Biography

Discussion

It is unlikely that Nicolaas Henneman would have become a photographer had he remained in the Netherlands. At the time he entered into Talbot’s service at the age of twenty-six, he showed no sign of any major creative urge or noticeable artistic talent. Being born into the poor family of a day laborer, his background also prevented him from ever having studied chemistry and optics. What Henneman did have, however, was an adventurous spirit that took him to England via Paris, where he became the personal servant of William Henry Fox Talbot (1800-1877). It is unclear precisely when he arrived in England, but it almost certain that he was in Lacock when Talbot read aloud his ‘Account of The Art of Photogenic Drawing’ to The Royal Society on 31 January 1839. From the correspondence that has been preserved, it becomes apparent that Talbot had included ‘Nicole’, as Henneman was called, already in the very early stages of his photographic experiments. He taught Henneman how to make ‘photogenic drawings’ (photograms), and later calotypes and salt prints. Henneman also accompanied Talbot on his travels through Germany (1842), France (1843) and Scotland (1844).

Talbot showed a great trust in Henneman’s capabilities. In 1844, he made him the head of the photographic printing firm that had been established in Reading, to the west of London. This was one of Talbot’s first attempts to commercially exploit the calotype. In 1841, Talbot had sold a licence to the miniature painter, Henry Collen, who opened the first calotype portrait studio in the world. But his highly retouched and painted portraits could in no way compete with the well-defined daguerreotypes produced by, for instance, Richard Beard and Antoine Claudet in their portrait studios. Admittedly, Claudet—who himself obtained a license from Talbot to make calotypes in his studio several years later—was no more successful in this endeavour than Collen.

Particularly in the area of portrait photography, the daguerreotype had initially met with much greater success. Talbot, however, realised from an early stage that his own positive/negative process on paper offered many more possibilities. It was for this reason that in his patent of 1 June 1843, one of his new goals was the production of stable and uniform photos for book illustrations: i.e. photos that did not fade quickly and that virtually all possessed the same tone. It was with this aim in mind that, in 1844, Talbot asked Henneman to establish a photographic printing firm in Reading that would become known by the name of Reading Establishment. Talbot himself did not assume the everyday running of the printing house, as it was hardly common practice in the nineteenth century for a gentleman of his stature to do work. Besides, Talbot was busy with other activities that interested him. In 1844, he wrote in a letter to William Jerdan, chief editor of the Literary Gazette, that the complex nature of photography necessitated a well thought out division of labour: one person’s task should be involved in the developing of new photographic processes, with the other applying and exploiting those processes that were already in existence. Talbot could not have expressed his motivation for the printing establishment in Reading in more concise terms. Because Henneman, as the Reading Establishment’s head of operations, was responsible for the commercial side of the calotype process, Talbot was free to devote his attention to technical improvements.

Henneman worked in the Reading Establishment on the publication of The Pencil of Nature, with the first edition appearing in June 1844. It would be the very first illustrated book to appear with photographs, comprising in total twenty-four images. Talbot had not made these images specifically for the publication, but rather carefully selected these from his existing stock of negatives. The subjects of these photos varied from the places and buildings that were special to Talbot—including Lacock Abbey, Oxford and Paris—to still lifes of glass, porcelain, leather book bindings and reproductions of engravings. His choice was also based on his desire to the diverse possibilities that the medium had to offer. At least one negative was made by Henneman: Plate XXII, Westminster Abbey, in the final edition. In the accompanying texts, which were also written by Talbot, the technical, historical and aesthetic aspects of photography were also addressed.

Upon his arrival in Reading, Henneman went out into the surrounding neighbourhood with his camera in hand. His photos reveal how Reading looked at the time. The printing firm has also been recorded, providing us with an idea of how Henneman went to work in producing photographic prints. A major share of this work took place outdoors, as Henneman was dependent upon sunlight. In the back garden, he set up racks with a large number of printing frames, in which paper that had been made light sensitive was exposed to light with a negative. Up to September 1844, it was in this manner that he managed to produce at least ten-thousand prints. For just the first edition of The Pencil of Nature, which appeared in an edition of 270 copies, Henneman had made more than 1,300 prints. He did not work alone, he also recruited assistance from the local shop-keepers, such as Thomas A. Malone, an apprentice druggist in the apothecary where Henneman purchased his chemical ingredients.

In Reading, Henneman also made the prints for Talbot’s tribute to Sir Walter Scott: Sun Pictures in Scotland. In addition, he did commissioned work for others. One of the first private commissions he received was from John Walter, the chief editor of The Times. Walter’s daughter, Mary Catherine Walter, had passed away young. In commemoration, her father had a small book made featuring a photograph of a marble bust of the young woman that was taken by Henneman. In 1847, Henneman produced a supplement with photos for Sir William Stirling’s Annals of the Artists of Spain. This supplement consisted of more than sixty reproductions of prints, drawings and several oil paintings. Stirling’s book was therefore the first art historical study illustrated with photographs; Henneman was therefore the first reproduction photographer. Written correspondence reveals that Henneman saw this commission as a challenge, because photographing two-dimensional artworks required technical skill. Stirling was entirely satisfied with the final result. To this day, these photo have proven to be of sound quality.

From the inventory lists that have been preserved after the dismantling of the printing establishment in 1847, it turns out that Henneman was also running a kind of photo specialty store in Reading. Here he sold equipment, chemical ingredients, paper and licences to amateur photographers, such as Nevil Story Maskeline. These photographers could also come to Henneman for lessons in photographic technique that were being offered along with the license. For some of these photographers, such as Calvert R. Jones and George Bridges, Henneman also printed the negatives at Reading. Jones and Bridges photographed primarily in the countries around the Mediterranean. The photos that they took on their travels were distributed to booksellers and print dealers throughout Great Britain. Henneman was indeed in charge of the everyday running of the printing house in Reading. His precise status, however, was only made clear upon signing a contract with Talbot on 6 June 1846. This was probably a consequence of the arrival of an accountant in January 1846, Benjamin B. Cowderoy. It was his task to oversee the business side of the company, with Henneman continuing to manage the artistic aspects. Talbot was the owner of the printing firm and determined company policy in general. He hoped that with Cowderoy he could run the firm more professionally and turn into a profitable business. The contract with Henneman was a part of this. In it was stated that Henneman would receive a salary of £150 per year and also be paid one shilling per approved negative and one shilling per hundred approved positives. Prior to this time, Henneman’s income was derived from the commission that he received from Talbot based on the number of prints he made, irrespective of the quality.

Although it seemed that Talbot wished to give the Reading Establishment a second chance with the arrival of Cowderoy, he was also toying with the idea of starting a portrait studio in London. In actuality, the first thing that Talbot had Cowderoy do was to calculate what such an undertaking was going to cost. Even Henneman in his letters had previously remarked on numerous occasions that the making of portraits could very well prove to be more lucrative than making book illustrations and photos for the print trade. The public for portrait photos was indeed much larger than the elite group of print collectors and artists that Talbot had in mind in Reading as potential buyers of his photos. An additional problem was that there were complaints regarding the preservability of the photos, which had a tendency to fade quickly. Lastly, the expenses still proved to be greater than the revenues. In December 1846, Talbot finally signed a rental agreement with the instrument makers, Newman & Co., for the top floors of their building at 122 Regent Street in London. In the summer of 1847, the Reading Establishment was closed permanently and Henneman moved to London, where he continued his business activities further. At the same time, he had a glass portrait studio built on the roof.

This studio was initially also run under the management of Talbot. But he had lost a lot of money with the printing establishment in Reading, and realising that it would be difficult to oversee things from Lacock, he offered Henneman the chance to run the studio on his own: ‘I wish to know whether you would like to set up business on your own account as a Photographer if I were to lend you some money to begin with & were to give you a license upon easy terms. I wish you to turn it over in your mind, & let me know if you are to do so I think you might do well to enter into partnership with Malone as I think you two might do a good business in Regent Street’. It had become apparent in Reading that Thomas A. Malone possessed a solid knowledge of technique and chemistry.

The extensive correspondence with Talbot leads one to believe that Malone focussed his energy primarily on experimentation, while Henneman ran the studio. Unfortunately, very few of the photos that Henneman and Malone took on Regent Street have survived. The only portrait that can be attributed to them with certainty—based on the stamp on the reverse side—is that of the painter, William Henry Hunt. The artist has been eternalised, while having turned his face towards the camera, which gives the photo a dynamic character. The fine gridlines that have been drawn on the portrait in pencil may indicate that Hunt used the photo to paint a self-portrait. The portrait has not been retouched, something that would most certainly have pleased Talbot. This was indeed something about which he often complained, i.e. the way in which the miniature painters employed by Henneman & Malone ruined photos with their heavy retouching.

Malone relinquished his activities for the studio on Regent Street in 1851. After having exhibited works together with Henneman at the Crystal Palace for the occasion of the world exposition, Malone began teaching at the Royal College of Chemistry. Henneman continued on under the name, Henneman & Co.

In September 1851, it seemed that Henneman was destined to receive—with Talbot’s help—the large commission from the Royal Commissioners of the world exhibition to produce photos for the jury reports. However, the commissioners were so dissatisfied with the quality of the initial photos that Henneman made for them in relation to the price (3 guinea per negative), that they wanted to break the agreement with Henneman and Talbot. The negatives and prints were supposedly not strong enough and faded quickly: a complaint that Henneman incidentally heard more often. In the correspondence exchanged with the Royal Commissioners, Talbot tried to convince them that they were wrong. He stated that it was impossible for them to have an informed opinion, considering that they knew nothing about photography. Henry Cole, chairman of the Royal Commissioners, was to have the last say on 14 November 1851: ‘In fact at no price whatever would it be worth while having Mr Henneman’s printing. They are too dark, not at all artistic and already show serious defects’. The Englishman, Hugh Owen, the Frenchman, Claude-Marie Ferrier, and Friedrich von Martens, who likely originated from Belgium, were ultimately the men who made the negatives. Robert Bingham received the commission to make the necessary 20,000 prints in the South of France.

Henneman profited more from Scott Archer’s invention of the wet plate collodion glass negative in 1851. By 1852, Henneman was one of the first professional photographers to make negatives with this technique. And this was not without success: the portraits made with this method were greatly admired, as can be read in an account found in the French photography magazine, La Lumière. The portrait of an old man in a cape, for instance, calls to mind associations with the portraits that the French photographer Nadar had begun making in France during this same period. The portrait exudes a certain grandeur, which may very well explain why it was for a long time believed that it was a depiction of Lajos Kossuth, the Hungarian freedom fighter, who also sat in front of Henneman’s camera in 1851. In these years, however, Kossuth is certain to have been substantially younger than the old man portrayed here. Moreover, a second portrait of this very man is held in the collection of The National Museum of Photography, Film and Television in Bradford—but then photographed in profile—on which one can read the name ‘Signor Sentura’ written in mirror image. The year 1853 was an extremely successful year for Henneman, when he produced 833 portraits. In this same year, an editor of Charles Dickens’ magazine, Household Words, described Henneman’s studio, where he observed the photograph skilfully preparing a glass negative. Also living in London was the Swede, Oscar Gustav Rejlander (1813-1875), who also managed to find 122 Regent Street when seeking a capable photographer who could teach him the profession: ‘In 1853, having inquired in London for a good teacher, I was directed to Henneman. We agreed for so much for three or five lessons; but, as I was in a hurry to get back to the country, I took all the lessons during one afternoon! Three hours in the calotype and waxed-paper process, and half-an-hour sufficed for the collodion process!!’. The French photography critic, Ernest Lacan, devoted an extensive article to Henneman in La Lumière, ecstatically praising his series of photos on the Zulus. Henneman is certain to have possessed the skills to put his models at ease. As a result, his portraits never come across as being forced. Undoubtedly, the Zulus’ visit to London, where they were put on exhibit, is certain to have been a frightening experience for them. Even then, Henneman succeeded in having them pose in a manner that was relatively relaxed and natural. One point of critique concerned the manner in which the photos were printed. According to Lacan, Henneman had failed to fix and finish finish his prints adequately, and for this reason, they had lost a significant amount of their strength and tone.

Besides the large portrait studio, Henneman again opened a printing house in 1853. He had it built in Kensal Green, then a suburb of London. Business operations were run according to a factory-like approach, comparable with that of Blanquart-Évrard’s ‘Imprimerie Photographique’ in Lille, which was operating at about the same time. For each stage of the production process—from the preparation of the negatives to the mounting of the prints on cardboard—separate studios were set up, located directly adjacent to each other. However, the printing house never received any major commissions.

After 1853, the number of Henneman’s commissions diminished drastically—a consequence of the steadily rising competition. Because Scott Archer’s wet collodion process was never protected by a patent, everyone was able to learn and profit from the technique. As opposed to the calotype, for which professional photographers were required to pay Talbot a substantial sum of money in order to acquire a license (for amateurs, Talbot offered a lower price). Henneman was hardly able to defend himself against the sometimes rather unfair competition. In 1856, Talbot’s attorney, Bolton, finally initiated the negotiations, which eventually led to the shutting down of both the studio and printing house in 1858. In the process, Talbot was generous enough to assume a large share of Henneman’s debts. Talbot and Henneman parted ways for good when the latter departed with his family to Birmingham to try out his luck as an operator with Napoleon Sarony and his business partner, Robert White Thrupp. This was not met with success, as Henneman’s final letter to Talbot in 1866 clearly attests: ‘I am here in a situation till July. I was obliged to take it as London is awash with photographers. They advertise themselves as first rate artists at 30 shilling a week. I do get four pounds here but I am sorry to say it does not suit my health. I am pretty well shut up for 8 hours in a room by stretching my arms out I can touch the walls both ways so I can’t call it a room but a closet.’ Not long after, Henneman began a second career as a pension owner in London.

Henneman’s journey on the path of photography did not always meet with indisputable success, as was often the fate of many pioneers. This by no means implies that his activities were lacking in significance. On the contrary, the fact that he was Talbot’s assistant in his photographic printing establishment and ran his own portrait studio, makes him one of the first professional photographers. He was unable to build upon the experience of his predecessors and by necessity usually had to find out for himself the best way to exploit the new medium. Although it may have seemed that Henneman had struck his own path in London, in reality, he never became entirely independent of Talbot. In financial terms most certainly, the latter had always continued to assist him in his endeavours. The clarity and simplicity found in the small oeuvre that Henneman left behind contradict much of the critique he sometimes had to endure. It was a critique frequently heard with respect to the still far from perfect photographic technique.

Documentation