Bill Snead: 'One of nature's noblemen'

By Denise Spidle

University of Kansas journalism student

(Online editor's note: This story was written for a class assignment in the spring of 2004.)

Bill Snead stands in a dim basement corner tucked under the Lawrence Journal-World's newsroom, his hand clicking the projector remote, showing the different people and places he captured through his lens.

Grim-faced U.S. soldiers and bloodied Vietnamese residents glare out from the screen. A million Kurdish refugees living on a barren mountain are symbolized by the despairing eyes of a starving infant. The projector clicks, and a weeping woman draped in ragged cloth holds her dead child.

During Snead's soft-spoken narration, the blank expressions amid his audience of high school and elementary students morphed into slack jaws and wide eyes. Removed from their everyday concerns, the students viewed dark moments in history, moments Snead had saved on film. His voice remained steady and slightly nonchalant; the images told the story.

It was when the slides moved to lighter moments -- pictures of a smiling Rosa Parks, a Beatles' interview, Albanian women laughing in a field -- that Snead's voice began to rise.

His laughter punctuated his vivid descriptions of each slide, and even in the dark, his blue eyes seemed to light up. When a naked woman flashed across the screen, standing amid photographers at the Miss Nude America contest while armed with her own camera, a fifth-grader gasped and slapped his hands over his eyes. Muffled laughter emerged from the boy's lips, and the room's sense of sadness melted away.

When the lights came on, Snead turned to his audience and encouraged everybody to step outside their safety zones ... and ask questions.

"All we have to lose is time," he said, a broad smile spreading across his weathered features. "Look at me."

Snead was a 17-year-old student at Lawrence High School in 1954 when he began working as an apprentice photographer at the Lawrence Journal-World.

"I was working for the toughest guy in town, but he knew what he was doing," Snead said. "And so then I knew."

The man was Rich Clarkson, a highly motivated photographer with standards to match. Many times Clarkson would demand re-shoots from Snead if he didn't find the work satisfactory.

"My record was three re-shoots. It really tries the patience of the person you're photographing. But (Clarkson) was an excellent photographer and motivator, usually by intimidation," Snead said.

When Snead graduated from high school in 1955, he attended the University of Kansas for less than two semesters. He continued working at the Journal-World as a one-man photo department for four years. Snead then worked for The Topeka Capital-Journal, again under Clarkson, until he was 26. When offered a job working for a newspaper in Wilmington, Del., Snead stepped outside his safety zone for the first time; he had never lived outside of Kansas.

"Everyone told me, 'Don't go to the East Coast. Somebody could shoot you, and people will just walk on by,'" Snead said. "I was moving my wife and two small children away from their relatives and friends, and I was terrified."

But upon arrival, Snead morphed into a self-described kid in a candy store. He captured his first seagull on film; after that, he said, he just took pictures forever.

His work impressed people. Job offers were always coming in; Snead has never in his career applied for a job. In 1968, Snead accepted one life-changing offer: to work for United Press International in Saigon during the most violent years of the Vietnam War.

Snead himself did not mince words about the realities of working amid gunfire while photographing the Vietnam War, and later, the danger of documenting the Kurdish refugees fleeing from Iraq to Turkey.

"My primary job in Vietnam was running UPI's photo department, but I felt I had to 'get outside' from time to time to keep any sort of credibility," he said.

In Vietnam, three of Snead's UPI staff photographers died.

"What made it particularly tough was that we were all friends," he recalled. "We drank together ... sometimes cooked up big batches of bad chili, and Kent Potter (killed at 23) and I shared an apartment."

Snead said it was the old saw: "Every night was Saturday night, and Saturday night was New Year's Eve."

Jokes eased the tension, and whiskey put a soft edge on reality.

"Bill is an extremely sensitive and sympathetic guy," said Ben Bradlee, longtime editor for the Washington Post, "and so there was booze."

But Snead did not dwell on the details of the Vietnam War.

"Hell, that was 35 years ago," he said smiling.

He forged ahead, talking about his "adventure" working as a picture editor for National Geographic and the years, some during Watergate, spent working with the likes of Bradlee at the Washington Post.

Photo by Bob Reeder/Wash Post
Former Washington Post Executive Editor Ben Bradlee pats the casket of legendary post publisher Katherine Graham at her funeral July 24, 2001. Bradlee was being escorted back to his seat in the Washington Cathedral after speaking at the funeral.

"Ben Bradlee is a hell of a guy and a man of few words -- my hero in life, and he's saved my ass more times than I can count," Snead said about Bradlee, smiling.

Snead stood in the now-empty Journal-World conference room and turned to the brick wall, gesturing broadly as he launched into a story describing his famous editor. For a moment, the basement room became a sea of news desks crammed with buzzing voices, typing keys and staffers giving Bradlee wary glances. Renowned for his talent at stringing together swear words, Bradlee had stood in front of them, just outside his office, talking with his unlikely pal, Bill.

When Snead finished filling in his boss on a personnel matter, the famously tough editor turned to the newsroom and bellowed, "Babies! A bunching of f**king babies!" Turning, he stormed into his office.

Snead recalled making his way through the 50-yard wide newsroom to his own office, while worried reporters furtively questioned him about what was going on.

"You'll hear about it," Snead intoned ominously, fighting the urge to laugh.

Dropping his arms, Snead's thoughts returned to the conference room. "I just love the man," he said.

Bradlee spares no sentiment either when speaking of Snead.

"I love him, too," he said warmly over the phone. "He's one of nature's noblemen."

Snead's work impressed Bradlee, too. What surprised him the most was Snead's desire and ability to write stories as well as shoot photos. Skeptical, but confident in Snead's abilities, Bradlee agreed.

"Ben was never a man to say, 'great idea,'" Snead said. "He would always say, 'yeah, yeah.'"

As Snead would turn to exit the room, Bradlee often would instruct the retreating figure, in expletive terms, not to mess it up. But, according to Bradlee, Snead's work did not disappoint.

His first major writing and photography layout was an 80-inch story on a religious sect of snake handlers in West Virginia, complete with 11 photos. The package ran on the front of the Sunday Style section in the Post. Soon after, Snead was assigned to cover Eastern Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Photo by Dick Swanson
Checking out the paprika in Budapest at an outdoor cafe. Snead photographed his way through the Communist Block countries after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989.

After his third trip to that part of the world, Snead was named White House Photographer of the Year and was runner-up for a Pulitzer Prize.

In 1993, after 21 years with the Washington Post, Snead returned to his alma mater, the Lawrence Journal-World, to head up the newsroom as deputy editor for Dolph Simons Jr.

According to Snead, the Journal-World "needed a little weeding."

He put people who wanted a better Journal-World "now" in front, and he asked others to step aside.

While some did not take the "decent photographer" seriously as an editor, Snead soon proved them wrong when the paper's "credibility and readability" were soon noticed.

Most of his colleagues remain in awe of Snead. Rob Curley, director of new media and convergence at the Journal-World, said his first meeting with Snead was simply an effort not to appear stupid.

"When someone has the kind of resume, respect and reputation that Bill Snead has, you kind of prepare yourself to meet a pompous ass," Curley said. "But he is so gracious, so nice, so down to earth, that the exact opposite happens. His stature grows even larger after you talk with him.

"I try to spend at least 10 minutes with Bill every day because I hope to become not only a better journalist, but a better person, by talking with Bill," Curley said. "Hearing Bill's stories and advice is ten times better than a good movie or a how-to book.

Photo by Dick Swanson
Snead photographing passengers on the Warsaw, Poland to East Berlin train.

"It's better journalism through osmosis," Curley said with a laugh.

Snead is a modest man not consumed with his accomplishments, Curley said. Snead said what he has accomplished in the past means little after his work hits the press.

"You're only as good as your last piece," he said. "You have to be willing to try things, because every new day is an opportunity to improve and change."

His constant theme of life has become the change he values in his work and career. The man who photographed historic moments loves teaching so much that he regrets not having a master's degree solely for the purpose of becoming a professor. While he admitted that some KU students he taught in the past seemed pretty uninvolved, he expressed pride over the few who loved ideas.

"With me, it was always join us, or get the hell out of our way," he said, grinning.

Change also has been the constant of his personal life. Snead, after 11 years, is now happily settled in Lawrence with his wife, Dona, but in the past he has not only battled the war zones of other countries, but the rigors of two bouts with leukemia, prostate cancer, kicking the bottle and controversy.

Perched on the table with his knee pulled up to his chest, Snead furrowed his gray brow and stared into space for a moment, recalling the words of Carlos Santana.

"Man, you get into something, do the best you can, and get out," Snead repeated.

Having come full circle and returned to Lawrence, the 66-year-old Snead still enjoys entertaining himself with controversy. Most recently, photographing scantily clad college students for the "Women of K.U." calendar spiced his resume and raised more than a few eyebrows.

For Snead, shooting the controversial calendar was little more than a chance to make people happy.

"There are people out there who know I've been around the block a couple of times, and the first question they still ask is, 'What's it like to photograph the "Women of K.U.?"'" he said, laughing. "So I make sure they get a copy for them just to see them smile.

"It's fun."

He added of his subjects: "They're nice young college women who think being in a calendar would be a hoot."

For the man who feels more honored by an unsolicited thank-you call than his published work in Life, Kansas is the return home after an adventure beyond the Midwest. Snead does not dwell on his past, nor does he dwell on the legacy that he has created. In his words, he is simply "someone who is having an awfully good time at work."

But, for some, it's not what he did, it's who he is.

"Bill is instinctively talented," Bradlee said. "Especially at being human."