York City trying to make photographs about the real life of the Appalachian coal miner.”

For several days I was hanging around talking to and photographing miners while they waited for their shift to begin. I talked. I listened. I answered their questions seriously and honestly. They joked, good-naturedly—a foreman asked,” You’re not one of those Nader raiders, are you?” And, while I am setting up a large view camera on my tripod, and focusing the old fashioned looking camera under the black cloth, an old timer tells me, “A miner’s life is a dog’s life—buddy, put that in your book!”

Author Interview: Jeremy M. Davies

Intern Olivia asks the hard-hitting questions we all want to know

Olivia wrote a review of Davies’ The Knack of Doing, which we posted here on July 7, 2016. “Expect the unexpected. That is my advice to anyone planning to read The Knack of Doing,” she wrote. Now you can be a little better prepared by reading her interview with the author, below.

What prompted you to compile this collection of stories, with some new stories and some revised ones? What themes do you see connecting them?

I write short fiction so infrequently that I was as surprised as anyone to find I had amassed enough of it to make for a collection. I thought it would be ungenerous to keep this surprise to myself. Hence: a book.

If there’s a through-line here it’s the eternal question of how one writes such things as short stories without their winding up either inconsequential or tiresome. The book is something of a “manual of style(s).” And within many of the stories in Knack you’ll find characters trying to impose a certain style or manner of speaking upon their own situations. Largely unsuccessfully.

How did you go about choosing the order for the stories and deciding on the structure of the book? Were there stories you thought about including in The Knack of Doing that didn’t make it into the final product?

Yes, there are stories that didn’t make the cut. Mainly because I forgot about them. Which is to say that my mind edited them out of the collection without this selection process requiring any conscious effort on my part. This is by far the best way, I think, and I suggest the method to all aspirants.

What are some of the challenges you face when writing short fiction that differ from those you face when writing a novel?

The greatest challenge is that the frivolity of the enterprise will so overwhelm you that you just give up and go back to bed. The issue is how to turn out something only ten pages long that nonetheless commands the attention–and we are all misers of attention–long enough to achieve a lasting effect, even if that effect is “merely” mild amusement. I have no time for short fiction that was written only because there is already so much short fiction in the world that one might as well churn out a little more. I have no time for short fiction that was written only because the form, in its brevity, lends itself to the classroom. (Novels that were written out of this same sort of formal inertia annoy me less, for some reason. Probably because their inconsequentiality is deployed that much more gradually, over a longer span. Stories rub your face in their superfluousness, all at once. That’s the challenge; that’s the fascination. That’s why it’s still worth trying, from time to time. To see if you can beat the odds. To see if you can be nimble enough to avoid the door of Who Cares hitting you in your ass on your way out, as it were.)

“Kurt Vonnegut and the Great Bordellos of the Danube Delta” examines the art of storytelling from the perspective of an aspiring writer. To what extent do the views presented by the narrator of this story reflect your personal views on what fiction is meant to be, i.e. “Fiction can be many things, and no one mode is appropriate for it—no one genre, no one method, no one orthodoxy, no one heresy, no matter my own prejudices—but it may be accurate to describe it, as many have done, as essentially a form of attention, attention specifically to language, attention even to the ‘absent friends’ we can make believe this language describes”? How does this statement or the overall considerations presented in “Kurt Vonnegut” relate to the approach to fiction you take in the stories of The Knack of Doing?

That particular statement reflects my own views absolutely. I’m not certain that I’d stand behind every other assertion in the piece, however. I’m content to consider it a fiction; the speaker, conveniently, ain’t me. It’s safe to say, though, that I share the narrator’s skepticism about the enterprise of fiction, even if I’m a bit less naive about it. That skepticism–about what makes a story worth telling, about what makes it a story to begin with–is, I guess, the real “theme” behind The Knack of Doing, which might be said to be a series of answers to those questions. (Well, ripostes more than answers.)

“Is it that it skips a generation? He means this knack of doing. . . . they are agents, they act, they effect.” Would you say that many of the characters in your stories have mastered the “knack of doing” as you describe in the titular story of the book? Is that what makes these characters interesting, their agency?

What makes them interesting–to me–is their lack of agency. Few if any of the characters in these stories have the “knack,” and those that do don’t tend to profit by it. As someone or other said, “Absolute impotence corrupts absolutely.” Writing is the actionless action; it commands no respect in the phenomenal world (unless, of course, it makes you phenomenally rich). Nor, probably, should it.

The narrator of “Forkhead Box” aims to pay homage to his subject, informing the audience, “In deference to Schaumann, I too am trying to adopt a style of meticulous plainness” (13), and in a similarly honest fashion says that he isn’t exactly a reliable narrator: “But you know I can’t be trusted. I come from a broken home.” How do you conceptualize the narrator for a particular story or decide how present they should be, and how are or aren’t the various narrators in The Knack of Doing’s stories connected?

Telling someone that you’re not to be trusted isn’t honesty; it’s a way of making even honesty suspect. And, in fiction, honesty is a nonexistent principle: the only honesty in a contrivance is consistency. If honesty is an issue in that story it’s only because it is, in fact, “based on actual historical events,” as they say. But, clearly, my interest was never in presenting these in the manner of a more realistic historical fiction, fully clothed in substantiating details and period dialogue and the like. My interest was in travestying that same impulse to dramatize, to say of a bit of history or gossip that “that would make a great story!” Not because this impulse is bad or foolish in itself, mind you, but because I consider it imperative to fight off complacency (in both myself and in prospective readers).

The narrators of the various stories arrived fully conceptualized along with the matter they narrate. It wasn’t a question of selecting a subject and then assigning the appropriate narrator. More a matter of the story not being possible until I could hear a way to tell it, a way that excited me, that didn’t feel dead. And no, the narrators aren’t connected in any way I’m aware of, besides the connection of all being written by me.

Can you choose one or two of your favorite stories in the book? Or is there a certain story that was the most fun to write?

The oldest story in the book, “Sad White People,” was written in a single night, in a burst of pure, bitchy cussedness, while I was getting an MFA. I am slightly embarrassed by the story even as I remain peculiarly proud, if in an adolescent way, of having written it. The most recent story, “Delete the Marquis,” was perhaps the most fun to write, because I enjoyed all the tortured, faux-classical syntax; enjoyed the struggle to produce, essentially, a Philip K. Dick story in the style of Miguel de Unamuno. That’s how sickos like me get their kicks, you see.

What do you hope a reader will take away from The Knack of Doing?

A posthypnotic suggestion regarding a particular action to be undertaken on May the 23rd, 2018. Oh, it shall be glorious.



Author Interview: Don Krohn

Intern Frederick asks the hard-hitting questions we all want to know

On Cape Cod celebrates the Cape in summertime, showing that place which has captivated photographers, painters, and poets. Its photographs loosely chronicle a summer’s day and look at each of the Cape’s fifteen towns, delicately illuminating the lush country through a variety of photographic techniques. From the introduction by Geraldine Brooks to Don Krohn’s afterward, this book betrays its intimacy with the Cape, giving a nuanced sense of delight to the reader. 

Don Krohn has made his home in Orleans, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. Originally from New York City, he is a graduate of Brandeis University and the Harvard Law School. His photographic work has taken him across the United States and to several other continents: In the South of France, his previous work, was highly acclaimed and quite lovely. 

Having lived on the Outer Banks in my childhood, I was drawn to Krohn’s personal perspective of the Cape. His photos explore its beauty in a way that can only be gained through long association and familiarity with a place. Engaged by this, I decided to ask him a few questions about the creation of On Cape Cod.

You’re a self-taught photographer. In On Cape Cod, you talk about what first drew you to photography as a child: could you say a little bit about that and what motivated you to continue over time? What were some milestones along the way?

I began taking photographs at a very early age, and loved going to school with a camera. I began with various Kodak Brownie cameras, then before long started using 35mm cameras, with adjustable focus lenses, and adjustable shutter speeds and apertures. There was something about capturing the world around me and bottling it into a little bit of film that seemed irresistible. Over time, it was really just a progression of new approaches and deepening involvement in the medium that carried me along. By college I was using 4 x 5 inch sheet film in view cameras — the entire set-up that looks like something from the 19th century, working under a black focussing cloth with a heavy camera on a substantial tripod. The optics of working on a view camera are very different from other iterations of the medium, not the least of which is the fact that the image visible to the photographer on the ground glass is upside-down. That forces a close analysis of the image in a unique way, emphasizing abstract elements. A view camera also provides unusual corrective possibilities for focus and perspective. Many of these corrections are now easily done in post-production computer processing with Photoshop or Lightroom programs.

You’re originally from New York City: what appealed to you about Cape Cod?

I have been coming here since I was a child, and moved here shortly after college to live full-time. It was the era, for some of us, of living simply, closer to the Earth. The Cape seemed very inviting, not quite as remote as Maine or some other areas I considered. And I loved being near the ocean.

Was there a specific moment when it came to feel like home?

It was more of a process, and since I was already familiar with the place, it happened quickly. For extra money, I drove a school bus part time for the first few years here, so I got to know many local families quite quickly. Soon I became involved in town government in Orleans, and later was a founder of a charter school (one of the first in Massachusetts).

How, for you as an artist, was the creation of On Cape Cod different from your previous work, In the South of France? Is it a development?

The book about France comprises images from a much larger region, and the photographs were taken over a period of almost a decade. The photographs for On Cape Cod were taken during a two-year period, and the region is very small in comparison.

How do you feel that your perspective of the Cape differs from that of other writers and photographers? How did this influence your work?

Joel Meyerowitz brought Cape photo books into the modern era with his innovative and now-classic work Cape Light. Since then, many of the books of photographs of the Cape have reverted to the more customary landscapes and beach scenes. I feel that I have picked up where Joel left off, by looking beyond the obvious, seeking images that reveal more about the Cape than just the expected vistas.

Why did you choose to focus on the Cape in the summertime?

I photograph here year-round, but for my first Cape book I wanted to concentrate the experience seasonally, and it is of course summertime and its blandishments are the hallmark of the place. And for many, it is the only Cape landscape they ever have seen or will see. So I wanted to speak directly to that summer experience. I took some liberties, though, by including a cranberry harvester image from late September, because it is so quintessentially Cape Cod.

Are there photographs in the book that you particularly enjoyed taking? If so, why?

It’s hard to answer that. Some images that were very demanding technically, such as some to the landscapes and seascapes in which I used progressive focus and digital stitching to create perfect focus at all distances, were a bit trying to produce. The technique creates an interesting illusion of hyper vision. You can see that in the “Receding Sand Pattern” photo, and also in the “Provincetown Causeway” image, for example. So in terms of enjoyment, the more spontaneous images of people and animals were probably more fun and had an unpredictable element that I enjoy.

You talk in your Photographer’s Note about “looking for spiritual traces in the world of appearances”: with which photo, place, or incident in the book did you come closest to “the spiritual?”

If I have to choose one, I’ll say the lightning strike image off Yarmouth Port. I wandered over to that beach just by chance on a friend’s suggestion earlier that morning, and this monster storm of hail and thunder and lightning came on almost the instant I arrived. To capture that bolt of lightning connecting sky and sea (and to live to tell about it!) embodied that kind of spiritual experience perfectly.

What projects are you working on now?

I am working considering doing a book of “Off-Season” photos of the Cape, and am also returning to France later this summer, where I plan to do a follow-up series of images related to those from In the South of France. I also have an expanding series of black and white photos from many visits to Paris, which could be an interesting book project.

From May to September, images from On Cape Cod are being featured in The Boston Globe.

Author Interview: Ward Farnsworth

Intern Hannah asks the hard-hitting questions we all want to know


Farnsworth’s Classical English Metaphor9781567925487 is a comprehensive field-guide for the art of comparison that any English-speaking reader or writer can learn from and employ. This is a handy compendium, first organized by source type, including nature, architecture, animals, and myth, and then through countless examples taken from the classics. Farnsworth illustrates just how each of those metaphors is utilized for distinct purposes—for caricature, to make an abstract idea visible, to make a complicated idea simple.

Ward Farnsworth himself is the Dean of the University of Texas School of Law and holds the John Jeffers Research Chair in Law. His previous title, Farnsworth’s Classical English Rhetoric was a bestseller in its field and became the definitive guide to the use of rhetoric.

As someone who appreciates the study of language, I found the book incredibly fascinating and fun. Just as its predecessor, Farnsworth’s Classical English Rhetoric, was, Metaphor is thorough and exhaustive in its examples, allowing its readers to fully comprehend the art of comparison. I decided to ask Farnsworth a few questions about how he arrived at creating this metaphoric epitome.

Your books explore rhetoric and metaphor, which are old-fashioned topics. Why those subjects, and why now?  

They are beautiful and practical. Most of what most of us hope to achieve depends on words; we need them to persuade others or even just hold their attention. Yet we usually spend little time really thinking about how to use words well. Those who care about language do have some resources, but they mostly consist of books on style that explain how to avoid vices and mistakes. The study of rhetoric, as I conceive it, is a little different. It is the analysis of what makes speech and writing successful. When words strike us with their beauty and power, it is not a random event or accident. Memorable writing usually has properties and follows patterns that we can learn to hear if we read and listen carefully. Then we can turn what we’ve learned to our own ends.

Your books focus on examples that are usually a hundred years old or more. Why?

We have more to learn from them. Our own times and culture are teaching us how to write and speak every hour, for better or for worse. If we want to use words in ways better than our own cultural average, we do well to learn what we can from writers at other times and places.

To say it more directly, writers one or two or three hundred years ago understood some things about language that do not come as naturally to us. We may not want to write as they did, or may not be able to do it, but they can teach our ears things that our own times cannot—about rhythm, repetition, surprise, and other rhetorical principles. Older examples have another advantage as well when we come to the study of metaphor. Writers used to know more than their modern counterparts typically do about many great sources of figurative comparison: the animal kingdom, for instance, or nature, or mythology. We can learn not only from how they arranged their words but from how they thought.

Which writers of the past have the most to teach us now?

From Lincoln we can learn a lot about writing, and also about how to learn about writing. He was the most gifted writer in the history of American public life. He gained that distinction by spending a great deal of time with the King James Bible and with Shakespeare. Those sources taught him much about how to write, as can be heard in his letters and speeches. But he didn’t imitate. He immersed himself in the sounds of those writings and absorbed them. Their influence appeared naturally and happily in his own work, though he wrote in a manner that fit his times, not like a man of the early 17th century. Now we can read Lincoln in the same way that he read Shakespeare—not to write exactly as he did, which would sound strange even if we could do it, but to learn what he has to teach. Lincoln probably was not conscious of much that he knew about the sound of writing, and we may not be conscious of all that we gain by listening to him. We learn as musicians sometimes learn, by educating the ear.

If you had to create a metaphor to explain your writing process, what would it be?

Laboring in a vineyard.

Do you find any overlap between the study of law and the study of rhetoric or metaphor?

The lawyer’s job is to achieve consequences with words. That is why the most influential figures in our legal culture have usually been the most gifted rhetorically as well. The most influential legal thinker of the 20th century, for example, was Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. It’s no coincidence that he was also the most literate and talented writer in the legal profession of his times, and the most gifted with metaphor. So a school of law should function in part as a school of rhetoric, and I hope to help that project along in a small way.