ku # 450 - What kind of photographer are you?

I was nosing around, investigating the notion of reading photographs. Steve Durbin's featured comment on urban ku # 20 and comment on intent (see below) was the instigation.

My initial area of interest was Roland Barthes' idea of Studium and Punctum. According to Barthes, Studium stands for the general, cultured interest one has in photographs. Punctum is the personal relation, the emotional side. It occurs when one is deeply touched by a picture. Barthes writes, "...it is this element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow, and pierces me. A Latin word exists to designate this wound, this prick, this mark made by a pointed instrument: the word suits me all the better in that it also refers to the notion of punctuation, and because the photographs I am speaking of are in effect punctuated, sometimes even speckled with these sensitive points; precisely, these marks, these wounds are so many points ... A photograph's punctum is that accident which pricks me — but also bruises me, is poignant to me."

Barthes goes on to state that photos which exemplify studium appeal on "the order of liking, not loving...I glance through them, I don't recall them...I am interested in them (as I am interested in the world), I do not love them."" I don't know if Barthes ever states directly that he "loves" a photograph that "bruises me, is poignant to me, but he does state that "...While most photographs offer only the identity of an object, those that project a punctum potentially offer the truth of the subject....they challenge us outside any generality...these are the photos which take our breath away...", so I'll go out on a limb here and venture, what's not to love about photographs that meet that criteria?"

So, you might ask, what does this have to do with the question what kind of photographer are you? Well, maybe nothing...but, while I was nosing around I also came across this - from Reading Photographs by Hans Durrer :

..to judge photographs by the — perceived — sincerity of the photographer (intent?) is highly problematic. Ansel Adams, who refers to photographers as artists, points out: 'Some of the worst artists, after all, are the most sincere... the only things that distinguish the photographer from everybody else are his pictures,' he should be judged by them, he argues, because 'major art, by definition, can stand independent of its maker'".

It is not without significance that Adams is referring here to the concept of 'beauty in photography', so the title of his book, and as far as the aesthetics of form is concerned, one cannot but agree with him. Documentary (photography), however, is not only about form, which is exactly why sincerity and biography do matter. As Stott says: 'The heart of documentary is not form or style or medium, but always content.' Furthermore, documentarists stress feelings, '... they believe that a fact to be true and important must be felt.' This is not to say that form in documentary is without relevance, this is only to say that documentary aims, primarily, at being true, not at being beautiful. Yet what is true is often beautiful."

From that I infer (and believe - always have, always will) that intent matters. Point In fact, I believe that it matters very much. Almost to the point that I believe it is a photographers (artist's) responsibility to state his intentions.

That said, the question that came to my mind after reading this excerpt was, "Am I a documentary photographer"?

I tend to think of myself as a Fine Art Landscape Photographer, although I have not ever really been comfortable with the phrase "fine art". At various times in my commercial life I have randomly functioned as a Still Life Photographer, a Fashion Photographer, a Corporate Communications Photographer, and, yes, a Documentary/Journalism Photographer (periodical feature/editorial type, not news).

Now, I know that some could care less what kind of photographer they are. They are just photographers. OK, but I think giving yourself a well thought out label, just like writng a well thought out Artist's Statement (statement of intent) is an important part of self-knowing. The only problem I have in this regard is finding the right word to use as my label. The more I think about it, the more I realize that none of the "classic" labels fit. Mostly, I feel like an observationist.

But, when I encountered the ideas that "The heart of documentary is not form or style or medium, but always content." and "...that documentary aims, primarily, at being true, not at being beautiful., and the absolute deal-clincher. "Yet what is true is often beautiful.", I must admit that the label, Doumentary Photographer, starts to sound and feel pretty good.

What kind of photographer are you?

ku # 448 ~ Time to die; thoughts on photography, rage against The Machine, and legacy

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe....All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.." ~ the last words of Ray Batty, a replicant (androids which are claimed to be "more human than human"), from the movie Blade Runner.

Blade Runner is one of my favorite movies. I was re-viewing it recently and I heard Ray Batty's last words in a whole new light, a lightweight photo-epiphany of sorts. - at least at the time I thought it was lightweight. However, upon further consideration, I am coming to an awareness about the medium of photography which is considerably heavier than I first thought.

In a glib kind of fashion, my first thought (honest, my very first thought) upon hearing Batty's words this time around was...didn't he have a camera? I mean if I were seeing attack ships on fire on the shoulder of Orion and C-beams glittering in the darkness at Tannhauser Gate, I'd be filling up some memory cards like there was no tomorrow. Then again, I'm not a replicant and I don't know the answer to the question, "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" (the title of the book by Philip K. Dick that the movie Blade Runner was based on).

Nevertheless, dreams/memories are a big item in Blade Runner. When designing and producing replicants, the Tyrell Corporation found it important to "program" memories into replicants - memories of childhood and a past life, which, of course, they never had. The Tryell Corporation deemed memories integral to being human and I'm not about to disagree.

One of the renegade replicants, Leon, even has photographs that reinforce his (programmed) memories. In this replicant's case, it would be accurate to say that the photographs are his memories. In order to be more human than human, Leon must have his photographs. In an interesting twist, another replicant, the ever-luscious ("ever", because she has no pre-programmed termination date - unlike the 4 year life span of Ray, Leon and Pris) Rachael, must forget her memories, throw out her photos, and start again in order to begin a new "life".

Either way, memories and the photographs which create, supplement and mediate them, are given due weight in the plot line of Blade Runner.

Anyone who has taken the time to read my Artist's Statement knows that dreams and memories are an integral part of my photography and the motivations/inspirations that drive it. Even though my individual photographs are labeled "ku" (see 2nd entry - titled FYI) , the body of work is labeled Adirondack Dream Memories. No one has to tell me about the importance of dreams and memories. I have been exploring that notion for quite a while now.

What's always puzzled me about my photography quest is "why". I know that I'm curious. I know that I'm visually "gifted". I know that I have a drive to discover and express the unthought known. But, I am beginning to realize that perhaps a large part of my artist-hood is driven quite simply (like Ray Batty quest to meet his maker) by a rage against the Machine.

In my case, The "Machine" has many faces - from a few personal pet-peeves like ubiquitous cliche-driven landscape/nature photography or the culture of consumption which destroys souls and the environment, to the universal grand-daddy of all Machines, death. Ray Batty was certainly exhibiting a formidable rage against that particular Machine.

In the context of the Death Machine, I am struck by 2 other book titles - both written by the great American artist, Rockwell Kent - It's Me, O Lord and This is My Own. Rockwell Kent lived just down the road from me here in the little hamlet of Au Sable Forks. The books are Kent's collective autobiography and in them he lays down his memories proudly and empahatically (I think with a bit of defiance) proclaiming, O lord, this is me, this is what i have created and nobody can take it away!

Unlike most of us artists of the mere mortal variety, Kent's artistic legacy is assured. His works are enshrined in museums throughout the world (especially in the former Soviet Union) and in too many illustrated books to mention (actually, I'll mention one - I received for Xmas a copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass illustrated by Rockwell Kent).

So, all of this has caused me to think a bit more about my legacy, in this case, photography-wise (although, this O lord, is part of me, it is my own). Sure, there are a couple coffee table books of my photography out there: one (photo journalism) in which my work is the featured photography (but not only photography); one (still life) which is based entirely on my photography. Sure, I'm working on getting a book deal done - a monograph of my Adirondack Dream Memories. Sure, I have photographs hanging on walls in homes and a few galleries. Sure, sure.

But, I want more than that and, in today's world of internet-based custom photo book printers, I'm going to get it. As some already know, I believe that custom photo books represent an important step forward, full of possibilities for photographers. I intend to pursue the "diary" as legacy possibilties.

Right now, most of my "diary" is on disks and hard drives. For all intents and purposes, it is rather invisible - a sad state for something so visual. I don't have nearly enough wall space in my house to accommodate my "diary" and even if I printed really small so to fit them all in, my house isn't very portable or reproducible. And, because they're so inexpensive to create (a hard bound book of 20 photographs in most cases costs less than one custom lab made 8×10 print), lots of them.

Make no mistake about it, I really like original photographic prints, mine and other's, but I'm beginning to feel that photo books are my real medium. I like the fact that you can create a more complete narrative than you can with a single print. They're portable. You can print just one. You can print 100. You can lend them to friends. Take them on vacation. You can place 5 different ones on a coffee table and have 100 (or more) photographs within easy reach of anyone. They can be viewed and appreciated in a car, on the can, in bed, on a plane....

And, as Colin Jago wrote on a Steve Durbin post on Art &Perception, "...one of the reasons that I like photo books... When closed they are closed. They are fresh again when I open them."

So, books it is.

After all, I've seen things like you people haven't seen them. I don't want all of those moments to be lost in time, like tears in rain.

FEATURED COMMENT: John Joannides wrote: "Interesting way of putting it, raging against the machine, and in some ways I think it's accurate for many photographers. For me, as an example, my machine happens to be the grind of daily life. Doing things that one wouldn't choose to do except for the need to earn money and fight negative entropy. The rage manifests itself as exploration of life and fantasy via photography and other types of image making. A ying to the yang. Or at least that is a part of it, but then again so many hobbies and callings are in a way. People are just compelled to do them."

FEATURED COMMENT: Steve (no longer semi-anonymous) Lawler wrote (in part): "Roy's time to die scene defines Blade Runner to me; I count it among the most profound in my cinematic experience. It’s compelling precisely because it articulates the fleeting and bittersweet essence of the human condition. As I’d mentioned previously, your work is analogous to the extent that it facilitates this recognition of the divine in the mundane. After all is said and done, it’s about immortality."