I arrive at the Eggleston Artistic Trust building at just after 1 on a sweltering, humid Memphis afternoon. I am met at the door by the charismatic son of the photographer William Eggleston, Winston, who is the director of the trust as well as its official archivist. He ushers me into the cool, darkened rear office where his father sits at one of two substantial desks that are positioned face to face, occupying the center of the room. Large photographic proof sheets hang on the walls along with old Coke signs. An illuminated jukebox sits in the corner beside a red midcentury sofa.
At 77, Eggleston is mischievous, beguiling, puzzling and fascinating, all in nearly equal measure. He has been called a legend and an icon. He is frequently referred to as "the godfather of color photography," even though the sensational 1976 solo exhibit at New York's Museum of Modern Art that established him as such was widely panned at the time. "Critics and so forth obviously weren't really looking at this stuff," he says today. "Didn't bother me a bit. I laughed at 'em."
Eggleston is impeccably dressed in what he wears every day: a dark suit that he tells me was made for him on Savile Row, highly polished black shoes, a white shirt and an untied bow tie around the neck. He smells like bourbon and body lotion. He wears a Cartier watch, two minutes slow. I ask if he likes to talk about photography. Eggleston closes his eyes. "It's tricky," he says. "Words and pictures don't—they're like two different animals. They don't particularly like each other." He speaks in almost a whisper, his dapper Southern drawl relaxed further with a slur.
I mention that for decades people have studied his compositions, the geometry of his images, which seem to grow more complex the more you look. But this sort of analysis of his work strikes Eggleston as “nonsense.” Photography is second nature to him — intuitive not analytical. “I know they’re there, the angles and compositions,” he says. “Every little minute thing works with every other one there. All of these images are composed. They’re little paintings to me.”
But one wouldn’t call him a fan, exactly, of photography. “Oh, half of what’s out there is worthless,” he scoffs. “The only pictures I like are the ones I’ve taken.” In a way, somebody like Ansel Adams strikes me as the very antithesis of Eggleston, so I ask what he thinks of him. “We didn’t know each other,” he says, “but if we did, I’d tell him the same thing: ‘I hate your work.’ ” I had read, though, that he admired Henri Cartier-Bresson, the French photographer famed for his work capturing “the decisive moment,” who said one thing Eggleston recalls with fondness: “You know, William, color is bullshit.” I ask if the remark dented his confidence. “Oh, no. I just said, ‘Please excuse me,’ and left the table. I went to another table and partied.”