2/28
I met with my new mentor a few weeks ago for the first time so I wanted to show her all the work I had done in my first two semesters. After she looked at about six of the urban landscape photos she stood up and grabbed a book from her bookshelf. It was Lee Friedlander's 'Sticks and Stones Architectural America' and when I looked at it, it was the closest thing I had seen to what I was trying to do. It was really nice to see something similar to my own work (especially being Friedlander) but I wondered later why not a single faculty member had mentioned this book or seen the connection between what Friedlander had done and what I was trying to do (medium format black and white images taken mostly in cities). The best anyone could come up with at the time was to either shoot color or to look at Lewis Baltz.
Lewis Baltz? His work was of suburban houses from California in the '70's and other than being black and white had little or nothing in common with what I was trying to do with an urban environment in 2008. When I thought more about it I realized that Friedlander probably isn't considered postmodern enough to be relevant. So even though Friedlander is one of the most important and prolific American photographers, a book of his work published in 2004 (and produced in the previous ten years) is either ignored, discounted or unknown by the faculty. It took about twenty seconds for my mentor to see the connection, but not a single faculty member could do the same. It's stuff like this that makes me want to beat my head against the wall.
Lewis Baltz? His work was of suburban houses from California in the '70's and other than being black and white had little or nothing in common with what I was trying to do with an urban environment in 2008. When I thought more about it I realized that Friedlander probably isn't considered postmodern enough to be relevant. So even though Friedlander is one of the most important and prolific American photographers, a book of his work published in 2004 (and produced in the previous ten years) is either ignored, discounted or unknown by the faculty. It took about twenty seconds for my mentor to see the connection, but not a single faculty member could do the same. It's stuff like this that makes me want to beat my head against the wall.
2/16
The response to my Chelsea street portraits was overall pretty positive, but most of the faculty felt it wasn't enough. That they'd seen similar things in the past and that I needed to expand my ways of portraying the city. That simple portraits weren't enough. People suggested reading up on 'sense of place', which while sounding good remains one of the most nebulous terms thrown around art school. I even had a faculty member tell me he had no idea what it meant. I agreed, although I did find a short one by political geographer John Agnew that I liked. By 'sense of place' he means the 'subjective and emotional attachment people have to place'.
So I'm trying to incorporate some representation of my emotional attachment to Chelsea. How I do this is still unclear but I think it will include urban landscapes, more formal portraiture, and possibly still life's, panoramas and architectural details. After that, who knows?
I'm also continuing to use the idea of 'All-American' city as a way to frame all of these disparate ideas. The All- American City award is given by the National Civic League annually to ten cities in the United States. Chelsea won in 1998, the year I moved here. So one of the questions I keep asking myself is what is American and what does it mean to be All-American? Can there ever be a single definition or is this one of those things that's forever changing. Fluid.
I also like the idea of my work questioning the traditional notion of All American. Given the current political discourse regarding immigration, the fact that Chelsea is largely Hispanic (more than 50%) challenges directly, conservative views as to what is and who are Americans.
So I'm trying to incorporate some representation of my emotional attachment to Chelsea. How I do this is still unclear but I think it will include urban landscapes, more formal portraiture, and possibly still life's, panoramas and architectural details. After that, who knows?
I'm also continuing to use the idea of 'All-American' city as a way to frame all of these disparate ideas. The All- American City award is given by the National Civic League annually to ten cities in the United States. Chelsea won in 1998, the year I moved here. So one of the questions I keep asking myself is what is American and what does it mean to be All-American? Can there ever be a single definition or is this one of those things that's forever changing. Fluid.
I also like the idea of my work questioning the traditional notion of All American. Given the current political discourse regarding immigration, the fact that Chelsea is largely Hispanic (more than 50%) challenges directly, conservative views as to what is and who are Americans.
11/9
I recently saw/heard three things which made me think very seriously about the kind art I not only respond to but the kind of art I want to make.
The Harvard Film Archive had a retrospective of films by Bruce Conner (1933-2008) which were some of the most amazing things I've ever seen. He used almost entirely found footage which he edited together to create films that were hilarious, haunting, breathtaking, sad and truly unforgettable. It's like he created his own visual language out of discarded images (educational films, newsreels, b-movies, industrial films, etc) to critique American culture.
William Christenberry's photographs (William Christenberry Photographs, 1961-2005) and talk at MassArt, while being different from Conner, have a somewhat similar sensibility. His interest in the vernacular architecture of Hale County, Alabama seems to mirror Conner's use of found materials. Both create art from what is discarded or overlooked. They find beauty (or in the case of Conner, humor and mystery as well) in things most people wouldn't notice. In Christenberry's work, it's a subtle beauty that stems from what he called his 'emotional involvement with vernacular architecture'. He also said you could always tell an artist who is in love with his subject. He clearly does and even though many of his photographs are made with an old Brownie camera, there is both beauty and elegance.
A few days later Gregory Crewdson spoke at MassArt and he went into great detail to describe how he makes his photographs. Working with a crew between 50 and 60 people, Crewdson makes constructed images that look like film stills. This often includes building sets, using smoke and rain machines, closing off streets, setting buildings on fire, making snow, hiring actors, etc etc. As he went on it seemed like his working process became more and more involved with not only more intricate stage sets, but massive amounts of digital post production. It felt as if it had nothing to do with photography and more to do with working with gadgets and props. Towards the end of his discussion he said he doesn't even like 'touching a camera' and that he wasn't interested in what his photographs mean. This felt like a total cop out because why would someone go to such lengths to produce these images if they weren't interested in the meaning of them (other than the obvious reality that he can sell them for lots of money)? I also felt that for all the dazzle in Crewdson's work (and technically they are pretty amazing) they leave me cold. Once I get past the technical part, there isn't much left. Just an anonymous woman sitting in a car at an intersection with the door open, for example. Wow.
For me Crewdson's work ended up feeling kind of vulgar. The idea of so much time and money being used (wasted?) to make something that is ultimately so unemotional. That when you strip away all the manufactured 'drama' you're left with but nothing but artifice. It's visual junk food. And compared with the powerful simplicity of Christenberry and Conner, the work of Crewdson feels even more empty. It seems like Crewdson has gotten so far away from actual photography and traditional image making, he's lost any connection to what he's trying to say. No wonder he doesn't want to talk about meaning.
The Harvard Film Archive had a retrospective of films by Bruce Conner (1933-2008) which were some of the most amazing things I've ever seen. He used almost entirely found footage which he edited together to create films that were hilarious, haunting, breathtaking, sad and truly unforgettable. It's like he created his own visual language out of discarded images (educational films, newsreels, b-movies, industrial films, etc) to critique American culture.
William Christenberry's photographs (William Christenberry Photographs, 1961-2005) and talk at MassArt, while being different from Conner, have a somewhat similar sensibility. His interest in the vernacular architecture of Hale County, Alabama seems to mirror Conner's use of found materials. Both create art from what is discarded or overlooked. They find beauty (or in the case of Conner, humor and mystery as well) in things most people wouldn't notice. In Christenberry's work, it's a subtle beauty that stems from what he called his 'emotional involvement with vernacular architecture'. He also said you could always tell an artist who is in love with his subject. He clearly does and even though many of his photographs are made with an old Brownie camera, there is both beauty and elegance.
A few days later Gregory Crewdson spoke at MassArt and he went into great detail to describe how he makes his photographs. Working with a crew between 50 and 60 people, Crewdson makes constructed images that look like film stills. This often includes building sets, using smoke and rain machines, closing off streets, setting buildings on fire, making snow, hiring actors, etc etc. As he went on it seemed like his working process became more and more involved with not only more intricate stage sets, but massive amounts of digital post production. It felt as if it had nothing to do with photography and more to do with working with gadgets and props. Towards the end of his discussion he said he doesn't even like 'touching a camera' and that he wasn't interested in what his photographs mean. This felt like a total cop out because why would someone go to such lengths to produce these images if they weren't interested in the meaning of them (other than the obvious reality that he can sell them for lots of money)? I also felt that for all the dazzle in Crewdson's work (and technically they are pretty amazing) they leave me cold. Once I get past the technical part, there isn't much left. Just an anonymous woman sitting in a car at an intersection with the door open, for example. Wow.
For me Crewdson's work ended up feeling kind of vulgar. The idea of so much time and money being used (wasted?) to make something that is ultimately so unemotional. That when you strip away all the manufactured 'drama' you're left with but nothing but artifice. It's visual junk food. And compared with the powerful simplicity of Christenberry and Conner, the work of Crewdson feels even more empty. It seems like Crewdson has gotten so far away from actual photography and traditional image making, he's lost any connection to what he's trying to say. No wonder he doesn't want to talk about meaning.
10/6
One of the things I've heard over and over from certain faculty members is to 'get out of your comfort zone'. This has always bugged me and continues to do so because the assumption made by these people is that I/you/we are in fact 'in a comfort zone' or have been doing the same thing artistically over and over and over for years. We have never ever tried anything new. How would any of these people actually know what our respective comfort zones are? What also makes this cliche 'get out of your comfort zone' infuriating is that often these same faculty members have either been doing the same thing themselves for years or recommend other artists who have (Cindy Sherman, The Becher's etc).
They also seem to think that by simply using a new film or shooting color/b&w instead of what you're currently doing is the answer. For me, getting out of the so-called comfort zone is to do a different kind of photography than what you normally do. Not just change film and/or move to color but do something that makes you actually look at something new or have a different approach visually. If you continue to shoot the same kinds of things but just in black and white instead of color (or vice versa) how does that really change anything? You simply become proficient with another technique while doing the very same thing.
Right now I'm in the early stages of something that has made me as uncomfortable as I've ever been. I'm photographing total strangers on the street in the city where I live. That alone wouldn't be too difficult except in my case most of these people are new immigrants and many of them don't speak English or are initially skeptical as to why this white guy wants to take their photograph. So each time I want to take someone's portrait I have to ask their permission and explain why I'm doing what I'm doing. Every single time. It takes all my nerve to sometimes just leave the house, let alone approach total strangers. But, when I get permission and when these portraits work out well, it's an exhilarating experience. Worth every rejection and every uncomfortable moment along the way.
They also seem to think that by simply using a new film or shooting color/b&w instead of what you're currently doing is the answer. For me, getting out of the so-called comfort zone is to do a different kind of photography than what you normally do. Not just change film and/or move to color but do something that makes you actually look at something new or have a different approach visually. If you continue to shoot the same kinds of things but just in black and white instead of color (or vice versa) how does that really change anything? You simply become proficient with another technique while doing the very same thing.
Right now I'm in the early stages of something that has made me as uncomfortable as I've ever been. I'm photographing total strangers on the street in the city where I live. That alone wouldn't be too difficult except in my case most of these people are new immigrants and many of them don't speak English or are initially skeptical as to why this white guy wants to take their photograph. So each time I want to take someone's portrait I have to ask their permission and explain why I'm doing what I'm doing. Every single time. It takes all my nerve to sometimes just leave the house, let alone approach total strangers. But, when I get permission and when these portraits work out well, it's an exhilarating experience. Worth every rejection and every uncomfortable moment along the way.
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