Not an influencer in sight in show of pictures that are ‘fit to print’

A picture of a quieter, less hysterical and less narcissistic period in our national life emerges from this collection of photographs.

Men working on the propeller of HMAS Australia at Cockatoo Island Dock, Sydney , 1930.

The title of this exhibition comes from what is probably the most famous newspaper motto in the world – “all the news that’s fit to print” – adopted by The New York Times in 1896. The paper was in financial trouble and had just been taken over by the family that still controls it today. The motto was intended to distinguish the Times from the sensationalist tabloid journalism of William Randolph Hearst and others, and it was successful, for the NYT is still one of the most important papers in the world, while its erstwhile rivals are all defunct.

One of the clever ways the paper drew attention to its motto was by running a competition for a better one, with a prize of $100, a substantial sum at the time. Many hundreds of submissions were received, from which, according to an article by WJ Campbell published on the BBC website in 2012, four finalists were selected, and then a winner: “All the world’s news, but not a School for Scandal”. This is clearly too long, the reference to Sheridan’s 1777 comedy was probably too arcane for the average reader, and above all the two parts of the slogan are not phonetically or metrically related.

Another suggestion on the shortlist, though priggish in tone, was much more successful in structure: “Always decent, never dull”. Each of the first three words has the same metrical structure of a stressed followed by an unstressed syllable (a trochee), finishing strongly with a single stressed syllable. The NYT’s own motto also has a strong, but more sophisticated metrical structure: a first sequence of stressed-unstressed-stressed (a cretic), followed by two iambs (unstressed-stressed), the basic building block of English verse.

The metrical structure is phonetically supported, in the last four words, by alliteration of the consonant “t” and assonance of the vowel “i”; so it is no wonder that it is the especially memorable sequence of the last three words (forming a metrical cretic: fit to print) that has been chosen for the NLA exhibition. The linguistic principles are the same as those that explain the success of the famous slogan of Dwight Eisenhower’s presidential campaign in 1952: “I like Ike”, brilliantly analysed by linguist Roman Jakobson in a paper in 1960.

But of course these metrical and phonetic structures are ultimately effective, as in verse, because they serve to bind together a sequence of words with an important charge of meaning. “Fit to print” proved to be a resonant slogan in the competition of quality journalism with tabloid – or, in the American expression, yellow press – sensationalism. And that, of course, is a struggle that continues today in a variety of guises, some hardly changed from the late 19th century, and others very different and arising from new forms of news media.

Technician working on the Southern Cross, NSW, c. 1931.

Constructing one of the Sydney Harbour Bridge pylons c. 1926.

In the digital news environment that has evolved in the past couple of decades, even readers of the great newspapers of the world, most of which go back to the century before last, largely follow them online. Sitting down with a physical paper has become almost a symbol of leisure, something one does on the weekend, on holiday, in a café or club or hotel. The norm, for those interested in keeping abreast of world events, is probably rapidly scanning a handful of websites such as the BBC, Bloomberg, the NYT, and in Australia the Sydney Morning Herald and The Australian, over a morning coffee. But the proportion of the population that does even this is probably very small. Many people simply watch television news and an increasing proportion, especially among the young, apparently gather a chaotic mixture of news and misinformation from social media.

Even with respectable newspapers, however, this digital environment has given the “fit to print” slogan a new meaning. It is interesting to see, for example, the different headlines that can appear over articles in their digital and printed versions. Online editors will often succumb to the temptation of clickbait titles, because their most urgent priority is to stop desultory browsers in their tracks. There is no such need to excite the reader who already has the paper in his hands. But above all, what is online is ephemeral, like the transient gusts and eddies of commentary on social media, but what is printed is permanent.

Aviatrix Miss Freda Deaton in her biplane, NSW, c. 1930.

Portrait of Sir Douglas Nicholls, 1931.

The printed version of a newspaper remains set and immutable: part of the historical archive, something that will be re-read and reviewed and criticised in future times. Editors know they are accountable for what they print, and this fosters a sense of responsibility. And of course this extends to images that are published, whether of political events, of individuals, or of crimes, wars and humanitarian disasters.

Images, as authors since Horace have pointed out, usually have a more direct effect on our emotions than words. Truthfulness and integrity are thus all the more critical: online news services often use footage that is not of what it purports to be; fake images have existed for a long time, but we are now in a new age of pervasive AI fraudulence that runs wild through the unpoliced wastelands of social media, feeding the paranoid obsessions of different interest groups. In such a world it is more than ever the responsibility of serious newspapers to print only what is authentic.

A newly enlisted man is farewelled by a wounded soldier, NSW c. 1915.

Interestingly, this exhibition, which is drawn from the Fairfax photographic archives in the first half of the 20th century and selected by veteran photojournalist Mike Bowers, begins with a question of authenticity, or at least of unavoidable artifice. For even after technical improvements reduced the need for long exposure times, the paraphernalia of earlier photography remained cumbersome, while at the same time negatives were expensive and every shot had to count.

Hence even seemingly spontaneous images, such as one of a wounded veteran in the Great War farewelling a new soldier taking the train to the front (1915), had to be artificially staged. It was only between the wars with the appearance of compact cameras with film spools, first produced by Leica, that it became much easier to capture moments of real life, such as those for which Cartier-Bresson soon became famous.

Modern newspapers flourished in the rapidly expanding cities of the 19th century, made possible by the hugely accelerated production of the steam press, especially after the invention of the rotary press in the middle years of the century. Photography, which had been invented around the time Queen Victoria came to the throne (1837), was soon closely involved in the newspaper industry, especially with illustrated papers. But photographs initially had to be turned into wood engravings in order to be printed; as an introductory panel reminds us, the development of new photogravure technology at the end of the century meant photos could be directly reproduced in newspapers, and from then on they became an indispensable part of journalism.

By the late 1920s, we find photographers capturing real moments, such as General Sir John Monash stepping off a train in Sydney in 1929, even though he is no doubt holding the pose for the photographer. On the other hand, the arrest of Captain Francis Edward de Groot after he sensationally rode up and cut the ribbon on the Sydney Harbour Bridge in March 1932 before premier Jack Lang, captures the moment of a scuffle as the captain is forcibly pulled down from his horse. In the sequel to this event, the government first unsuccessfully tried to have de Groot declared insane, then charged him with three minor offences, two of which were dismissed in court, and de Groot ultimately sued successfully for wrongful arrest.

Sir John Monash arrives in Sydney, 21 February 1929.

Similarly momentary, at least in appearance, is a memorably shot of a technician working on Charles Kingsford Smith’s plane, Southern Cross, around three years after its great flight across the Pacific from Oakland in California to Brisbane and then on to Sydney. There is something dramatic about men working with machines, most memorably captured in one of the best photographs in the exhibition, a large picture of two men working on the immense propeller of HMAS Australia at Cockatoo Island (1930).

There are pictures of politicians and princes, and of famous men and women in various walks of life, from Billy Hughes or Sir Douglas Nicholls, the first Aboriginal governor of a state, to Anna Pavlova and a couple of celebrated aviatrices. But it’s interesting to reflect that there are no celebrities in the modern sense of nobodies who have become famous simply because of television exposure or self-promotion on social media. It is the picture of a quieter, less hysterical and less narcissistic period in our national life that emerges from this collection of photographs. In some of the most interesting shots, the image emerges of a society poised between a rural foundation receding into the past and an increasingly industrial present. We did not yet have, a century ago, a vast population of office employees doing nothing tangible, served by an army of service workers making their lunches and coffees or cleaning their offices. People were either on the land or in business or in factories or trades, such as a group of decorators we see putting up wallpaper in Government House.

Thus one set of images evokes rural life, from a couple of pictures of a haywain and of piling hay on to a vast stack, to another pair with opulent-looking merino sheep. Others offer dramatic views of Sydney Harbour Bridge, that great engineering project that was also a statement of faith in the future in the darkest years of the Depression. In one shot, we see the Bridge just beginning to grow from one of the pylons. It had to extend into mid-air from both sides until they met in the middle; and another photo records the night when the two sides were finally joined – the heating and cooling of the steel, with its consequent expansion and contraction, made it hard to seize the very moment when the structures would align and a bolt could finally go through two matching holes. And in a last powerful image that brings us back to the theme of men and machines, we see a group of workers tightening the massive nuts that hold the great steel girders together.

Two things are particularly striking about this exhibition, both of which are perhaps due to the judgment of the curator. One is that although many of these images are charged with social or political significance, we are spared the moralistic tone that so often accompanies historical exhibitions in this country today; this is no doubt also partly owing to the period covered by the selection. But the other is the beauty and artistry of these pictures: they were not made as art photography, but their aesthetic qualities arise from the elegance and economy with which their documentary function was accomplished.

Fit to Print: Defining Moments from the Fairfax Photo Archive selected by Mike Bowers

Until July 20