'Shadow Catcher' illuminates man behind Native American portraits

Some of the North American Indian photos in Timothy Egan's epic biography of pioneering photographer Edward Curtis you'll recognize immediately, their haunting poignancy and stark authenticity unforgettable.

You'll know the one of Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce tribe, maybe Curtis' most famous. You've undoubtedly seen the proud profile of the aged Geronimo, whose deep-lined face speaks volumes. And while the title, The Piegan Dandy, 1900, might not be familiar, the picture of the coiffed young warrior is.

But chances are you never knew the name or the remarkable story of the charismatic visionary behind the camera. Curtis, you see, was to North American Indians what Matthew Brady was to the Civil War —though, unlike Brady, he's been largely forgotten.

The son of an itinerant preacher, Curtis was an uneducated forager whose family migrated from Minnesota to the Puget Sound. He began reinventing himself in the early 1890s. Through hard work and innate talent, he became the finest portrait photographer in Seattle, a bon vivant artist and daring adventurer who was the talk of the West's fastest-growing city. His reputation spread nationwide. So highly regarded was he that President Teddy Roosevelt befriended him, asked him to photograph his children, then sat for a portrait.

All that changed in 1895 when Curtis met Angeline, the last surviving daughter of Chief Seattle. Popularly called "The Last Indian in Seattle," since all others had been sent to reservations, the wrinkled and impoverished Angeline, ancient at 80, was a local legend. She reluctantly allowed Curtis to photograph her weeks before she died. The iconic photo was the beginning of Curtis' obsession to document the unassimilated Native American culture that was rapidly vanishing like the American buffalo.

Over the next three decades, Curtis, called "Shadow Catcher" by Arizona tribes he photographed, would take more than 40,000 photos and make audio recordings and motion pictures of North American Indians, from uneventful scenes of daily life to sacred rituals and famous chiefs.

Yet, despite the inherent artistic and anthropological value of his project, and a circle of Who's Who friends, Curtis struggled to find funding. Swayed by a photo of a beautiful Mojave girl, financier J.P. Morgan eventually bankrolled Curtis to produce a 20-volume edition titled The North American Indian. At more than $1,000 a set, it had only limited sales.

Curtis' "big idea" turned into "arguably the most expensive and comprehensive publication undertaken by a single citizen of the United States," writes Egan. Ultimately, Curtis' obsession bankrupted his finances and ruined his marriage.

A Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times journalist whose books include the National Book Award-winning The Worst Hard Time and the best-selling The Big Burn, Egan writes this fascinating biography with a compelling and occasionally creative narrative that challenges the age-old ratio of a picture's worth to a thousand words. Egan somehow makes both more valuable.

The book's only disappointment is that its three dozen or so of Curtis' amazing photographs, shuffled to the back pages of each chapter, simply are not enough to satisfy the curiosity Egan's storytelling arouses.