We were asked about our relationship with our chosen apparatus. I do not really have a relationship with my chosen apparatus. It is just an electronic box – pleasant to use and it mostly does what I want. I am sure a dozen other, similar camera systems would also be both. So, overall, I am not particularly fussy about what I use. It just needs to be competent for the task in hand.
For this week’s activity – making images with a totally unfamiliar apparatus – I chose an old Canon compact camera I have never used before and probably about 15 years old. To be frank, I though it was rubbish. It was poorly designed with very small and fiddly controls and the images it produced were crude in the extreme. Any modern smartphone would be better than this by an order of magnitude. The Japanese camera industry’s decline has roots long in the making.
I used to do a lot of ‘contemplative photography’ as part of a meditation programme. It was called Miksang which is Tibetan for ‘good eye’. The basic idea is to meditate for half an hour, then go out with a camera while trying to maintain the meditation but with a specific task in mind: for example, looking for a certain colour, looking for only dots or splashes of colour, looking for textures, looking for space (my favourite), and so forth. No photograph would be made unless there was a ‘flash’ of recognition and contact with something in the physical world. When that happened, the task was to use the photograph to express that moment of recognition, which is not necessarily the same as simply showing what is there. Andy Karr and Michael Wood organized these ideas into a programme and published them as a book (Karr and Wood 2011).
I thoroughly enjoyed my ‘contemplative photography’. As a mindfulness practice, it is somewhat based on the Zen idea that if the archer’s mind is clear and empty of all discursive thought (i.e. distractions) then the arrow has already hit the target before it is released. Or, the image has already been made (in the mind) before the shutter is pressed. These ideas do express a truth, in my view.
I can see this being a way towards the freedom that Flusser talks about (Flusser 2000: 81-2), because if the image has already been made in the mind then it is free of dependence on an apparatus. I should probably make more of these ideas in my practice, because I know from experience how useful they can be. I don’t think they are suitable for every circumstance but they probably tie in quite closely with my temperament and with my current project.
I made five images with the Canon compact, as requested. I also made a completely accidental ghosted exposure with my regular camera while having to move it a couple of times during a long exposure. The results are quite pleasing, in fact. I have experimented with the results in Photoshop, to see how they might look if expressed in other ways. However, the problem that soon arose is that experimentation is aimless without a clear intent. I do not have a clear intent so at present experimentation is just messing around. While that’s fine, I do not feel it is productive.
So for now I will leave these experiments and ideas and let them swirl around in my unconscious. Later, something new will probably emerge. I have to be patient.
FLUSSER, Vilém. 2000. Towards a Philosophy of Photography. London: Reaktion, 76–82.
KARR, Andy and Michael WOOD. 2011. The Practice of Contemplative Photography : Seeing the World with Fresh Eyes. 1st ed. Boston: Shambhala.
‘Post-photography’ is a huge and difficult topic that I am not sure I understand at all. My impression is that the baseline is Vilém Flusser’s definition of the photograph:
‘It is an image created and distributed automatically by programmed apparatuses in the course of a game necessarily based on chance, an image of a magic state of thinking whose symbols inform its receivers how to act in an improbable fashion’ (Flusser 2000: 76).
The photographic apparatus is therefore a dumb box that can only produce what it is programmed to produce. However, it is very easy for us then to mistake the output of the box as ‘real’ vision in some way, as if the box showed what we actually see. Soon, this can take on a much wider and unconscious cultural dimension as we automatically assume – on a society-wide scale – that what the box shows is both how we see and what was there (an indexical relationship). Perhaps this is behind the expression ‘It looks just like a photograph’. We have learned how to read the codes, so to speak, and no longer even realize that what we are reading is a code and not reality itself. Much of Cindy Sherman’s work depends on this almost automatic misunderstanding, for example.
As Flusser and many others have pointed out, however, this is a trap. We have confined ourselves to a machine-made universe. Human vision is a much more complex affair (see Elkins 1997) and in any case we do not really see – we experience. Vision is just one part of the entire gestalt by which we experience the world. This involves all our senses and our mind. Furthermore, the traditional photograph is a fantasy to begin with. It is a two-dimensional object that depends on human imagination to create the missing third dimension and the gestalt of actually being there.
These problems innate to photography have long been known and are neatly summed up by Hans Belting: ‘Every technique looks old when its motives look old. Photography no longer shows us what the world is like, but what the world was like at a time when people still believed that they could possess it in the photograph’ (Belting 2014: 146).
The core question has always remained the same, however: how to escape the trap of believing that what the apparatus reveals is real or true (indexical). In Flusser’s words: ‘Freedom is the strategy of making chance and necessity subordinate to human intention. Freedom is playing against the camera’ (Flusser 2000: 80).
Most of the artists I have looked at so far have taken three broad approaches to springing the trap. The first is to remove the photograph’s traditional (and indexical) relationship with place. This can be seen in the practice of Dafna Talmor who photographs real places but then slices up and recombines her negatives to created entirely new and imaginary places or ‘Constructed Landscapes’ (Talmor 2020).
The second approach is to remove the photograph’s relationship with time. This would seem to be a rejection of the ‘decisive moment’ doctrine, by which the image is fixed for all time at a single moment. But this imprisoning slice of time can be evaded if we are encouraged to apprehend the image presented to us right now, not as we imagine it might have been when it was made perhaps decades ago (or even hundreds of years ago in the case of a painting). Jorma Puranen and Brendan Fowler have both made use of this approach, combining images made at different times, among the many artists discussed by Robert Shore (Shore 2014). Every time we see an image in the present moment we are seeing a new image.
Robert Frank was well aware of the trap of time – that if his early work was fixed forever then his growth as an artist was stymied. He spent much of his career evading it. Thus some of his later work is about our meeting an image originally made long ago as, now, an object-image that has become part of something else (see Frank’s ‘Mabou’ of 1977). The process is well described by Hans Belting (Belting 2014: 164-8). Another approach to time is evident in the practice of Jeff Wall. Because they are entirely fictional, his tableaux allow him to combine the past, present and future of an event in a single image – as in his ‘Eviction Struggle’ of 1988.
The third approach is to encourage us to look at rather than through the image, so that texture and physicality are as much as part of the image as what it purports to show. The sheer physicality of the image interrupts our fantasies of what it might reveal and returns us to the fact of what it is. This might take the form of combining photographic images with sculptures or paintings, or simply of taking an image or parts of it and presenting it as something else according to the codes of another medium. This is largely the approach of Hockney in his playful (and wonderful) collages, or of some of Gerhard Richter’s work, or of several of the artists discussed by Robert Shore (Shore 2014) and Geoffrey Batchen (Batchen 2001).
In practice, artists often use all these methods (and no doubt many others) in combination. They reflect the now very porous boundaries between photography and other art forms as well as a general retreat from what Batchen calls the photograph’s ‘truth effect’ (Batchen 2001: 109). The point is, all are interventions to avoid Flusser’s trap: the machine-made universe.
Post-photography offers myriad exciting possibilities – we have not even got to digital manipulation yet. However, I have no real idea how these possibilities may affect my practice. I only know that they will. Normally, I need to allow an idea time and space to form and reform in my unconscious, until I feel that I really understand something. What I have to feel is that trying something different will result in a new and more expressive image, rather than an inferior one. Simply chopping up old images is not a positive – put like that. It is defacement for no obvious gain. What I need to do is allow these ideas to work on me for long enough for the positive to emerge. I am sure it will.
BATCHEN, Geoffrey. 2001. Each Wild Idea : Writing, Photography, History. Cambridge, M.A.: MIT Press, 108-127
BELTING, Hans and Thomas DUNLAP. 2014. An Anthropology of Images : Picture, Medium, Body. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
ELKINS, James. 1997. The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing. San Diego: Harcourt Brace.
FLUSSER, Vilém. 2000. Towards a Philosophy of Photography. London: Reaktion, 76–82.
SHORE, Robert. 2014. ‘Post-photography: the Artist with a Camera’. In Robert SHORE (ed.). Post-Photography: The Artist with a Camera. London: Laurence King, 176–223.
My part in the Great Zine Challenge was a collaboration with Mike and Marcel on the theme of objects found on the ground – lost, discarded, forgotten, whatever. First we went out and made some photographs. Then in online meetings we chose six images each, in square format, and agreed a page size, rough layouts and a running order of images. We then each produced our own version at home with our own twist to the basic scheme. I have called my version Foundlings.
If anyone is interested, a pdf of the full zine is here:
I do understand that collaboration and participation are where many forms of art are now located, particularly new and cutting edge ideas. In some ways perhaps much of this derives from the artists’ manifestos of the last century whether Dada, Futurist or Situationist.
In the words of the Situationist Manifesto of 1960; ‘Against the spectacle, the realized situationist culture introduces total participation. … Against preserved art, it is the organization of the directly lived moment. … Against particularized art, it will be a global practice with a bearing, each moment, on all the usable elements. … Against unilateral art, situationist culture will be an art of dialogue, an art of interaction’ (Debord 1960).
This is heady stuff. However, I don’t think that what I am doing is particularly suited to it, so for now I will probably have to confine myself to what Ansel Adams reputedly observed: ‘There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer.’
My project Hometown Nights involves photography after dark. Currently, I am intentionally making photographs of spaces without people. The reason is that when someone is in the photograph, its whole meaning changes and stories kick off. That is fine, of course, but it is not what I am trying to do at the moment which among other things is to suggest presence by absence (in respect of other people).
I have no plans to change my approach for the time being. I enjoy the evening solitude and would find other people a distraction. I do not think that urban night photography (in the way I am currently approaching it) is a good project for a collaborative, participatory or collectivist approach. Plenty of other subjects would work really well for this but in my case I think it would be a mistake.
What this week’s activities have caused me to reconsider most is the forms the output of my work might take. Here, more collaboration would be of benefit.
As I said in a previous post, the output of my work could change from a conventional fine arts photography book into a number of other things in addition to or instead of that. All of them would involve a greater degree of collaboration. These might include an exhibition (though cost might be an impediment where I live), zines, online collaborations on photography sites like Flickr and Instagram, photography walks, tutorials online and no doubt much besides.
I could also look at using for inspiration some classic night-time photographs, or paintings, much in the manner of Tom Hunter or from a more conceptual approach Jeff Wall. Some of Chris Ofili’s ‘blue period’ works come to mind too (Tate 2014, for example). Remixing is a form of collaboration. This would be very interesting and likely great fun as well as challenging. There are some pitfalls to be careful of when talking of sources of inspiration, however, such as clumsy appropriation or simply just channelling (in effect, copying) someone’s else’s work without being fully aware of it, so I am sure this is not as easy as it sounds.
DEBORD, Guy. 1960. Situationist Manifesto. In Alex DANCHEV (ed.). 2011. 100 Artists’ Manifestos. London: Penguin, 357-60.
This is what has struck me so far about collaboration or participation. But why confine oneself to just one term when there might be more enjoyment in having both? The great thing about collaboration is that one can just get down and do it instead of talking about it.
In order to avoid a long post, I will cover how I think the subject affects my own practice in a second post.
An example of collaboration (and also of participation) is an exhibition held last year here in Oxford at the Old Fire Station arts centre (Arts at the Old Fire Station 2019). It was called ICON and involved a professional photographer, Rory Carnegie, and a group of clients from Crisis Skylight Oxford (a charity which works with those facing homelessness and with people having a tough time). The aim was to recreate some of the most famous photographs of the past few decades using the clients as cast, crew and collaborators. The photographer was really just another member of the crew.
I think this is a good example of collaboration, mainly, but also participation. There was an agreed shared aim around a defined project. Those who took part did so as fully equal members, i.e. they collaborated to create the whole project. And they were also participants in individual images, standing in as performers for the subjects in the original image. In this sense they were rather like the participants in Gillian Wearing’s Signs that Say What You Want Them To Say and Not Signs that Say What Someone Else Wants You To Say of 1992-3 (Wearing 2020).
The whole project strikes me as a development of the practice of Anthony Luvera (Luvera 2020), but this time a project with a more formal organisation and more people.
The result was a great success. All the details can be seen at the URL I have referenced. This includes an Exhibition Guide, which is really about the development and methodology of the project. There is also an Evaluation Report, a really useful document and an idea well worth keeping in mind as a way not only of monitoring results but improving methods and avoiding pitfalls the next time round.
A second example: I am a member of Oxford Photographers, a group of photographers local to Oxford (Oxford Photographers 2020). We could be described as a collective, because we share a common aim (the promotion and enjoyment of photography in and around Oxford). We hold regular meetings in venues, go on photowalks and the like. We all go along as participants. From time to time we collaborate on specific projects, usually exhibitions, in which everyone helps to formulate the project aims and takes part on an equal basis. We also cooperate, sometimes in smaller groups, by pooling resources either without a shared objective (it could just be borrowing kit) or if the objective is shared then each participant approaches it independently in their own way and not under the single umbrella of a collaboration.
In practice I think a lot of these terms are pretty fluid and change as time and culture change. My references for the foregoing would be Maria Lind (Lind 2007), Ariella Azoulay (Azoulay 2016) and TATE Art Terms (TATE 2020). Interestingly, TATE Art Terms does not have an entry for collaboration. This suggests that the focus now seems to be more on process and outcomes, in terms the TATE does acknowledge such as Community Art, Social Turn, Socially Engaged Practice, Participatory Art, Activist Art and Relational Aesethetics. These ideas can overlap, too, especially in really large-scale projects which involve the coming together of many different people and organisations such as Deller’s Battle of Orgreave (Mellor 2011). The result is a much wider and more accommodating view of what we think Art is.
LIND, Maria. 2007. ‘The Collaborative Turn’. In Johanna BILLING, Maria LIND, and Lars NILSSON (eds.). Taking the Matter into Common Hands: On Contemporary Art and Collaborative Practices. London: Black Dog, 15–31.
LUVERA, Anthony. 2020. ‘Anthony Luvera – Artist, Writer, Educator’. [online]. Available at: http://www.luvera.com/ [accessed 18 Jun 2020].
The best overall reference to mediation have found is Bolter and Grusin’s Remediation : Understanding New Media (Bolter and Grusin 2000). This sets out the ground and describes some of the basic terms.
Questions this subject raises for me are these:
What is and what is not a ‘photograph’? Can any photograph any longer said to be transparent and immediate? For Barthes, this was key to the photograph’s power: ‘More than other arts, Photography offers an immediate presence to the world’ (Barthes 2000: 84). However, as Bolter and Grusin point out, ‘Although Barthes does not discuss digital photography, clearly any reworked photograph can no longer enjoy this simple and powerful relationship to the past. It becomes instead an image of a second order, a comment on a photograph or on photography itself, and therefore a representation of the desire for immediacy’ (Bolter and Grusin 2000: 110).
Is any photograph (or any other work of art) ever finished? Appropriation and remixing by later artists gives almost any work or idea an indefinite life. Perhaps we are really dealing here not with images but with symbols that migrate across media over time: ‘the “content” of any medium is always another medium. The content of writing is speech, just as the written word is the content of print, and print is the content of the telegraph’ (McLuhan 1964: 23-24).
Are appropriation and remixing really ways of accommodating – and understanding – the past in the present? Time is essentially a mystery to us. ‘Appropriation then is about performing the unresolved by staging object, images or allegories that invoke the ghosts of unclosed histories in a way that allows them to appear as ghosts and reveal the nature of the ambiguous presence’ (Verwoert 2007: 7). The ambiguous presence of the past is very much what Tacita Dean seems to be expressing in Floh.
Can one any longer say there exists an ‘author’ of any work, and if there exists no author then can anything be said to original? ‘ … it can be argued that in the contemporary world innovation is possible only within the framework of a practice of remix … Remix culture can therefore be seen as the final destination of that process of disintegration of the modernist myth of originality … It is therefore only in the remix culture that the originality, in its literal sense of something that exists from the beginning or something that is not copied or imitated, finally dies’ (Campanelli 2017: 77-78).
These ideas are something of a Wow! to take in all at once in one’s practice. So this is currently where I am:
Appropriation strikes me as a normal part of human history. There are ethical concerns around it and there are also copyright laws. The important thing for an artist, however, is to bring it off with some imagination and pizzazz.
The remixing I most enjoy is by artists such as Tom Hunter, Jeff Wall and Gregory Crewdson. I will single out here Tom Hunter’s series Persons Unknown, after Vermeer, a superb reinterpretation of another artist’s vision (Hunter 2020). It captures not only the aesthetic qualities of light but also Vermeer’s domestic settings, while adding some real social bite about equality in a society obsessed with private property. It is also a carefully considered work, as Hunter’s own essay on the project’s development shows (Hunter 2011).
Does it matter if everything has already been photographed? Not really, because nearly everything has not yet been photographed by me. That is all I worry about.
Am I doomed to the unoriginal unless I remix my work? I think that is the wrong question. I am not in this to be original but for self-expression. The challenge therefore is to find a mode of self-expression as free as possible of unconscious biases and repetitions. This is a Jungian project, in fact, to uncover and integrate the shadow (Hollis 2010). The result manifests in images.
Do I need to be the author of my own photographs, in the modernist sense of sole fabricator (and Romantic hero)? Yes, because the act of making a photograph is an intentional act, following Szarkowski’s ‘five things’ (Szarkowski 1980) or Berger’s view that ‘A photograph is a result of the photographer’s decision that it is worth recording that this particular event or this particular object has been seen’ (Trachtenberg 1980: 292).
Do I plan to remix images in my own project in the sense of combining images into collages or composites? No, I do not plan to do this.
Do I plan to remix images by acknowledging or appropriating some of the masterworks from the photographic canon? Yes, I am very open to this if I can find a way that is playful, original and relevant to contemporary concerns. I do not know how to do this at the present moment, but it is an important idea I would like to keep in mind. Likely it would not be difficult to re-stage of some the classic night-time shots of Brandt or Brassaï, for example even though, right now, my intent is different, concentrating on the unpeopled and uncanny.
Can I remix the outcome of my practice by presenting it as more than, say, a conventional fine art photography book? Yes, very much so. For example, I could collaborate with a writer as David George has done (Falconer and George 2015), or with a film-maker or any other artist. I could open an online gallery (and Instagram account) in which my images are only the starter for similar work by many others. The result would be a wider collaboration on night photography and probably much the stronger for it. This might be more of a proposition for a gallery curator than just one person’s work. And I can present my work in many different ways, for example through zines, postcards or videos on YouTube. I could even make it didactic, for example offering an online tutorial course on night photography skills using my images as the starting point.
The greatest remixes of all, I think, are Michelangelo’s unfinished sculptures know as the ‘Prisoners’ or ‘Slaves’. The reason is that in order to free these forms from their imprisoning blocks, the viewer must remix what is seen purely as an act of his or her imagination. No viewer will ever free the prisoners in the same way. Ultimately, therefore, remixing is an act of imagination. It is all in the mind.
BARTHES, Roland. 2000. Camera Lucida : Reflections on Photography. London: Vintage.
BOLTER, J David and Richard A GRUSIN. 2000. Remediation : Understanding New Media. Cambridge, Massachusetts : MIT Press.
CAMPANELLI, Vito. 2017. ‘Toward a Remix Culture: An Existential Perspective’. In Eduardo NAVAS, Owen GALLAGHER, and Xtine BURROUGH (eds.). The Routledge Companion to Remix Studies. New York: Routledge, 68–82.
FALCONER, Karen and David GEORGE. 2015. Hackney by Night. London: Hoxton Mini Press.
HOLLIS, James. 2010. What Matters Most: Living a More Considered Life. Reprint ed. New York: J. P. Tarcher/Penguin Putnam.
The activity for this week is to look at a remix or repurpose of some of my existing images. I have taken a different approach because I do not much care for remixing my images in any substantial way (I exclude simple things like crops or colour changes), though if others wish to they are welcome to. If I make a photograph of, for example, a wolf, I am also trying to respect a beautiful and dignified animal. My concern is that in the process of remixing, I will disrespect both those qualities. Changing one of my images from colour to monochrome, for example, is too quotidian to me to count as a remix and simply not very interesting.
My approach, therefore, has been to search through Google for everything associated with the word ‘Jericho’. Jericho is a district of Oxford I photographed during the last module. It is also, as Google reveals, the name of just about anything else one can think of: places from Ibadan to India, New Jersey to New Zealand, beers, rock bands, wrestlers, charities, hotels, tourist destinations, restaurants, books, firearms, films, antiquities, posters – the list goes on. Somewhere in all this there is the original place in the Middle East called Jericho, as in the Bible, but even that has vanished under a flood of other things. So, what, at the end of the day, is Jericho? Photographically, I suspect it is only a label without a meaning. Any meaning arises from the act of curation and re-assembly of a set of labels. So, while I am not remixing by combining images in Photoshop, I am remixing by changing and combining meanings and contexts. There is an element here of found photography placed out of context, as in Sultan and Mandel’s Evidence of 1977 (Sultan and Mandel 2003)
So I have put together a mash-up (assembled below as a pdf), including some of my own images, of what I discovered. All these images directly involve the name ‘Jericho’. I am not Tacita Dean (Dean and Ridgewell 2001), though I suppose like Dean I have been curating the (online) flea markets, and I make no claims to art or even to accuracy (this is Google, after all). The result is simply what happened.
What has emerged for me from this week’s topics of repeat photography and rephotography:
First, context is all. Without a powerful context or story line repeat photography – in the crude sense of then and now – does not strike me as very interesting. I am not sure it has really caught on. The Flickr Group ‘Looking into the Past’ cited by Jason Kalin (Kalin 2013: 172) has been moribund since 2016 and on Instagram the hashtag #rephotography has just 12,600 iterations.
The matter is very different with a context or story, however. Recently, before-and-after Covid-19 lockdown pictures of Venice or of smog-free views of the Himalayas from India have been hugely popular. Such images offer a visual record of a big and perhaps once-in-a-lifetime change.
Similarly effective was Now and Then, an exhibition of repeat photography by Daniel Meadows at the Bodleian Library last year in which portraits from the 1970s were shown next to re-photographs of the sitters two or three decades later (Crean 2019; Meadows 2019). The exhibition included audio recordings of the sitters describing their lives in deprived areas of northern England, and there were plenty of captions and background material including a talk and discussion with Meadows himself. In other words, this was not just the basic ‘then and now’ but a view into a story and into the lives of others.
Another recent exhibition, Shot in Soho, at the Photographers’ Gallery in London featured various photographers and their interpretations of the Soho area over the decades (Rodriguez 2019). The crucial distinction here is that each photographer offered a very clear story. A simple collection of images would not have been nearly so effective. Again, we were drawn into individual lives through the stories the photographers chose to tell.
Two more points I have picked up from this week.
First, I very much warm to the idea of repeat photography as a form of mnemonics, ‘a social practice for remembering, a particular orientation to memory, and thus a way of being in the world. Rephotography, rather than a representation of memory, suggests a practice of actively constructing and inhabiting memories and their times and places while also incorporating them into the present as active forces’ (Kalin 2013). This is very relevant because it is close to my current practice of urban photography.
Second is the perhaps unexpected conclusion that Mark Klett found emerging from his practice of rephotographing the landscapes of the early American Survey photographers such as Timothy O’Sullivan (Klett 2011). What emerged was that all subsequent photographers no matter how apparently different – whether Ansel Adams or Robert Adams – had employed the same world view without realising it. They had all seen nature and man as distinct and in opposition – there is the pristine wilderness and then man despoils it – but in reality they are not distinct. Man and nature are part of the same whole, a view instinctively understood by native peoples all over the world.
So, repeat photography can have some cultural surprises hiding inside it. Another good example is the history of Afghanistan drawn out by Simon Norfolk (Norfolk 2020) and his search for the photographic locations used by the nineteenth-century photographer John Burke: war after futile war, all driven by the almost exactly the same imperial delusions and all failing in almost exactly the same way. The images – both Norfolk’s and Burke’s – tell the story together, but just one or the other alone would not.
Distinct from repeat photography is rephotography, meaning the reinterpretation, re-creation or re-staging of the past. This strikes me as very different and much more creative and interesting. I do not have any particular thoughts about it right now but perhaps I will return to the subject. I liked the interview with Jeremy Deller (Mellor 2011), however, and this set me thinking about the place of rephotography in the practices of Jeff Wall and Gregory Crewdson, artists I really like – so I have plenty of interesting connections to follow up.
The overall connection which emerges from the whole week, however, is one word: collaboration.
CREAN, Mark. 2019. ‘Predator or Collaborator?’. Critical Research Journal [online]. Available at: https://markcrean.photography/index.php/2019/10/19/predator-or-collaborator/ [accessed 11 Jun 2020].
My current research project is called Hometown Nights and is an exploration of my home city, Oxford in England, and its environs after dark. I have kept with the same project since the start of this degree course last September.
To quote from my Critical Review of Practice for PHO702: ‘I am locating my practice in a long tradition of urban night photography. The genre goes back to practitioners such as Steichen and Stieglitz, but my primary interest here is twofold: first, the tradition of photographers of urban American culture such as William Eggleston, Stephen Shore, Joel Sternfeld and Mark Power; and second, with contemporary practitioners who have often concentrated on night photography such as Rut Blees Luxemburg, Todd Hido, Nick Turpin, Gueorgui Pinkhassov, David George and Awoiska van der Molen.’
This is very much a work in progress because I haven’t yet found which particular approach and style of photography after dark is my own and the one to zero in on. But … I hope I am getting there.
My most recent Work in Progress Portfolio- submitted for PHO702 – can be found here:
This is my preparation task for the new module, PHO703: Surfaces and Strategies.
I have got to grips with Adobe In Design and used it to prepare a simple photobook called Short Waits. A subtitle for it might be Bus Stop Magic in 26 Signs.
True, it is inspired by Ed Ruscha’s Twentysix Gasoline Stations (Ruscha 2020) and his similar books. My images also show largely unpeopled, workaday way stations we don’t normally think much about. And like Ruscha, ‘I was after that kind of blank reality that the subject matter would present’ (Ruscha 2006). However, if I am honest I would say that my book also owes a lot to the peculiar psycho-social conditions of Covid-19 lockdown in the UK. Isolation and emptiness have become the new normal, another kind of ‘blank reality’.
My book is larger, a little less barebones and apparently artless, and it is in colour. I could easily have made the book with monochrome images but part of my intent with this course is learning to use colour much more effectively, and so I have forsworn black and white for almost all my coursework. Ruscha said that he used his camera as a simple recording machine – ‘I just pick it up like an axe when I’ve got to chop down a tree’ (Coleman 2002: 53) – but I am not as hard-hearted as that.
I offer a pdf of the book online here for anyone who is interested. I have sent the original material off to be printed (by Blurb) and expect to receive a finished copy on about 05 June.
What have I taken from this work? An appreciation of Ed Ruscha, the satisfaction of starting and completing a project, the pleasure of creating a book, and learning how to use Adobe In Design. Making a start on using this software effectively is a great step forward for me.
COLEMAN, A.D. 2002. ‘I’m Not Really a Photographer’. In Edward RUSCHA and Alexandra SCHWARTZ. Leave Any Information at the Signal : Writings, Interviews, Bits, Pages. Cambridge, Mass. : MIT, 53.
RUSCHA, Edward. 2006. In Denis LAWSON, ‘Paper Movies’, The Genius of Photography. BBC TV Arts Documentary. London: BBC.
RUSCHA, Edward. 2020. ‘Twentysix Gasoline Stations, (1963, Printed 1969)’. Art Gallery NSW [online]. Available at: https://www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/collection/works/427.2008.a-vv/ [accessed 27 May 2020].
Privacy & Cookies Policy
Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. This category only includes cookies that ensures basic functionalities and security features of the website. These cookies do not store any personal information.
Any cookies that may not be particularly necessary for the website to function and is used specifically to collect user personal data via analytics, ads, other embedded contents are termed as non-necessary cookies. It is mandatory to procure user consent prior to running these cookies on your website.