| THREE young German farmers are strolling down a weedy path on their way to a dance in a neighboring village. They are dressed like dandies in matching dark suits with high collars, fancy hats and walking sticks. It is a Saturday evening during the summer of 1914. In this part of Germany, between the towns of Dünebusch and Hallscheid, in the Westerwald, near Cologne, the countryside is flat and nondescript. The farmers come upon a man with a bicycle. Or maybe he was waiting at that spot for them.
They probably know him. He is from the area, a photographer who has been taking pictures of people there, and everyone knows each other in these small villages. He has set up his bulky camera on a tripod. He poses the farmers. "Turn like that," we might imagine him saying. "Now face toward me. A little more."
When the shutter releases, the three farmers are caught as if in mid-stride, looking at him, pretending to have just noticed he is there. The barren background in the photograph turns blurry.
To see this famous image in the August Sander show now at the Metropolitan Museum is to be reminded how everything about the picture, which teeters so precariously between a snapshot and a formal portrait, between past and future, is strange and unnatural: these country flâneurs standing in the middle of nowhere, one of them with a cigarette delicately dangling from his lips, another holding up a hand self-consciously with thumb touching index finger. All three try to appear casual and spontaneous but clearly register the gravity of the moment when the camera will preserve them for posterity.
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