Karsh photographer biography
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This portrait was taken beneath the most difficult conditions. We had very little time, and the only place available was a corner of Mr. King’s church. Nowhere could he relax when constantly beset by friends and aides wishing him well, commiserating on his difficulties, congratulating him upon his return, planning new strategy. What emerged in my mind and, inom trust, in the portrait, was the dedication of the man and his clear framtidsperspektiv of ultimate victory.
The Work
A galleri Overview of Portraits
During his career he held 15, sittings, produced over , negatives, and left an indelible artistic and historic record of the dock and women who shaped the twentieth century.
The Man
His Life in Pictures
Yousuf Karsh’s () extraordinary and unique body of work presents the viewer with an intimate and compassionate view of humanity.
News & Stories
Ronald Reagan
After a career in radio and bio, Reagan served as the 40th president of the United States. [&#;]
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Yousuf Karsh
“My portrait of Winston Churchill changed my life,” said Yousuf Karsh (–). “I knew after I had taken it that it was an important picture, but I could hardly have dreamed that it would become one of the most widely reproduced images in the history of photography.” In , Canadian Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King invited Karsh—already one of the most sought-after photographers in Ottawa—to the House of Commons to mark the occasion of the British leader’s speech there. “What’s this, what’s this?” asked the visiting Churchill when Karsh shone lights on him. “Why was I not told?” he said, lighting a cigar. He was surprised when Karsh removed the cigar from his mouth. “By the time I got back to my camera, he looked so belligerent he could have devoured me,” Karsh recalled. “It was at that instant that I took the photograph.” Karsh achieved artistic immortality with the portrait, which soon graced the cover of Life magazine and became perhaps the most end
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Leaving Armenia &#; Arriving in Canada
On the stormy New Year’s Eve of , the liner Versailles reached Halifax from Beirut. After a voyage of twenty-nine days, her most excited passenger in the steerage class must have been a seventeen-year-old Armenian boy who spoke little French, and less English. I was that boy.
My first glimpse of the New World on a steely cold, sunny winter day was the Halifax wharf, covered with snow. I could not yet begin to imagine the infinite promise of this new land. For the moment, it was enough to find myself safe, the massacres, torture, and heartbreak of Armenia behind me. I had no money and little schooling, but I had an uncle, my mother’s brother, who was waiting for me and recognized me from a crude family snapshot as I stepped from the gangplank. George Nakash, whom I had not seen before, sponsored me as an immigrant, guaranteed that I would not be a “public charge,” and traveled all the way from his home in Sherbrooke, Quebec, for our meetin