All the Malta studio portraits of the classical era I have seen have one feature in common: none of the sitters has a smile on their face. Male or female, young or old, civilian and military, they all look glum and intense, with a required or natural gravitas, a foreboding of doom.

Today, in posing for a camera, a paste-on smile seems to be a necessary prerequisite; say ‘cheese’, the current password for the often strained rictus. Not then. It is as if all the sitters had been made to believe they would be ruinously fined if a trace of joviality could be detected on their visage.

Why this standard, universal gloom has to have an explanation.

Excessive laughter was considered, if not outright sinful, at least vulgar, and good Nordic manners required the suppression of all pointed shows of outward emotion. The Puritans and the Calvinists banned smiling, quoting the Gospels that never have Christ laugh or even smile.

This, coupled with awful dentition before the establishment of dentistry and of buccal hygiene, may help to explain why, in early photo portrait­ure, not one of the sitters ever shows one trace of teeth and all keep their lips tightly pursed. You laughed, coughed or yawned covering your mouth discreetly with your hand. This is hardly a Maltese phenomenon. The universality of the unsmiling pervades portrait photography from the beginning to the first part of the 20th century.

Most photographers’ adverts at that time made use of plain letterpress, with no illustration at all – so it is gratifying to come across some rare breaches to this rule. One of the prettiest vignettes tops the advert in Italian by the photographer Christopher Burck, whose studio was in Cospicua. It shows a line engraving of a lady posing on an armchair with a child in her arms, in front of a photographer and his assistant, both engrossed in a ponderous camera on a tripod, while two dogs frolic around.

Burck only took photos between 1 and 4pm, the advert says, which implies he used natural, rather than artificial, light. But then, he assures us, his prices were assai moderati. I have never come across any of Burck’s photographic work. It possibly lies unrecognised in the piles of unsigned Victorian portraits.

Another photographer who used a vignette to promote his business was Michele Zahra of 125, Strada Bretannica (sic), Valetta (sic). On the backs of his cardboard mounts for portraits he printed another sketch showing the inside of a photographic studio. The photographer, wearing a long coat, crouches behind a large wooden square camera, his head hidden under the dark cloth that enabled him to see the frosted glass plate, but stopped unwanted light from spoiling the sensitive negative.

Posing for him are a fine gentleman in frock coat and a lady prejudiced by an important crinoline. What is amazing in this composition, and politically incorrect, is that the woman is sitting down, while the man is standing. In many of the other joint portraits of spouses I have seen, Maltese and foreign, it is usually the other way round – the man is enthroned on a comfortable armchair, looking very satisfied with himself, while his wife does the standing up, sometimes behind him and at a dutiful distance.

Horatio Agius from Cospicua too sometimes resorted to an engraved or lithographed vignette in his adverts. The sitters in his case are three: father, standing, mother in fussy Victorian dress, sitting, with a little girl by her side. The photographer, Agius presumably, contemplates this image of family bliss from a distance, from the far right, next to a self-conscious-looking camera. The air is faux-genteel, from the elaborate carpeting to the huge fluted column, tasked with rubbing off rank and refinement on to the sitters.

At about the same time, Razju Agius from Vittoriosa pitched his wares differently. His name changed more than once, three times actually, and so did his titles. Our Razju started off as Orazio, advancing then to Horace. But that was still not enough and he eventually settled for Horatio, in fact, Chev. Horatio Agius. He is the first mass-production Maltese photographer, with all the plusses and minuses that implies.

Leandro Preziosi did mostly portrait­ure, while Agius went in wholeheartedly for landscapes, costumes, scenery and harbour views, though he has some reasonably good portraiture to his credit too.

The universality of the unsmiling pervades portrait photography from the beginning to the first part of the 20th century

His adverts boast that he can photograph “in all kinds of weather, best style warranted and at the cheapest rates”. He promises photographs mounted in a frame 14 inches by 16 inches, which make “a nice picture for the drawing room”. The first copy cost six shillings, each subsequent one, one shilling and six pence.

Giuseppe Lorenzo Formosa, a pupil of Preziosi, of Old Theatre Street (hint to lure British customers: “near the Protestant church of St Paul”) also took portraits in any kind of weather, only from 10am to 3pm. Formosa offered his clients the “instantaneous process” too, but at prices to be agreed on beforehand. He gives the following table of fixed prices for portraits:

Cartes de visite size – first six copies, six shillings; first 12 copies, nine shillings;

Victoria or Margherita size – first copy, four shillings; each following copy, eight pence;

Cabinet size – first copy, nine shillings; each following copy, one shilling;

Promenade size – first copy, seven shillings; each following copy, one shilling, six pence;

Salon size – first copy, 10 shillings; each following copy, one shilling, six pence;

Whole plate size – first copy, one pound; each following copy, four shillings.

Sometimes the adverts witness the outright wars, no holds barred, between photographers whose previous partnership had turned badly sour. H.J. Davison had his own studio called La Valetta (sometimes La Valletta) but had then joined forces with his brother-in-law Saverio Ciantar Preziosi to run the London Studio.

Towards 1881 they fell out badly – and both deemed it a great idea to thrash out their differences by buying advertising space in the media. Davison hogged almost three full pages, Ciantar Preziosi just over one page. They both had the same straightforward and unsurprising agenda: to praise themselves and rubbish their former partner.

Davison provides some background in his advert: in 1858 he had founded the London Studio in Gibraltar, where he invented a process to make portraits for the magic lantern; he had practised photography “in the four corners of the globe” and won prizes in Indian and American exhibitions.

In 1878 he formed a partnership with his brother-in-law, nudge nudge, “Saverio (Dei Gratia) dei Conti Ciantar Preziosi Paleologo &c. &c.” who had a studio at 134, Strada Stretta, which was then faring poorly. Davison came to the rescue, giving it his trade name, the London Studio, and his abilities – Ciantar Preziosi was not a photographer, and thought he could run his business from one solitary room which had to serve as studio, reception area, waiting room, dressing rooms, retouching room, clerk’s office, show room, dark room and laboratory.

After a while, Davison realised that for his talents to thrive, he had to be “perfectly untrammelled by the narrow policy of an unprofessional partner”. He upped and left, renting “commodious” premises at 57, Strada Reale, opposite the Grand Hotel and Dunsford’s Hotel, “the most commanding position in Malta... overlooking that most delightful retreat the Queen’s Gardens and Cafe de la Reine next to the Palace”. “The house itself, having a number of noble rooms” he managed to furnish “after the best London models”.

He then announces his latest breakthrough: “The proprietor has invented a new system for throwing light or shade on the sitter, so that any hour of the day or any weather is equally good for babies, juvenile groups, etc.”

Davison tendered “his sincere thanks to the army, navy, nobility and public generally of Malta for the very great patronage he has received since 1878 while in the London Studio”.

He advised that he would soon be mounting a Grand Fine Art Exhibition, consisting of reproductions from the most celebrated paintings and engravings of the Great Masters. The catalogue, running to 140 pages containing almost 3,000 items, would be on sale for six pence.

The advert mentions the photographic services offered by Davison, a huge list including images four by three feet in size. Photos could be finished in water or oil colours and be printed on almost any material.

He guarantees he would attend personally at the shortest notice in town or in the country to take any photo required, such as groups, ships, houses, horses, dogs, carriages, tombs and post-mortems (photos of people taken after death, before burial), using the “marvellous new instantaneous process”, shutter speeds of one tenth of a second.

He had printed 10,000 copies of a second edition of his Guide to Sitters, in English and Italian, which he was giving away free of charge.

As a parting shot, he adds that Ciantar Preziosi was still illegally using the name Davison for his business, without permission. This alone proved what the name Davison was worth.

Ciantar Preziosi retorted to this highly personalised tirade by booking a full-page advert next to Davison’s in the same publication, heading his promotion “London Studio – the best studio in Malta”.

He thanks his customers “both in the army and navy as well as residents” for their continued support. He has kept the same artists “undoubtedly the best in Malta”, Mr Wotton as operator and Mr Ruchman as printer, and, with them, he trusts to go on producing “the best work in Malta” – three superlatives in a row.

A first dig at Davison: all the photographs on show in Saverio’s studio are actually their work – not specimens “fetched from afar” and passed off if they were made locally by Davison.

Ciantar Preziosi informs that he had just received a consignment of the best lenses, cameras and latest improvements from England. His is the best house in Malta for enamelling. “Special attention is given to babies”, and he always gives the greatest satisfaction. The best time for taking children is the morning from 10 to 12 – six ‘bests’ so far.

He had for sale beautiful views of the Grand Harbour, the troopship HMS Egypt, with two regiments on board bound for the Cape war (the South African frontier war). He offered every style of portrait, from the painted miniature on ivory or opal, to the beautiful life-size on paper or canvas. His prices varied from one shilling to 15 guineas.

He ends with a warning and a flourish: “Note the address, London Studio, Palace Square, Ciantar Preziosi late Davison & Co, and do not be misled by scouts put there for the purpose.”

Ciantar Preziosi cashed in on the precious Leandro Preziosi cachet – the very first photographer in Malta. Some of his portrait cartes de visite are inscribed solely ‘S.C. Preziosi’. And he was not the only one.

Another Valletta photographer about the same time who thought the addition of the magic surname would not harm his business was S. Azzopardi Preziosi. Not to mention Giuseppe Lorenzo Formosa, who inscribed some of his portraits ‘L. Preziosi’s establishment’. The Preziosi name meant a lot in the Malta photographic world.

Some of the Malta adverts mention portraits taken after death – ‘memorial’ photography. These were in great demand in the later part of the 19th century, in Britain and the US, often, though not exclusively, of dead babies and children, and are today considered to be choice collector’s items, for those inclined to the macabre.

Unexplainably, despite the persistent publicity, I have only come across one single ‘post-mortem’ portrait unquestionably shot in Malta, by James Conroy (I have seen a few others, but all unsigned and therefore impossible to ascribe to Malta with any certainty). Was the morbid market restricted to British visitors? Unlikely – whatever was fashionable with the masters, eventually filtered through to the natives, even if in some more cheapo version.

Another image genre still unstudied in Malta is stereoscopic photography, the popular rage round the turn of the Victorian century. Stereoscopic pictures were taken by a camera with two apertures, recording the same image twice, but from two lenses a few centimetres apart. When the two almost-twin images were then viewed through a stereoscope, a really stunning 3D effect was obtained.

Another image genre still unstudied in Malta is stereoscopic photography, the popular rage round the turn of the Victorian century

I have seen many stereoscopic views of Malta, some of outstanding quality, but, with the exception of those by Giorgio Sommer (the leading German photographer who worked in Italy), all are by foreign photographers just passing through.

Even the great photographic exhibition organised in 1892 by the Malta Camera Club at the Public Library, in which dozens of British and Maltese exhibitors competed, fails to mention any stereoscopic photo. From this I tend to infer that not a single photographer established in Malta, professional or amateur (except Sommer), tried his hand at this novelty – in fact, none of the copious adverts mention it.

There is also one stereoscopic postcard with a printed Grand Harbour view, published in France, probably c. 1910, of which more than one edition is known.

Colour photography, differently from what popular perceptions surrounding it tend to make us believe, started very early on – not the hand-tinting of black and white photographs, but images taken by different colour processes. Pioneer photographers obtained strikingly beautiful images in colour from the 1860s.

What kept colour photography from becoming popular were some undeniable drawbacks: the early processes were difficult to master and to control, expensive, slow and laborious. It was only after Lumiere first marketed a commercially viable patent in 1907 that colour photography started gathering popular momentum.

In Malta the advances of colour photography were followed with interest. In 1899, the Daily Malta Chronicle announced: “A photographer in Kieff (Kiev) has obtained a patent from the government for a new form of colour photography. His camera, which is threefold, takes three negatives at once, all alike in outlines, but of different values. In the first, all shades of blue come out more distinctly, in the second reds, and in the third yellows.

“From these are printed separately three positives on transparent films, which are then superimposed one on the other. It is claimed that the final result of this combination of the three primitive (primary) colours gives a perfect picture in the colours of nature.”

Another study still to be undertaken refers to the stiff cardboard backs on which portraits were mounted up the 1910s. Photos were at first printed through a light-sensitive emulsion spread on very thin paper, and this tended to curl up tightly when exposed to humidity or changes in ambient temperature. To avoid this inconvenience, photographers pasted the portraits on a thick, rigid board, which served as a support and a frame.

These boards, both for carte de visite (small) and for cabinet photos (large) were not produced locally, but ordered from abroad to each photographer’s own specifications and designs. A typical one would have a gold frame and the studio’s name impressed on the front, and a florid advert printed in refined lettering on the back in high-end lithography.

These mounts give away a lot. Busy studios ran out of stocks and ordered new ones, often changing some details, addresses or patterns. These changes enable photos to be placed, at least approximately, within time-brackets.

Take Leandro Preziosi, whose simple backs always featured the royal cipher. The earliest photos have the cipher surmounted by a small crown, while the later ones have the same cipher but under a larger crown, and with minor variants of the scroll, too. These first two show his address as 19, Piazza Bretanica, Floriana. His third batch changes the address to 28, Strada Federico, Valletta, while the final lot have the address as 28, Strada Federico, Valletta, Malta (Behind the Borsa) and a third royal cipher.

By just studying the back carefully, one already has an approximate date when the photo was taken.

Similarly, Thomas Fenech used a least four different types of mounts consecutively, and changed his business address three times: first Cospicua, then Strada San Giovanni, and finally Strada Reale, Valletta.

These changes are reflected on the verso of the mount. One mounting has a plain back, and only shows his imprint and Valletta on the front bottom margin. It is symptomatic that the photographer was Thomas Fenech in Cospicua, but stark Fenech in Valletta.

Sometimes the mounts must have been changed for practical reasons. Horatio Agius had a stock printed with the large inscription “From the rewarded studio of Horatio Agius...”. Someone must have charitably pointed out that this literal translation from the Italian “Dal premiato studio di...” sounded ludicrous in English.

His next batch more humbly announced that the portrait came “From the studio of Horatio Agius”.

But maybe I am inverting the sequence: perhaps the rewarded studio ones came after the unrewarded ones.

Richard Ellis changed the style of his mounts several times, and these deserve a study on their own. The luxury mounts found in Malta were produced in Berlin, Vienna and Milan. Some may not have been acid free, and that may account for the occasional fading, yellowing and mottling of the portrait.

When rigid elaborate mounts fell out of fashion around World War I, portraits started to be printed directly on thicker paper that did not curl. Many studios then resorted to signing their work with a die stamp, pressure embossed in a corner, or with a rubber stamp on the back.

Let’s spare a thought for the humble outdoor photographers who set up their hulky cameras and tripods in public spaces, waiting for custom, and having to make do with makeshift, open-air laboratories, consisting of pails containing developers, fixers, clean water for rinsing, clothes pegs for hanging the wet prints to dry and a guillotine for trimming the finished image.

Personally, I remember one parked at the Upper Barakka garden, and another at the Biskuttin, opposite the Phoenicia Hotel, just after the end of World War II. They were handy for passport photos and for other instant portraits, on the cheaper and less exacting end of the scale. Their names are, to my knowledge, completely undocumented, and they only live on in their unassuming work.

They must have enjoyed a business boom throughout World War I, when the great French fleet was stationed in Grand Harbour, together with the British and the Japanese units in the Mediterranean. Mixed groups of British and French sailors in uniform, holding hands or waving the Jack and the Tricoleur, became fashionable (I have never seen mixed groups of British and Japanese sailors though).

One street photographer had the brainwave of printing a board with the inscription Entente Cordiale, 1915 (the official name of the Anglo-French alliance) spelled out on it, and he propped it on the ground in front of the mixed-nationality groups, for documentary purposes.

What gives away these portraits taken by itinerant photographers is the painted backdrop. While professional indoor studios had wall-to-wall backdrops, open-air artists had far narrower ones kept upright by rickety poles – I dread to think how they survived the gusts on windy days.

Quite often the painted backdrop is not wide enough to fill the whole background of the group portraits, and awkward strips of different backgrounds peep from the sides.

Acknowledgements
Foremost in the queue for thanks is Francesca Balzan, and also Prof. Rev. Joseph Bezzina, Leonard Callus, Maroma Camilleri and Kevin Casha.

(Concluded)