On Elliott Erwitt

The patron saint of the well-timed accident — dogs, feet, and the small comedies that pass for a day.

Erwitt taught a generation that a serious photograph could also be a funny one. He worked in black and white, at ankle height as often as not, and waited for the world to make its own joke inside the frame.

Two figures and the space between them

Nothing is staged and everything is composed. The gag is never the point — the point is that the gag and the geometry arrive at the same instant, and he was there for it.

A dog, mid-thought
The crossing, held one beat too long

The long wait

His best pictures look like luck and are nothing of the sort. He stood still until the street composed itself, then took the one frame it owed him.

The whole point of taking pictures is so that you don’t have to explain things with words.

A quiet street doing something absurd

Feet, and the story below the waist
The frame after the laugh