A Lens on an Era
A Just-Closed D.C. Photo Developer Documented The Turbulent March From Camelot to Watergate

By Lisa Frazier Page
Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, January 17, 2007

The black-and-white photographs scattered on tables and in boxes throughout the Capitol Hill photo shop tell of a time long gone.

There's the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., hands folded under his chin; the young Beatles in Washington with the Capitol in the distance; President Lyndon B. Johnson, smiling broadly from atop a horse at his Texas ranch; and President John F. Kennedy, in shadow from behind, leaning on his desk toward the light -- the famous George Tames shot dubbed "The Loneliest Job in the World."

In an era when Washington was the epicenter of explosive politics and social change, George Asman was the go-to guy for the legions of Capitol Hill photographers documenting the era, the man who froze these and other historic moments on film. His shop -- Asman Custom Photo, 924 Pennsylvania Ave. SE -- delivered to the world some of Washington's most famous images from the Kennedy years, the civil rights movement and the Nixon tumult.

But the lab, a victim of changing technology, closed its doors last month after nearly five decades. And as if he were too much a part of the business to go on, Asman died Sunday, on his 84th birthday.

"It's the end of a good life," said Dennis Brack, a freelance photographer who was one of Asman's original customers. "It's sad to lose a friend. All I can do is look back and think of the guy behind the counter. He saved my professional life, and he did it for decades."

George Asman was a darkroom technician when he moved to Washington in 1959 to establish Life magazine's photo lab. But when Life closed that operation two years later, "they talked him into starting a lab and gave him some equipment," said Barry Asman, 42, Asman's son, who had run the family business the past five years. "He got some friends to pool some money, and as things progressed, he bought them out."

From the start, the business had a built-in clientele among the Hill's professional photographers. And Asman counted several federal agencies, including the Library of Congress and the U.S. Supreme Court, among them.

Brack, who worked for the New York-based Black Star photo publishing agency, said he dashed in and out of the shop practically every day with eight to 10 rolls of film -- one time after capturing four young Brits on the Hill just after their first appearance on the "Ed Sullivan Show." The Beatles had caught the train from New York to Washington and were holding a news conference at the Northeast ice skating rink, where they were scheduled to perform. A British photographer, unable to squeeze into the sole Cadillac that held the entourage, asked Brack for a ride and let him in on a secret: The Fab Four planned to stop on Capitol Hill for photos.

With Brack trailing, the Cadillac stopped at the Capitol.

"They jumped out," Brack recalled, "and threw a few snowballs at each other" and . . . click, click, click.

Another of the early customers was Roland Freeman, 70, who has published several books and exhibited his work, which mainly documents black culture, around the world.

"It broke my heart when I heard they would close," Freeman said. "It hit me out of left field because I'm a dinosaur. I still use film when everyone else does digital."

Freeman was just starting out in his mid-20s when New York Times photographer George Tames, now deceased, pointed him to Asman for film-developing in 1963. Freeman, a young African American trying to navigate his way in a field dominated by white men, found in George Asman, known as "Mickey," a business owner who valued high quality but was, above all, gracious.

"When times were bad, and I needed $5,000 to $6,000 credit, Mickey would go ahead and give it to me," Freeman recalled.

As his career took off, Freeman stayed loyal to Asman. Asman's efficiency gave him an edge, he said.

The day President Richard M. Nixon resigned, most of the magazine and newspaper photographers positioned themselves in the garden outside the White House and focused their lenses on the red carpet, where Nixon and his successor, Gerald R. Ford, walked toward a waiting helicopter. Freeman, who couldn't get positioned to photograph the red carpet, guessed the best shot would happen at the helicopter door, so he pointed his camera there. Nixon stepped onto the helicopter, whirled around and held up two fingers in a V and . . . click, click, click.

Freeman, one of a few to get that shot, had a messenger waiting to dash the film to Asman with an order to put the job on "super rush," which meant the film would be developed in an hour and ready for the next flight to New York or wherever.

"All that fast-running news of the '60s, you'd shoot something on the Hill and run it to Asman's and put it on rush," Freeman recalled.

At its height in 1999, the business made about $1.2 million and employed 18 workers, Barry Asman said.

But times changed dramatically.

"Now, everybody and their cousin have a digital camera and a printer in the basement, and they don't need a photo lab," Freeman said.

As sales slipped, Barry Asman tried to keep up. In 2001, he bought a $210,000 digital imaging machine, then another for $114,000.

In 2002, the Supreme Court, a longtime customer, went mostly digital, said Steve Petteway, the court's photographer, who initiated the change.

"In the world we live in now," he said, "if you take a picture, someone calls an hour later, asking for a copy. If you don't have a digital image, you're in trouble."

By the time Asman's closed, sales had dropped to about $450,000. Just three workers remained.

Barry Asman said he paid off the expensive digital machines but began thinking three years ago that it might be time to move on. It was a tough decision for the son, who started in the lab when he was 10, standing on gallon cans to help wash and dry photos.

"Sometimes, people stay in business too long, and they end up leveraging their house," he said. "For me, it was a good time to reassess and get out."

He has sold some of the old equipment on e-Bay and plans to lease the Capitol Hill office space. He has a job as an account manager at Dodge Color in Silver Spring, a digital imaging company that does big jobs, such as retail signs and trade show exhibits.

George Asman developed Alzheimer's disease and kidney cancer and was living in a retirement community outside Annapolis when he died. Eventually, the company's business records and old prints will be archived in the District's public library. Soon, the old darkroom will be stripped and dismantled.