How I met Eddie Adams

“Of course, I already knew Eddie Adams. I mean his photo – the one of a Vietcong being shot. Everyone knows that picture, but Eddie didn’t want to talk about it – or, at least, not anymore. ‘This fucking picture …’ he’d always say, with an assertiveness, which turned every questioning glance into guilty abjectness. He would leave the unfinished sentence hanging angrily in the air. Though it’s not totally clear whether he was angry for having taken the picture, or because of what taking the picture had done to him.

The words were not followed by a knowing pause. That silence that others assume means, ‘Oh, là, là, he doesn’t need to talk about it any more, he has fathomed the highs and lows and decided not to talk about it anymore, and has recognized that the wisdom of understanding can only belong to the person who has experience it for themselves.‘ No, the words were surrounded by an angry bark that couldn’t complete the sentence – because there are no words, no possible way, to describe a whole life in just one sentence.

Eddie is this photo, and this photo is Eddie. He hated it, and it brought him success and money. He was the toughest of the tough guys, who turned up everywhere, wearing a grin under a US cap and toting a scuffed up Nikon, without feeling at home anywhere. He was the one who behaved like an arse hole, though everyone around him tried their best. They had turned him into a diva: success, money and nimbus never allowed him to break out of that role. This understanding first hit me when I took a closer look at the picture I had taken of him. Grinning, standing on a swing behind his farm in Upstate New York – a mischievous smile, playful like a little boy.”