Actor with a photo camera

When examining the interplay of cinema and photography, it would be inexcusable not to mention one significant Lithuanian surname – that of the film and stage actor and photographer Juozas Budraitis. His archive contains valuable moments of Lithuanian cinematography, most taken during the years 1970–90. The artist actively documented the backstage of film sets, the atmosphere there and his surrounding colleagues.

In 2012, an exhibition of his work titled “My Cinema” was held at the Prospekto Gallery; in 2015, the book “My Cinema: A World that Belonged to Men”, co-written with art historian and researcher of photography Margarita Matulytė, was published.

Today, we talk with Juozas Budraitis about his unexpected love for photography, the need to freeze a moment, (non)existing taboos and what topics you need to look for when there’s no more cinema.

First, I would like to ask you, what was it about photography that sparked your interest and when did that happen? When did you understand that you “had” to photograph, or was it more of an unexpected discovery in your life?

It was probably an unexpected one – perhaps photography unexpectedly walked into that existence of mine. When I was still little, 12 or 15 years old, there was this 6 × 6 format Russian device called Lubitel. The pictures would come out small, but it was so delightful! I found a way to represent something. I mostly took pictures of my family.

When I had already discovered that pleasure of photography, I went to the domestic services centre in Švėkšna which had a photographic studio. This old photographer was working there (well, at the time he was young but seemed old to me) – he would photograph funerals, weddings, all sorts of celebrations. He took me in as an apprentice, an unskilled worker to wash the prints. Later, I was also entrusted with fixation, but we didn’t go further than that because I started criticising him. My understanding at the time was that he didn’t look at photography creatively enough, he would shoot all those weddings so boringly in the same standard. He used to place the couple together, then the whole group of relatives and that’s it. And it was the same with the funerals – next to the coffin, at the church, carrying the coffin out and near the cemetery. Families would also come to get their pictures taken in his studio. I suggested he liven it up – people are different after all, some happier, some sadder. But he had no liking for this criticism and he let me go. But at the end of it I asked him to stand next to his device – he had then, I believe, a Moskva camera with bellows. I had him put on his cap, took a picture, said goodbye and left. I’ve never since checked how the rest of his life went.

I was working in Klaipėda at the time and didn’t even entertain any thoughts about photography as I had to make a living. But after I left for the military, someone offered to sell me a Zenit camera; it was cheap so, without much hesitation, I bought it. I spent quite a while going around with it, photographing my friends and colleagues in the military.

After enrolling at university, I took the Zenit back to Vilnius. I took pictures of my friends, students at the dormitory, family members – the camera wouldn’t stay untouched and unwanted for long then. I was photographing something all the time.

Later, I entered the cinema world. There, the late Audrius Zavadskis was working as an assistant to the cameraman but would photograph a lot. When I saw Audrius taking pictures, we started talking, became friends and in this way I caught the photography bug again. I took that Zenit and started photographing more actively.

On the set of my first film “Nobody Wanted to Die” I still didn’t take any pictures, but during the second one, “The Girl in Black”, when I was working in Estonia, I did it quite actively. Then bit by bit I tried to become more selective with my photographs – I started consciously thinking what kind of composition, the expression of the frame, would be better. Since then a sort of, I would say, conscious interaction with photography began.

Afterwards, I bought an old Leica from Algimantas Kunčius, and it was that camera that I spent shooting with all the time until digital photography appeared – I fought with it for a long time but was eventually interested by the speed. But the magic of analogue cameras remained of high significance to me – even when I had a digital camera, I would still try to develop and print by myself, but cinema became increasingly present in my life and, of course, there wasn’t enough time for all those things. I spent more time on film sets than at home.

On the other hand, once I began photographing with a digital camera, I lost the sense of frame. I couldn’t see it anymore, it was only with my little Leica that I could still catch it and be satisfied with it. The exhibition “My Cinema” was made specifically out of film.

But overall, I’m not that interested in the technical advances of the camera – some very simple glass is enough, just to make photographing something and catching that mood you want possible. I have a good Sony but it’s large and you can’t really put it in your pocket… And my character is more that of a wandering rambler. I take walks, looking around aimlessly and every once in a while I feel like capturing something. So, I capture with a phone, but in the end it’s still a phone…

And do you film?

Although I’m someone from the film world, I never got into it for some reason. I prefer taking photographs, freezing a moment.

Could it be said that the most important thing for you is capturing a moment, and quality is secondary?

Yes, seizing the mood, the atmosphere is what matters. I uploaded some landscapes to Facebook, and someone said they’re sad. And what am I supposed to do with it? The Lithuanian skies are sad or maybe my eye is, I don’t know. I miss those old huts, the outlying farmsteads – they seem so lonely in the vast open skies. You instantly find yourself imagining how life goes on there, how everything moves – how logs are thrown in the fireplace, something is being fixed up in the kitchen, there’s smoke coming out of the chimney… I myself am deeply affected by such scenes and landscapes, and always go hunting for them. Maybe someone doesn’t find it interesting at all, but to me it’s beautiful.

Does it happen that you consciously arrange an image, or do they more often appear spontaneously, from an emotion, a mood?

When I get my hands on some actress and I photograph a portrait, I sometimes try to arrange it, to turn the light one way or another. But even so, in every face, in every expression, I look for drama.

Essentially, I still prefer to catch people unawares – when they aren’t prepared to be photographed. It’s more interesting that way.

So you get an authentic image…

Yes, it’s a sort of pure image. The person might not always like it – everyone wants to look more beautiful, but if you allow me to take the photograph, it will be done on my terms, by selecting what I like. If the portrait is for a gift, then I do it the other way, something that person would like – I can somewhat sense it.

Do you think that how you look through the lens changes over time, or does your view remain more or less the same?

Before, my main topic was cinema, its people, film sets. But it has run dry because films these days are recorded so fast, shifts are long and working hours are always used to their full intensity. There’s no time to wander around with a photo camera. And another thing is that most producers request that no pictures be taken. So, this topic is instantly out of the question. And I’m not interested in just “catching” some actor and photographing them – it’s more fascinating when they’re in the environment of the set, when you can feel the mood of the place.

The only option would be to photograph after filming but again, that depends on the producer – you might say it’s not allowed to photograph the set, and completely forbidden to take any pictures of the personnel. So, there’s no more sense to take the camera to a set if its use is not permitted in any case.

Like this, the topic of cinema has dissipated. At first, I was deeply worried that I couldn’t find another one. Once some time had passed, I realised it’s not worth knocking about, searching for some truth. Life is as it can be seen around – so that’s what I document now, whatever feels closer to my heart. And the final result – an exhibition – is what I think of the least.

Have you ever had the thought, “This is my best shot, I’ll never create anything better”?

I can’t say that I have. I’m not a professional to be able to say that. When professionals do their job, they feel the highs and the lows of their work, find new topics. And then at some point there comes a certain age when they say, “That’s it, I will not make anything better”. Such thoughts don’t bother me because no one holds me accountable. I’m just an amateur who wanders here and there with his photo camera.

You say that you wander with a photo camera. Would you agree then, that it’s a sort of visual diary of your life?

Partially it is. When I was playing in “Krapp’s Last Tape” at the Koršunovas Theatre, coming back home at night I would photograph and had this series made up in my mind, “Krapp in the City”, “Krapp in Vilnius at Night”, “Krapp Goes Walking Through the City”. And more such things would happen that I could compile series of shots representing a certain mood, a particular atmosphere.

And are there any topics you would consider to be better left untouched, in photography or in cinema? Or do you believe no taboos should exist all?

Well, I think that there are none, just that these days it’s maybe not fully acceptable to take pictures of someone and showcase them later.

Like it was before…

Yes, before you would point your camera at someone, they would smile, and it was alright. Now you can be asked, “Sorry, who are you? Why are you taking my picture?” One summer, I got into some trouble like this on the beach in Palanga. I see – there’s a couple walking, they must’ve had a wedding yesterday and are on a walk on the beach to clear their heads a bit. She’s wearing a long white dress, he has his trousers rolled up, a white shirt on, black trousers. They’re both walking on an empty beach and I just took some photographs from afar, and he tells me, “And why are you taking our pictures?” I say, “My apologies, I can delete them if you like.” But that was it – I got some finger wagging, but they didn’t ask me to erase the images. Then I realised that it was a subtle matter and best not to get into it. I remember when Sutkus used to photograph, he would only run up to someone, click the shutter and that was it. Even then, I couldn’t walk up to someone like that, to photograph them so directly.

Because of your own personal things?

Precisely that – because of my own personal things. Let’s take Paris, for instance, where everyone really smiles at the sight of my lens. Now they may not, I’m not sure, but in 1977 everyone did. Since my little Leica doesn’t require any specific focusing, I would snap pictures walking by, without looking, because I knew then already how my lens would form the image. I would only choose a more-or-less vertical or horizontal view and take the photograph in passing. But there were no scandals, not once did I experience that it was something unacceptable for people. Now I’m a tad scared. If you take a photograph of a child jumping around somewhere, you can get in a lot of trouble.

Once, in Lukiškės Square, I saw children running in between the fountains and I photographed them in contre-jour, so no faces are visible, only silhouettes. Only blurred figures remained but the mood is there.

It is a pity, truly – if it had been this way all along, we would not have all the wonderful documentary photography that we have today. Požerskis, Sutkus, Kunčius – everyone photographed like this.

It’s clear there won’t be such photography like theirs anymore, because it’s a completely different life now, another rhythm. Also, everyone takes pictures with their phones now and, you know, everyone’s very fussy when someone else starts taking photographs. I often get asked if it would be possible to take a picture together. Go ahead. But for someone to photograph like before, where you walk and someone snaps your picture – that barely exists anymore. Unless it’s some event with correspondents taking pictures, but that’s another thing.

Perhaps images had more weight before – for instance, if you photographed with a movie camera the picture would be more carefully chosen, and now we’re swimming in a sea of images.

First of all, if you do analogue photography, you’re more responsible yourself since the film is expensive. You take one shot, two, and that’s it; with a digital camera, you snap ten, fifteen, and none of them stay.

I remember visiting the painter Savickas, going around his workshop with an analogue Canon and ending up shooting up half the film. I took a picture of his slipper, the palette, him painting and washing the paint brushes. Afterwards he calls me and says that there’s going to be a personal exhibition of his work and he’d like to have my photo exhibition there. I tell him, “Maestro, there’s no way – I went through half of the film in half an hour, so we may have one shot of some sort or two, but not more. And it would be nonsense to make an entire exhibition.” But he persisted – make it happen.

I had to consider what to do then. I didn’t even have good paper, some of the rests were really outdated. I decided to print all that I had as a test on various paper formats, even though some had pieces torn off. I gathered all the shots in one place and started thinking: maybe I should show them, why not – and all the more so if he insists so much, demands it even. I told the exhibition curator then that I had something to display – I asked, if possible, for Whatman paper so I could frame it and hang it up in two rows of twenty.

After I’d come back home from Kaunas at night, Savickas called me and said, “What was all that nonsense you told me – I don’t have, I don’t have – everyone hurried up to see your photographs.” That’s because everyone is curious to see an artist’s everyday, what his workshop looks like. As if it were a living thing – you walk through the painting and you can see, “Okay, that’s what his brushes look like…” Accidents like that happen sometimes, when it all goes from “accidental” to “intentional”.