The kiss pulls you in.

Two figures locked in a dramatic dip, dark uniform against white dress, occupy the center of the frame. The arch of her back and the angle of his body create a single flowing shape. Everything else from the crowd, Times Square, the war ending, falls to blur.

The entry point is obvious: the highest-contrast area in the frame is centered. The sailor's dark uniform presses against the woman's white dress, creating an edge so sharp the eye cannot avoid it. From there, the gaze follows the curve of their bodies; down the sweep of her back, along the parallel lines of his arm and her bent leg, up through his shoulder.

What keeps the eye moving is the diagonal formed by their bodies. Eisenstaedt noted he picked this frame because of "the balance"—in the other three frames he made of this moment, he said, "the emphasis is wrong—the sailor on the left side is either too small or too tall" (Wikipedia). The selected frame catches the woman's calf parallel with the sailor's arm, creating a visual rhyme that unifies the lower portion of the composition.

The secondary figures also do useful work. A smiling woman in the middle ground (later identified as Rita Petry, the sailor's date) provides human context. The pedestrians walking past add motion blur that contrasts with the frozen central moment. These surrounding elements create a ring of activity that isolates the kissing couple rather than competing with them.

The composition centers its subjects. This violates conventional advice on using the rule of thirds, but Eisenstaedt needed the couple centered for the image to work. Times Square frames them; the buildings, signs, and crowds create natural borders that draw the eye inward rather than letting it drift to the edges.

The frame divides roughly into three horizontal bands: the street and pedestrians below, the central action in the middle, and the Times Square architecture above. The vertical axis matters more. The couple forms a strong vertical shape in the center, anchoring an otherwise chaotic scene.

Negative space barely exists. The crowd fills the background, the street fills the foreground, and Times Square fills everything else. Yet the image doesn't feel cluttered because the central couple commands so much visual weight; high contrast, sharp focus, and dramatic pose all concentrate attention.

Depth comes from selective focus and scale relationships. The couple occupies the sharpest plane of focus. Behind them, the bystanders and buildings soften progressively, creating a clear separation between the main subjects and their context. This was likely a function of the f/2 aperture Eisenstaedt's 50mm lens could achieve rather than a deliberate choice; shooting in a fast-moving situation, he needed the speed.

The crowd provides scale. The other figures in the frame establish human height, making the dramatic dip of the kissing couple more visible. Without these reference points, the arch of the woman's back would read as less extreme.

The street stretches back toward the receding buildings, but this depth is secondary. The image compresses into its middle ground, where the action happens. Unlike a landscape where depth structures the entire composition, this photograph stacks its layers into a tight vertical slice.

The photograph was taken at 5:51 p.m. on August 14, 1945, according to astrophysicists who analyzed the shadow cast by the Hotel Astor's rooftop sign (CBS News). The sun hung low in the west, creating directional light from camera left. This late-afternoon angle provided flattering illumination without harsh overhead shadows.

Light quality falls somewhere between hard and soft. The shadows under the couple's chins show defined edges, but the overall scene has a slightly diffused quality, as summer light bounces between Manhattan's buildings. Urban environments create natural fill from reflective surfaces, such as windows, pavement, and light-colored walls.

The light performs a crucial function: it separates the white dress from the surrounding gray tones of the crowd and street. Eisenstaedt himself identified this contrast as essential. "If she had been dressed in a dark dress, I would never have taken the picture. If the sailor had worn a white uniform, the same" (About Photography).

The photograph displays a full tonal range, from the near-black of the sailor's uniform to the near-white of the woman's dress. The final print darkens the pavement more than the contact sheet suggests, concentrating attention upward toward the subjects.

Contrast peaks at the center; the edge where dark uniform meets white dress creates the highest-contrast line in the frame. This is where your eye first goes and returns most often. The surrounding tones are middle grays: pavement, buildings, other pedestrians. This gray surround makes the central figures pop.

Looking at the contact sheet, the chosen frame shows the clearest separation between the couple and their background. In other frames, bystanders behind them create visual clutter. Frame 25 (the published image) places the couple against the cleanest section of the crowd.

Eisenstaedt spotted the sailor before he spotted this particular woman. "I was walking through the crowds on V-J Day, looking for pictures. I noticed a sailor coming my way. He was grabbing every female he could find and kissing them all—young girls and old ladies alike" (Wikipedia).

Rather than photograph any of those earlier kisses, Eisenstaedt ran ahead of the sailor with his camera, "looking back over my shoulder, but none of the pictures that were possible pleased me." He was waiting for something better. When he saw "something white being grabbed," he turned and shot. The white uniform made the composition viable.

This decision reveals trained instinct. Eisenstaedt had been a professional photographer for over fifteen years by 1945. He knew that without tonal contrast, the image wouldn't work: two dark figures against a crowd would disappear. He held off until the visual elements aligned.

Four pictures in a few seconds. The contact sheet shows that all four are competent. But Eisenstaedt identified only one as "right, on account of the balance" (Amateur Photographer).

In frames where the sailor appears "too small or too tall," the visual weight shifts. The composition feels off-kilter. The chosen frame catches the bodies at their most balletic, with the woman's bent leg parallel to his arm, the arc of her spine echoing the curve of his embrace, the diagonal of their combined shape perfectly centered.

This selection highlights what distinguishes professional editors from photographers. Any of the four frames would have documented the moment. Only one had the visual structure to transcend documentation.

Eisenstaedt shot the image on a Leica IIIa with a 50mm f/2 lens, a small, unobtrusive camera compared to the era's press equipment (KEH Camera). "They don't take me too seriously with my little camera," he said to New York Magazine. "I don't come as a photographer. I come as a friend."

The Leica let him move through crowds, shoot quickly, and remain inconspicuous. A larger camera might have altered his subjects' behavior. The 35mm format also provided a wider frame than medium format, capturing more of the surrounding context, which was essential for establishing place.

Great photographs often feel inevitable, as if no other version could exist. But every image is a bundle of choices, and examining what could have been different reveals why those choices mattered.

If shot closer (like Jorgensen's version): Navy photographer Victor Jorgensen captured the same kiss from a few feet away at nearly the same moment. His image, titled "Kissing the War Goodbye," shows the couple in a tighter framing with less of Times Square visible. It ran in The New York Times the next day. Yet Jorgensen's photograph became a footnote while Eisenstaedt's became an icon. The difference is context. Times Square, visible and recognizable in Eisenstaedt's version, transforms a kiss into a statement about a place and a moment. Crop the setting, and you have a kiss. Keep the setting, and you have a nation celebrating.

If shot from behind the couple: You'd lose the dramatic arc of the woman's back, the sense of her being swept up. The emotional impact depends on seeing the relationship between their bodies—his strength, her surrender (willing or not). A rear view would flatten that dynamic into two figures pressed together.

If the woman wore dark clothing: Eisenstaedt himself identified this as the make-or-break element. The contrast between black uniform and white dress creates the visual anchor. Without it, the couple would merge with the gray crowd and gray street into gray undifferentiation.

If he had stopped for names: Neither Eisenstaedt nor his subjects paused to exchange information. The anonymity mattered. For decades, the photograph represented every sailor and every woman welcoming him home. Once George Mendonsa and Greta Zimmer Friedman were identified, the image became more specific and complex. The universality that made it iconic depended on not knowing who these people were.

"Never center your subject."

The rule of thirds dominates composition education. Place points of interest at the intersections of an imaginary 3x3 grid. Avoid the center because it's static, boring, and amateurish. Centering creates "snapshot" compositions with no visual interest.

Eisenstaedt centered his subjects precisely. And the image works.

The rule of thirds exists because asymmetry often creates dynamic tension. An off-center subject creates negative space, suggests motion, and avoids the bullseye effect that can make compositions feel lifeless. For most photographs, this advice holds.

But "V-J Day in Times Square" breaks the rule for good reason. The centered couple serves as a visual anchor amid chaos. Times Square swirls around them: crowds moving, signs flashing, the city continuing its business. By centering the couple, Eisenstaedt creates a still point at the heart of the storm. The composition radiates outward from them rather than asking the eye to move through the frame.

Centering also creates symmetry between the elements framing the couple. The street stretches out evenly on either side. The buildings rise equally at left and right. The bystanders distribute fairly uniformly. This balance makes the dramatic angle of the kiss more striking by contrast—the only asymmetry in the frame is the kiss itself.

Consider what would happen with off-center placement. The couple on the right third, Times Square stretching left. The composition suggests they're entering or exiting the frame. That motion would fight with the frozen moment Eisenstaedt captured. Centering stops time.

The deeper lesson: composition rules describe what usually works, not what always works. When your subject benefits from stillness, symmetry, or monumental presence, centering serves those goals.

The question to ask: Does centering serve my purpose, or am I just being lazy?

You can prepare for luck without being able to create it.

Eisenstaedt spent years developing the reflexes and instincts that made this photograph possible. By 1945, he had nearly two decades of experience as a professional photographer. He worked for the Associated Press in Berlin, covered the first meeting between Hitler and Mussolini, fled Nazi Germany, and became one of the first four photographers hired at Life magazine. He knew how to see a picture developing and how to position himself to capture it.

On V-J Day, he was on assignment to photograph celebrations, but he had no way of knowing he'd encounter this particular sailor kissing this particular woman at this particular moment. The lucky part was the sailor's behavior, the woman's white dress, and the alignment of bodies in frame 25. The prepared part was Eisenstaedt's ability to recognize the opportunity, chase it through a crowd, and select the best frame from a contact sheet.

This combination appears throughout the history of photography. Henri Cartier-Bresson's "decisive moment" depends on being ready when the moment arrives—not on manufacturing it. Dorothea Lange's "Migrant Mother" came from turning around twenty miles past a camp she'd already passed. Ansel Adams's "Moonrise, Hernandez" emerged from a desperate single exposure when the light was disappearing.

Digital photographers have one advantage Eisenstaedt lacked: virtually unlimited exposures. But more frames don't help if you're not in position, if you don't recognize the moment, or if you haven't trained yourself to see when the balance is right. Eisenstaedt took four frames in a few seconds. Modern cameras can capture hundreds in that time. Yet the ability to identify which one works remains the human contribution.

What are you doing to prepare for luck? Are you developing the instincts to recognize the image when it appears in front of you?

Understanding why a photograph works is useful, but it doesn't do you any good unless you put the learning to use.

Look for tonal contrast. Eisenstaedt waited for a white dress against a dark uniform against a gray crowd. He understood that shapes require tonal separation to be recognized as shapes. When you're shooting street photography, look for subjects that stand out from their backgrounds tonally, not just conceptually. A person in black against a white wall. A red umbrella in gray rain. The contrast does half your compositional work.

Track behavior patterns before shooting. The sailor was kissing women before Eisenstaedt photographed him. Instead of grabbing the first opportunity, Eisenstaedt ran ahead, positioning himself for a better shot that he could anticipate was coming. When you see something photographically interesting, don't immediately raise the camera. Watch. Predict. Move to a better position for the shot you see developing.

Use small, unobtrusive equipment. Eisenstaedt's Leica let him work without being taken seriously as a photographer. People behave differently around cameras; unless they don't notice them. Mirrorless cameras and smartphones offer the same advantage today. The best camera for street photography is often the one people ignore.

Center deliberately, not accidentally. If centering serves your composition, use it. If it doesn't, don't. Ask yourself: Does this subject benefit from stillness, symmetry, or monumental presence? If yes, center it. If no, use the rule of thirds.

Shoot multiple frames but edit ruthlessly. Four frames and one ‘keeper’. That ratio sounds harsh, but it reflects the difference between documentation and composition. Most frames are almost right. The job is finding the one that's actually right. When you shoot a scene, don't settle for "good enough" in the camera. Shoot variations. Then select the one with the best balance.

Accept that context complicates meaning. Eisenstaedt's photograph has been read as romance, celebration, and sexual assault. The same composition, the same subjects, the same technical choices, but different cultural lenses produce different interpretations. Your photographs may convey meanings you didn't intend.

V-J Day in Times Square didn't emerge from a vacuum. Eisenstaedt worked within a tradition of photojournalism that valued spontaneity, timing, and the ability to find meaning in chaos. These images offer different approaches to similar challenges.

Victor Jorgensen, "Kissing the War Goodbye" (1945)

Shot at virtually the same moment from a different angle, Jorgensen's image proves that position determines everything. His tighter frame shows the couple more clearly but loses Times Square. Without the iconic setting, the kiss becomes just a kiss. The comparison demonstrates why Eisenstaedt's compositional choices, distance, framing, and what to include, matter more than simply being present.

Robert Doisneau, "Le baiser de l'hôtel de ville" (1950)

Doisneau's famous Parisian kiss photograph occupies similar cultural territory: a romantic embrace in an iconic urban setting. But Doisneau staged his image, hiring actors to recreate a kiss he'd seen elsewhere. The staging went undisclosed for decades. Where Eisenstaedt captured chaos, Doisneau constructed it. Both images function as symbols of their respective cities; neither represents unmediated reality.

Henri Cartier-Bresson, "Behind the Gare Saint-Lazare" (1932)

Cartier-Bresson's leaping figure demonstrates a different approach to the decisive moment. Where Eisenstaedt tracked his subject before shooting, Cartier-Bresson thrust his camera through a fence and shot blind. Both photographs capture motion frozen, figures suspended in air or in embrace. Both succeed because of what the photographer didn't see until the negative was developed.

Weegee, "Coney Island" (1940)

Weegee's crowded beach photographs show another approach to finding subjects in mass humanity. Where Eisenstaedt isolated his couple through focus and contrast, Weegee embraced the crush; filling his frames edge-to-edge with bodies. Both photographers worked in New York during the same era; their different approaches reveal the range of choices available when photographing crowds.

Each of these photographers made different choices with similar tools. Study them to understand the range of possibilities.

Next: Nick Ut's "The Terror of War" (1972). A photograph so disturbing that editors debated whether to publish a naked child. They did and it might have helped end a war.

About Exposed Frame

Exposed Frame is a project by photographer Eric Brown. Each installment analyzes an iconic image—not to praise it, but to take it apart: what compositional choices made it work, what rules it broke, and what photographers today can learn from it.