Barkley L. Hendricks always carried a camera; in our fifteen years of friendship, I never saw him without one. He termed it his "mechanical sketchbook," an expedient way to capture fleet- ing moments of inspiration that struck him. In this sense, the camera was as indispensable for him as charcoal and paper might have been for Rembrandt. A particular person, event, or vista could all be marked down on film and returned to later. At times, the camera was func- tional; the friends, acquaintances, and strangers depicted in Barkley's portraits first sat for his camera, enabling him to reference their comport- ment as he translated their essence into painting. As preparatory sketches, the photographs have a disarming immediacy. It is almost jarring to see Donald Formey, of Barkley's iconic painting Blood (1975), in the flesh, instantly recognizable by his wide-eyed gaze, distinctive plaid jacket, and Big Apple cap. Barkley used his camera discerningly, despite its omnipresence. To be photographed by him felt special; something important had to capture his attention to be worthy of his lens. Consequently, even seemingly mundane images have a certain energy-for example, a radiant trio posed outside, emoting bemusement, joy, and resignation, the afternoon's shadows at play behind them: a modern-day Three Muses. Or two women photographed from the waist down (like fashion plates), hands on hips, their bright skirts and high heels a kaleidoscope of color and texture. Punctuated by Barkley's own shadow in the corner, the image is a surreptitious self-portrait of the artist in action, finding beauty in the simplest things.
