Why “Light Monkey?” The name comes from Albert Einstein’s nickname for photographers, “Lichtaffen,” (German for light monkey.) Einstein had become a celebrity in his own day and was often followed by photographers hoping to get a shot for their newspapers.
Two Iconic Portraits of Einstein
The scientist was leaving his 72nd birthday party at Princeton University, which had been swarming with photographers, and was understandably tired of smiling all night.
As he left the event and climbed into the backseat of a car, another throng of reporters and photographers advanced. Einstein was in no mood. According to legend, he shouted, "That's enough!" But they didn't listen. Out of exasperation — and maybe a little spite — Einstein stuck his tongue out at the crowd, then immediately turned away. Photographer Arthur Sasse was lucky enough to capture the split-second shot.
Einstein might have been over it that night, but he was still a good sport. He loved the photo Sasse snapped and asked UPI for nine prints he could use as personal greeting cards. Most of them were cropped to include only his face, creating the iconic image we all know today.
One of those nine prints autographed by Einstein, sold at auction for $125,000 in 2017.
Renowned photographer Phillippe Halsman (famous for his series of photos capturing celebrities, royalty and heads of state jumping for his camera) was a friend of Einstein's. Halsman relates the story of how he captured this portrait of Einstein.
I admired Albert Einstein more than anyone I ever photographed, not only as the genius who single-handedly had changed the foundation of modern physics but even more as a rare and idealistic human being.
Personally, I owed him an immense debt of gratitude. After the fall of France, it was through his personal intervention that my name was added to the list of artists and scientists who, in danger of being captured by the Nazis, were given emergency visas to the United States.
After my miraculous rescue I went to Princeton to thank Einstein, and I remember vividly my first impression. Instead of a frail scientist I saw a deep-chested man with a resonant voice and a hearty laugh...
The question of how to capture the essence of such a man in a portrait filled me with apprehension. Finally, in 1947, I had the courage to bring on one of my visits my Halsman camera and a few floodlights. After tea, I asked for permission to set up my lights in Einstein's study. The professor sat down and started peacefully working on his mathematical calculations. I took a few pictures. Ordinarily, Einstein did not like photographers, whom he called Lichtaffen (light monkeys). But he cooperated because I was his guest and, after all, he had helped save me.
Suddenly looking into my camera, he started talking. He spoke about his despair that his formula E=mc2 and his letter to President Roosevelt had made the atomic bomb possible, that his scientific search had resulted in the death of so many human beings. "Have you read," he asked, "that powerful voices in the United States are demanding that the bomb be dropped on Russia now, before the Russians have time to perfect their own?" With my entire being I felt how much this infinitely good and compassionate man was suffering from the knowledge that he had helped to put in the hands of politicians a monstrous weapon of devastation and death.
He grew silent. His eyes had a look of immense sadness. There was a question and a reproach in them.
The spell of this moment almost paralyzed me. Then, with an effort, I released the shutter of my camera. Einstein looked up, and I asked him, "So you don't believe that there will ever be peace?"
"No," he answered. "As long as there will be man there will be wars."