Celebrated photographer William Wegman has been choosing dogs as models for his fine art photography for quite some time. Very old-school, he uses no digital manipulation — rather, he creates performance-based, stage-managed settings where his beloved Weimaraners — his loyal canine collaborators — take center stage.
With a career spanning several decades, Wegman’s work continues to captivate audiences with its unique blend of humor, elegance, and artistry. In an exclusive interview, William Wegman shared insights into his creative process, his bond with dogs, and how he continues to evolve as an artist while staying true to his roots.
And how did the dog enter your life and your work?
I saw a newspaper ad: Weimaraners, $35. The night before, a friend had casually said, “Weimaraners are good dogs.” I didn’t really want a dog — it was my first wife who did. So, I flipped a coin. It came up tails five times in a row. That decided it. I brought home a six-week-old Weimaraner. I later learned you’re supposed to leave them with their mother until eight weeks, otherwise, never they will believe they’re a dog. Man Ray, was the name of my first Weimaraner, didn’t really grow up thinking he was a dog. He went everywhere with me, including the studio, it was nearly impossible to keep him out of the frame. The moment I aimed the camera at him, he became totally focused, transfixed and really happy.
Courtesy the artist and Galerie GP & N Vallois, Paris
And the name of your first dog was Man Ray?
At the time, I didn’t imagine I’d end up making art with him. I thought I would name my dog “Bauhaus”, but Man Ray just didn’t look like a Bauhaus. He was sitting in a ray of light, and he looked like a little old man. I said, “Man Ray”, and the name stuck. I was also working with early video—nothing portable, more like a tabletop model I bought from a department store. I’d set up these little video pieces, and he was just so eerie and funny on camera. When Man Ray died, I didn’t think I’d get another dog. But a year or two later, I was giving a talk and someone in the audience told me she bred Weimaraners and offered me one of her puppies. I said I wasn’t really looking for a dog, but I’d come take a look. Of course, that was a mistake. It’s how I met my second dog, Fay Ray, and immediately fell in love.
Do you remember your first images — and your first camera?
Robert Cumming had this big 8 x 10 Deardorff camera, and he would document the installations I was making at the time for me. Eventually, he got tired of it. So, I ordered my own camera — a Pentax 35 mm. However, the camera I really loved was one I got later, the Mamiya C330. It was a twin-lens reflex, like a Rolleiflex. I liked working from behind the camera, setting things up instead of looking through a viewfinder. Eventually I got a Hasselblad. Then came the Polaroid 20 x 24 camera in Boston. I resisted it for almost a year—they kept inviting me to try it, and I kept saying no. Finally, just to get them to stop calling, I said yes. I brought a bottle of Revlon red nail polish and painted one of Man Ray’s toenails. I put the bottle in the frame too, so the image would be about color, not just in color. And that cracked things wide open. As a painter, I know that mixing pigments is nothing like mixing light. The printing processes I use now are totally different from the color quality of the Polaroids I worked with from the ‘70s up through 2007. I was fascinated by how bad certain colors looked on Polaroid – greens especially. That camera wasn’t built for nature shots. It was made for, I don’t know, people’s birthday parties or something like that.
Courtesy the artist and Galerie GP & N Vallois, Paris
In many of your photographs the dogs appear almost human. What’s the idea behind that?
That actually started with the Polaroid camera – it shoots vertically, so you have to bring your subject up into the fame. I had Fay Ray up on a stool to get her into position. My assistant, Andrea, was adjusting something while standing behind Fay covered with the blanket, and it looked like Fay had human hands. That was the ‘Eureka’ moment. It wasn’t cute – it was spooky. Fay Ray looked like a mythological figure, a kind of goddess. That’s when I leaned into it. I never used Photoshop. I wanted it to be real – the dogs were there, physically present. That sense of them collaborating with me was and is crucial.
How did you organize your dogs during a photoshoot?
My dogs are very good at sitting still – just being present. No tricks, no adjustments. The studio setup usually involves lots of lights and an assistant or two. The dogs know this is something serious, something they are part of. This isn’t playtime; this is work. I never use treats or food. I don’t talk to them much during shoots. I touch them, gently position their heads – more like sculpturing than training. And it works. My dogs really like being photographed. Once they realize you’re not a vet, that you’re not going to give them a shot, they relax. Of course, it doesn’t always work out. Some days you get nothing. But often, I get something I never expected. And that’s what keeps it exciting.
What’s your working routine like?
I work every day. If we’re shooting, I organize props. If I’m making drawings, I prepare my desk – right over there (gestures). I just get up and start. If I don’t, I go crazy. Lately, it’s just been me, my dog Flo and my assistant Jason – he drives a couple of hours to come help. I’ll show you around – this is my painting area, and these are paintings of TVs that I’ve been working with lately. Here’s my old desk – I’ve had it since 1960. It’s where I draw, write, think. I listen to classical music, CDs mostly. I’m not a tech guy. Jason has the photography background. He takes most of the pictures now. I just direct. We still use Hasselblad, now with a digital back.
Plaid Beware (2017)
Casual (2002)
Courtesy the artist and Galerie GP & N Vallois, Paris
Can you recall any particularly challenging or surprising photo shoots?
One of the most amazing moments was flying to northern Maine, this remote, wild place. I set up four Weimaraners – each one about 300 feet apart – and had them hold their position while we photographed them from 800 feet away. That they stayed so still in the middle of nowhere – it stills blows my mind. Another time, I made a short film called Dog Baseball. There were nine dogs in it – only one was mine. The rest were trained, and they all held their positions while we shot on 35mm film. It aired on Saturday Night Live. The fact that the dogs let me place them and just … stayed, it was incredible.
How did you survive early on in such a competitive field?
In the beginning? I was on food stamps. I was basically living on welfare. Ed Ruscha, a well- known artist, came over one day and bought about twenty of my photographs for $50 each. That money kept me going. I took photographs. Someone convinced me to move to New York. The minute I did, I got a gallery and started showing. Suddenly, I was an “emerging artist”. Once I started working with the Polaroid camera, things picked up. The work became more popular, and then the books and publications helped me make a living.
What have changed in photography since you started?
Well, for one thing, I never wanted to be known as a photographer. My college roommate, Robert Cumming – he was a real photographer. I’ve always seen myself as an artist. I’m more of a director: I stage images, set the scene. Recently, I saw some of my early work in an exhibition. It was badly printed and rough around the edges – but to my surprise, it got a lot of attention. These days, every photo you take on your phone looks perfect. It’s almost impossible to take a bad picture anymore. And because of that, it’s harder to get attention and to stand out. There’s less room for the happy accidents, the handmade imperfection. I think that’s exactly what made those early images compelling – their roughness, the fact that they weren’t trying to be perfect.
