Photo Journalism and Images in Black and White

Free Syrian fighters run for cover as a tank shell explodes on a wall during heavy fighting in the Ain Tarma neighborhood of Damascus on January 30, 2013 (Goran Tomasevic/Reuters)

I first saw this picture as a cropped version that had been modified to a black and white exposure on Pinterest.  The pin did not tell what the picture was of or the source. The picture had such impact that I searched out additional information and found the original colored photo as part of a series of photos on the crisis in Syria as posted by The DARKROOM which explores visual journalism. The pictures both in original format and in the modified format are provoking and powerful. They both reach out and create an emotional impact; they tell a story. I do feel that in its own way, the black and white version creates an additional impact that pulls the viewer into the picture even more. (Although, I admit to being a fan of black and white photography.)  By my looking further into this picture, it tells two stories. One is the impact change when a photo is cropped and adjusted to black and white. And the second story is the impact of photo journalism which tells the story of what is happening in the world around us.

The picture cropped and modified to black and white, as I first saw it.

W.H. Auden...one of my favorites

W. H. Auden 

(Per Wikipedia: Wystan Hugh Auden, who published as W. H. Auden, was an Anglo-American poet, born in England, later an American citizen, and is regarded by many critics as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.)

One of the poems from Twelve Songs (sometimes known as Funeral Blues) was famously featured in the film Four Weddings and a Funeral.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.