If the photograph is not good enough then you're not close enough,
Robert Capa.

Who said Photojournalism is dead? Friday June 30th saw the opening of Second Spring: A Letter to My Daughter, a one man play on the life and images of Michael Coyne, international photojournalist for Black Star Agency in New York. Written by Graham Pitts and directed by William Gluth, this play was staged for three performances only to capacity crowds at Melbourne's Malthouse Theatre. Negotiations are now underway for the production to go overseas. Some people were surprised to find Michael actually playing in the multi-media production tracing his life and the work. I really admired the courage that Michael had. Nikki Ciotola, Design by Ciotola

What makes someone triumph against adversity for a single image? What drives a photographer? Second Spring: A Letter to my Daughter asks these philosophical photographic questions along with the big ones - life's universal questions.

Walking into the theatre you pass Michael Coyne's images. These lead to a darkened stage. The piece opens with a Nocturne from Chopin which gradually fades into African and Arabic music while images are projected onto a screen. As the lights come up, Michael enters, sits at a table and lights a mosquito coil. He has being trying to write a letter to his daughter telling her what it's like to be a photojournalist, travelling theworld as he has been doing for the last 20 years.

Times, past and present, blend. Moving back and forth with voices and images, the writing is beautifully woven, like a living tapestry, by Graeme Pitts. The intention of the director, William Gluth was to lead the audience to a point where they became Michael's conscience, identifying with the voice-over which also performed this role. It was like being inside Michael's head and, all the while, one wanted to see even more pictures. It became a unique event and a new way of showing images. Living photography, images, sound and story went round and round, seemingly arriving back at the same point, but each time with greater clarity. A theatrical documentary with vivid insights into Michael's life, including events which led him to become a photojournalist and showing the impact that this career has had on those near to him.

As the scene shifts around the world, Michael is forever trying to write the letter. From his early beginnings working as a cadet for the Truth newspaper in Melbourne, to photographing Peters icecreams for magazines, to documenting the Islamic revolution in Iran and the devastation of central Africa, Michael continues to search for visual perfection. Always chasing the perfect image. What is truth?

Julia Margaret Cameron once said I longed to arrest all beauty that came before me, and at length the longing has been satisfied. I wonder when the longing will cease for Michael Coyne? Hopefully not for a long time.

Photojournalism is indeed alive and well and in good hands.

Sitting there watching Michael Coyne tell his story sent shivers down my spine. It reminded me of the life of every press photographer and of my first marriage when I would be working every weekend, often interstate or overseas. While most play and stage productions fantasize with the truth, Michael Coyne's story was frightenly real. Michael Coyne should gather together the world's press and show it to them. I bet the majority of photojournalists have been through this scenario. Bruce Postle

Drama has been therapy for many actors. Physcho drama. A personal catharthis but one that had the potential to represent photojournalists as a species worldwide. A theatrical seed planted to grow into a mighty tree from the personal to the transpersonal to the iconic. The play looks at the bigger picture, it tells the story of all artists. Michael Coyne tells the story of what we all fantasize about but none of us wouldwant to go there. If we did we would be just be jelly and nonsense. It takes a lot of courage and bigness of heart to bring something special like the play back and share it with the photographic fraternity. David Simmonds