Q & A with Julie Mihaly

Julie Mihaly is a photographer based in Poughkeepsie, NY, and the author of The View From Here.

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Blake Andrews: I'm curious where you grew up and how you first got into photography.


Julie Mihaly: I first got involved in taking photos as a kid. My Uncle Ralph gave me a snapshot camera for my 10th birthday and I carried it around with me for at least a year. The particular way in which snapshots render the world is what lies behind a great deal of my work.



How would you define "snapshot" and what is it about that style that appeals to you?

A snapshot, for me, is an image without pretense whose main intent is to record people, places and things that have some personal value. It's also, as Diane Arbus, said of all photos, "a record of the gap between intention and reality." And it's that gap that intrigues me and beckons in its own odd way.



Why did your Uncle Ralph give you a camera? Was he a photographer? Did he see something in you that might connect with it?



Ralph worked for 3M and the camera he gave me was a freebie from work, but my dad was an avid photographer. That said, I think my desire to record things was perhaps more influenced by my mom, who was a writer. She wrote short stories about her childhood in Appalachia and the power of the images she rendered made me want to do something similar. I guess I felt more drawn to doing that visually rather than verbally.



When and where was this?



I grew up in Shaker Heights, Ohio, but my mom was from coal country in Western VA —one of 10 kids in a dirt-poor, Depression-era family right out of a Walker Evans photo. The dichotomy of growing up in the suburbs and feeling as if my "soul" roots were in those poverty-stricken hills is one that influenced me deeply. I believe I learned early on that being wealthy didn't make you happy and that being poor didn't make you noble. I was taught to judge people as individuals and to be curious about everyone and every place. I thank both of my parents of that, but most especially my mom.



And if I'm guessing right this was the 60s or 70s when cameras were becoming a common thing in every home? Snapshotting was sort of a national craze, although by today's standards with limited distribution.

Yes, I was born in 1953 and grew up being photographed and photographing. It was definitely part of the national zeitgeist, but very different from the way people use the cameras in their cell phones these days.

What kind of photos did your dad make? And what kind of feedback did you get from your parents back then on your photography?



My dad took photos mostly of our family vacations. He was a builder and rarely got away from "the job," so he shot the crap out of our family travels. Sadly, he was killed in a freak accident when I was 17, so he never really had the opportunity to weigh in on my work. My mom was always supportive of my work- no matter what shape it might take.

My entree in the world of official photo-dom came about when my brother, who'd received a Nikon F4 for his high school graduation present, borrowed $100 from me when I was 16. He gave me the camera as collateral and when he never paid me back the $100, I got to keep the camera. Ergo, I used it to create a pretty blatant ripoff of "The Family of Man" for a section of my high school yearbook. 



Sorry to learn of your dad. So your uncle Ralph planted the seed but it wasn't until high school that you considered yourself a photographer? Did you study photography in college?

Butterfly with running girl in background, Central Park, New York, NY

Yes, it was in high school that I really started to consider myself a photographer. I spent my 1st year of college at Vassar where I submitted a photo essay for a project in one of my classes and got very positive feedback —though in retrospect it was pretty cheesy and I don't think the professor knew diddly about photography. But I realized then that I wanted to be somewhere where I could study photography and writing and other related disciplines so I transferred to the newly-founded Evergreen State College (TESC) where I really began a serious pursuit of the medium, later transferring to the San Francisco Art Institute where I earned a BFA and MFA in photography.



Did you meet some of the Blue Sky folks at Evergreen?



Yes. Chris Rauschenberg and I were both in the same interdisciplinary program titled "Image And Idea" and we've been friends ever since.

Chris definitely comes from a snapshot-friendly worldview.

Yes, Chris is a snapshot-o-phile.

Can you briefly describe the "Image And Idea" curriculum?

“Image & Idea” was supposed to be a multidisciplinary program that incorporated photography, film and writing, but it really boiled down to a great immersion in photography. I learned how to make fine B/W prints, met people with whom I’m still great friends, and found my calling thanks to the input of faculty members like Kirk Thompson and fellow students like Chris and Craig Hickman.

Reading between the lines a bit, a transfer in the early 70s to Evergreen was about more than just academics. That was akin to "Turn On Tune In Drop Out", or "Go-West-Young-Woman", or maybe just basic youthful exploration/rebellion.



Evergreen was the opposite end of the higher educational spectrum [from Vassar]. Then I left TESC for SFAI. It was the 70s— I tried to pack as many schools into that 6 year undergraduate and graduate career as I could, moving to NYC 3 days after I got my MFA.

 

As an aside about Evergreen, after the main color darkroom closed in Portland, the closest one became the school darkroom at Evergreen. I know several people who now drive up there regularly to use it. So in a way Evergreen is still having an impact on the broader photo scene, at least on the West Coast.

Wow. Can't believe that people head to TESC to use the darkroom. That's actually very sweet somehow. As it was meant to be...

from Botanicals

What was in NYC?



After years of waitressing and doing my own work, I segued into teaching photography at The School of Visual Arts, Rutgers, and The Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. Then, after more than a decade, I decided that paying the rent with a bit less agita might be a good idea and I moved into the world of photo editing and research, working at magazines ranging from Vogue to Vanity Fair, et al.



You're jumping ahead. What about back in the 70s? What brought you to NYC? I assume you were done with the West Coast? Was it to pursue photo opportunities?



I moved to NYC in 1978, partly because I'm an Easterner at heart —I missed the seasons— and partly because that's where you went to become a real artist.

Do you think that's still true? Do you need to be in NYC to be a real artist? Or in a major city?

I don’t think you need to be in NYC or a major city to be a real artist, but I think you need to visit them to get your work seen on a major level. Ironically, I saw more of many of my San Francisco friends once I moved to NYC as they all came to the big city to show their work to local galleries. These days you can get your work seen so much more easily via websites and FTP portfolios. It’s a great boon, but making a personal connection is still hugely important.



When and how did you get involved with Dianas?



I was goofing around on a day trip to San Rafael one day in 1976 and found a "Lina 1" toy camera for 40 cents at a local Goodwill. I've, as you might imagine, collected Dianas over the years, but none of them ever leaked light and vignetted as perfectly as that first one. I was instantly drawn to how it rendered things, but I also loved not looking like an "official" photographer. People were more relaxed than they might have been if I'd had a honking big SLR around my neck, and that sense of collaboration between subject and image-maker that came with taking snapshots was more organic with the Diana.



Did you know other photographers at the time making work with Dianas?



Remarkably, no. I mean, I knew people who used giant pinhole cameras and knew some of the Blue Sky people who used Dianas, but none of them were in NYC. I honestly didn't know anyone else in the city who was shooting with one at the time. My first photo friends in NYC were more classic street shooters- Mitch Epstein and Len Jenshel in particular.



Once you began shooting Dianas did that become your main camera? Or was it just one tool in the quiver?



I actually started using a Polaroid SX70 quite a bit just before I moved to NYC —another snapshot camera, another square format and another informal piece of technology. But I always continued to shoot with my Nikon. 

I'm curious because the Diana captures such an unusual worldview. Maybe it goes back to your Arbus quote. The "gap between intention and reality" can be fairly wide with a Diana, which is part of its charm. But it's hard (at least for me) to move back and forth quickly between that style and "normal" seeing.

I think you get used to knowing what will render what in what way when you work with multiple kinds of cameras. It seemed natural to me. I've always used whatever format might fit what I wanted to say rather than trying to fit what I wanted to say into a format. 

I think the 70s were sort of primed for Dianas to be discovered. They were in thrift shops all over, and Szarkowski had helped usher in a very loose era of documentary photography. 

Yes, there was more acceptance of Diana work back then than there is today, which is ironic because you can even choose to take Diana-esque pix as one option on a cell, and Instagram is riddled with Diana wannabes.

Erick with toy dinosaur, Warwick, NY

If there was more acceptance of Diana work back then (by the art world), maybe it's just that snapshots in general were more accepted. I think most professionals and serious fine art photographers nowadays have a dimmer view of snapshots. There's less trust of chance or lightleaks or imperfections, at least to the extent of the 1970s. I'm probably just being nostalgic but I can't help feeling a pull toward the looser 1970s style. But with all the tools available to photographers now it's hard to consciously give up control. 



Ah, yes... but giving up control was part of what made it fun.



I think it ties in to something you said earlier about your love for "an image with no pretense". One of the obstacles in contemporary photography (for me) is that feeling of pretense. Too many folks trying to create something deliberate or important, or with an undeclared attitude of pretension. Of course the other end of the spectrum is the 50 billion iPhone photos online of someone's last meal. No pretense but not much craft either.

 Maybe there's a middle ground. You mentioned Instagram earlier. What is your overall impression of it?

I think Instagram is great, but I’d never post my own work there— I simply refuse to flat-out give anyone the rights to my work. I’ve been in the photo business too long not to be aware of how you can be ripped off. It’s easy enough to have that happen via Google images and even work being taken from your own website, but to intentionally give your work away is not something I’d ever do.



Why did you stop shooting Dianas? Or did you?



I still occasionally shoot with my Diana, but when I left NYC 6 years ago for the Hudson Valley (I moved up here to be closer to my mom who had Alzheimer's and was in assisted living in the Valley), I couldn't bring my darkroom with me. It was tragic really. I couldn't even give the equipment away. I dismantled the enlarger and left it on the street with the garbage. I still have about 75 rolls of Diana film that I haven't processed, but I'll get to it eventually and will scan the negs and work from them.

So the move from Diana was tech-driven? Just because you couldn't keep a darkroom? You can scan and print them inkjet. (Can't wait to see what's on the 75 rolls.) 



The Diana decision was technical, but also influenced by the fact that the person with whom I live is sensitive to chemicals, so I even have to wait until he's out of town to develop film in the bathroom. Sigh...But I've become more enamored of newer, still snapshotty cameras. I'm getting back into shooting square B/W portraits, but with the Leica point and shoot camera. I just can't bring myself to carry a big, heavy camera at this stage of the game. I just had a show of work that I photographed with a tiny Nikon Coolpix and printed the images 17" x 22". Just little things I noticed on the streets of my current hometown of Poughkeepsie, NY.

I saw some photos from that show on your site. I think you've kept the snapshot aesthetic but you're moving away from people photos and into quieter scenes driven by mood/texture. But I should probably let you describe them instead of me. What attracts you photographically to stuff in Poughkeepsie?



I wasn't feeling particularly drawn to anything in Poughkeepsie, which says a lot about the town. But then I realized that if I wasn't seeing anything that appealed to me as a photographer, it was my responsibility to find something that did. So I took to the streets and much of what I photographed is much of what I've always shot in one way or another- the little things that people see, but don't really "notice." I loved finding and revealing this completely inconsequential bits and pieces of the life around me and giving them a sort of esteem in the way I shot them —composed the pix of them formally and thoughtfully.



from Notes In Passing

Maybe part of what you were seeing was the lack of stuff. After moving anywhere from NYC, the paucity of visual material must be dramatic.



I think there was stuff here, but yes, it's just not as rife and easily accessible as what lies on the streets of NYC. I'm hoping to head into town for a few shooting forays when the weather gets a bit better.



I made a similar move about ten years ago, from Portland (medium sized city) to Eugene (college town). The move has made me more finely tuned to my surroundings. I can see stuff here now that I probably wouldn't have noticed when I first moved here. But I need to search harder here for photographical material.



I definitely think that's what happens under the circumstances. It takes a while to let your cones and rods settle down and see what's there without wanting to see what you've already seen. I think it takes a bit of time before you see what’s actually in front of you vs looking for the types of images you would have taken in that more familiar, busier locale.


You mentioned your SX-70s photos a moment ago. I wasn't sure how to interpret the ones on your site which are set in pairs to short narratives. Is the text autobiographical?



Those images were from the first book I had published by Blue Sky and the text is and isn't autobiographical. Most of it is, but some of it is actually about my mom and my sister. The book, which was intended to be largely ironic and funny, was taken pretty seriously by many. I received quite a few letters from a number of women who said that I accurately related their feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing. Not my intent at all, but if it made them feel less alone in those sentiments then that's fine with me.



from She Began To Realize

Tell me a little about Boom Underground.



Well, when —thanks to the advent of the internet— the print magazine world began to lay people off in droves, I decided that if I couldn't get a job that paid me enough to live on at one of the dwindling number of magazines that exist, I'd just create the magazine I'd most want to work for. One copy of "HTML for Dummies" later and Boom Underground Magazine was born. It's been a labor of love, but one that is wonderfully engaging and educational. I've learned so much creating it and am so proud that it now has over 11K fans on Facebook.



Is it only online, or also in print?



Just online, though I'd give my right arm to be able to produce it in print. But Boomers, the market that the zine addresses, are a dwindling breed. And though we still have enormous spending power and have a good 20-30 years left in us, I think it's unlikely that those who publish print would go for it.

I thought most magazines were aimed at Boomers.

I think that the really successful print mags are marketed to 30-40 years olds if not younger these days, but that's a whole other discussion.

That said, a great friend of mine and wonderfully talented photographer, Monica Church and I are thinking of creating a tiny little print photo magazine that would be a give-away up here in Poughkeepsie. It's still in the works, but we hope to get something going by the end of this year.



Monastery of Monte Oliveto Maggiore, Buonconvento, Tuscany, Italy

What about the Al Gore project? I read somewhere that you're involved in photo research for his new film. 



I was part of a team of 5 international photo researchers that gathered imagery for his next film. Sadly, I think the project is currently on hold, but it was really great fun to do the research and a pleasure to meet him.



Which current photographers excite you?  



I like the work of so many folks. Larry Sultan, Emmet Gowan, Jim Goldberg, James Hamilton, Chris Rauschenberg and on and on. I'm a big fan of trolling LensCulture to see who's up to what from every generation of image-makers. 

Which ones were most influential when you were developing as a photographer?

Again- so many. Historically I'd say Lartigue, Sander and Atget. Then there's Arbus, Winograd, Larry Clark, Friedlander and perhaps most of all, Robert Frank (who I was lucky enough to spend a bit of time with when I taught photography at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design).

(All photographs above by Julie Mihaly)

Q & A with Bertien Van Manen

Bertien Van Manen is a photographer based in Amsterdam, and the author of the recent book Beyond Maps and Atlases.

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Blake Andrews: What was your path into photography?

Bertien Van Manen: I started taking pictures of my children. I published Easter and Oak Trees three years ago of the images I took then in the seventies. Some fashion photographer saw these pictures and asked me to be his assistant. I stayed in fashion for one and a half years and then started to not like it. I saw The Americans and it changed my life.

I've seen the Easter and Oak Trees book. Great pix. If my math is right you were in your thirties when you made those images? What were you doing before that?

from Easter and Oak Trees, 2013

I studied French and German literature, I translated books, and I had two small children.

So The Americans was your first exposure to fine art photography? How and where did you see the book? Did someone show it to you. Or did you find it on your own? 

The British fashion-photographer Kenneth Hope showed it to me.

Were your parents into art or photography during your childhood?

No, my mother was into literature. She read a lot. My father was an electrical engineer. They told us stories and my father sometimes took me to a concert. No art, no photography. We lived in a provincial mining town. There was nothing there. 

I'm from the middle of nowhere too. No stoplights for 50 miles around.

But in my grandparents' house there were painted portraits on the walls, of aristocratic great-grandfathers with beards and severe faces. And paintings made by my grandmother. 

When I was 12 I was sent to a nuns boarding school. We had art lessons. In the books the penises of the Roman statues were covered with a piece of paper. 

Was the paper easily removed?

Yes, but the nun was always there. During for instance Latin or Greek, that was given by a man, there was always a nun in the room. Of course we feverishly lifted the paper and I remember our big disappointment about those cold looking, stony little strange things hanging there. Was that what they made all the fuss about?

That was my art education (exaggerating a bit of course). Later they showed us the Impressionists, etc, but always very careful for Roman Catholic girls' eyes.

What the nuns didn't know, but photographers do, is that sometimes hiding body parts can be more arousing than revealing them.

In that time there was a whole different way of thinking about protecting against a forbidden world. In that way, for them it had nothing to do with "arousing”. They couldn’t allow themselves to go that far in their thinking. They just followed the rules.

Are you Catholic/religious? Were your parents?

I have been brought up very high middle class, Roman Catholic.

Are you still?

NOOOOO! Can't you tell from my work?

I can't tell anything about your religion from your work. There isn't much of a religious component, and I don't like to assume much. Why? Do you think your work says something about Catholicism? The photo in the recent book of the bright white statue comes to mind. I'd call it spiritual, maybe not religious.

from Beyond Maps and Atlases, 2015

Can't you tell I am not religious? Spiritual, yes. And the statue is something I just had to photograph when I saw it. I went onto my knees in the mud to do it. We had learned to bring sacrifices, as they called them.

Hmm. Thinking of you making that photo on your knees, that's an image loaded with Catholic baggage. Praying to the photo gods...?

I was not on my knees, but with my knees in the mud, which is perhaps the same... 

When did you leave Catholicism behind?

My husband played a role in that. His parents were Anthroposophic and he was nothing. This was a big drama in my family when I wanted to marry him. Anthroposophy is a theology  founded by Rudolf  Steiner at the beginning of the 20th century.

I don't know much about Anthroposophy but I like what I know of Steiner. He had a certain glow about him, and maybe a connection to humanity or trans-humanity which was uncommon. I wonder what kind of photos he might've made if he'd pursued that path.

I never thought of Steiner as a photographer. For me he is too much a theologist and a philosopher to be involved with such a worldly thing! Not that I am a follower of his, but some things I appreciate, such as his schools. My children went to these schools.

The Waldorf method is popular in Eugene. 

It's strange to hear you describe photography as "worldly". I know it has that element. It can be a scientific recording technique which is very tied to the physical world. But the part of photography which is most interesting for me is when it gets non-worldly, when the photograph surpasses the base level of what was in front of the camera. I'm not sure how that happens but I see it a lot in your photos.

Yes, these are two different things. I agree, my camera is just a tool that I use to express my thoughts or feelings. That's why I have the easiest little camera. You don't have to worry about technique. And this is in a time when every picture has to be super sharp. I had my images printed at the laboratory of Grieger in Düseldorff, Germany, where Struth, etc have their work done. Those people didn't believe that I wanted some of my pictures to be UNsharp.

Maybe you're a pictorialist at heart? Which other photographers do you like who shoot unsharp photos?

It is not a strict principle or a definite way of working, it happens. Not like Jacob Aue Sobol who makes all his work in very grainy tones. 

Speaking of unsharp, one of my favorite photos in the new book shows two men sitting at a table. They are very brightly lit, and there's a strange diffusion effect from mist or a filter, it's hard to tell. But the photo would not be as good if it were sharp and clear.

And that counts for more images. Even the branches in the forest, we made them 2 stops unsharp. They had no soft-focus lens, so I went to a drugstore and bought nylon stockings, of which we put two layers in front of the lens. The poor printer-woman, she had never done anything like it, but she loved it in the end. 

You added blur during production? Were the images also unsharp in the camera?

The two men were in a pub. I came from the freezing cold outside and my lens got blurred. One of the little presents the camera gives you from time to time.

from Beyond Maps and Atlases, 2015

But only if you're open to receive them.

But the picture of the forest, we did this in the darkroom. Because, being sharp it did not have the same quality. Yes, I love them, all these unexpected surprises that you discover later at home, looking at your contacts. Like the light leaked photo of the people on the mountain. You could never organize this.

You shoot film and make contacts? Do you have access to a color darkroom? Or a lab which does this for you?

I work with different photo labs and printers in Holland, the U.K. and Germany.

I wonder what Steiner would say. A light leak creates a perfect frame. Would he attribute the coincidence to mere chance? Or something else? How do you explain it to yourself? Is it pure accident? Or is it magic? Or both?

That's what makes taking photographs so exciting.

What, the surprise element?

Yes. I am seduced to think it is magic. But I think it is giving coincidence a chance. I don't know if the word coincidence is the right word here.

from Moonshine, 2014

Coincidence sounds like the right word. Photography + coincidence is a powerful combination. If you're searching for surprises, photography might be the last place you'd look. You aim a tool at a scene, and there's a rote recording. It's as surprising as accounting. But perhaps that's what makes it so surprising. It lulls you into a false sense of documentation.

Oh, but so many things can happen that you don't count on. This is why I work on film. I like to let myself be astonished about some results, if you see what I mean.  Yes, perhaps it IS magic. I am not recording. I am just letting it happen, I think. Have you ever seen an Anthroposophic painting? It makes you feel like running away.

Thus the small auto-camera. You're abdicating control. And in its place comes…what? I guess that's the surprise.

And the magic.

You mentioned your husband a moment ago. Was he involved at all with your photography? As an observer or companion or to give feedback?

My husband, Willem, was a lawyer, but very artistically talented. He gave me advice.

Did he travel with you during your photo trips?

I always travel on my own, except for people from the country where I am working.

Have you ever made photographs in the town you grew up?

Easter and Oak Trees is made in the park where my grandfather lived. We went there in the holidays. I once made a book about Roman Catholic women and went to photograph processions, etc. in my hometown, which is in the Catholic, Burgundian south of the country. But more than that I did not. I prefer to go to places I don't know.

I've read that you tried to begin a project in Instanbul but you couldn't make good photos there. Why? What was it about Instanbul that didn't work for you?

It did not click with me at the time. I tried to make portraits, they were not interesting. And during that time I saw an exhibition in the Museum of Modern Art there, about Istanbul by Magnum Photographers. The only one I really liked and who had a non cliché personal view, was Jim Goldberg with very personal pictures that had nothing to do with Istanbul. I also liked Alex Webb's images.

When you travel in order to make photographs, how do you usually find people initially? I know sometimes you travel with other photographers. How do you meet the non-photographers who become your subjects?

If, for example I want to go to Ireland, where I did not know anyone, I put a message on FB: "does anyone know someone in Ireland?" and of course I got the address of a photographer: Kate Nolan, who introduced me to Paul Gaffney, who introduced me to Martin McGagh and so on.

So you start with photographers? And are they also making photographs near and around you while you work?

This was in Ireland. Yes, we travelled and they and I took pictures. If we saw something we stopped. 

For meeting the non-photographers, it is a bit the same. If I go somewhere, I am sure to have at least one phone number. And soon it will roll as a snowball. When I went to Russia, I found the address of Ljalja Kuznetsova, whose pictures I had seen in the bookstore of  MoMA. It took me a long time to find her. I wrote my first letter in Russian, partly copied from my books. And when, after months her answer came, written in Cyrillic letters, I felt like getting a love letter.

I know you become close with the people you photograph and maintain some friendships afterward. Is your main motivation on these trips to make photographs? Or is it also the social connection? Would you ever consider making the same sort of trips without a camera? Or would that not interest you?

It would not interest me. I need both.

Spoken like a true photographer. 

But I also like to stay friends with some people. Taking pictures is a strange thing. I can go months without it. But once I start and the location is challenging, I can go on for 24 hours on end.

from Let's Sit Down Before We Go, 2012

What do you think of Jacob Holdt and his photographs?

Is he the one who takes pictures everywhere and all the time? For me personally there are limits. I prefer to respect the privacy of the other person. How far can you go? I find this a very interesting topic. You sometimes walk on the sharp of the knife.

He was a Dutch guy who traveled widely in the US in the 1970s, hitchhiking and staying for days or weeks with different families and people, and making photos of them. Very intimate and surreal. As far as sharp end of the knife, many of Holdt's photos are right there. They remind me of yours, and I think your methods are related. But he attached a social dimension to his photos which I think you would disavow. He wanted to highlight inequality and racism, and was very activist. I've read that you have left that stuff behind in your photos. 

I also have been thinking that I could change the world. I made a book about women migrant workers in Holland at the end of the seventies. And it opened some eyes.

Great! But then you lost interest in activist photography? Or do you think your current work is activist?

No, of course not. As you said, I have left that behind me. Being activist is not the word. I would say concerned or empathic. And that I still am.

I think what you are getting at is the tension between making photos and relating to people as humans. Sometimes those aims are in conflict. It's tricky. I don't know how war photographers do what they do. I couldn't. But even in non-war situations that tension is there when shooting people you care about. I know you've shot your kids a lot and I'm sure that's an issue with those photos. How to be present as a parent...and still get the shot.

My children are a good example. My son loved it, my daughter less. There you are as a mother, there goes your beautiful shot.

What about when you shot fashion photos? Did you feel any connection or empathy with your subjects?

I didn't like that world, but with the girls I had a good contact and I tried to photograph them as beautifully as I could.

Why didn't you like that world?

It is not my world.

But you are drawn all the time to worlds that aren't your world. To the unknown.

Ha ha, there you have a point. No, I mean it is a fake world. I feel irritated in it.

What music do you enjoy listening to? 

Classical music, especially J.S. Bach. Music from the seventies, Dylan, Young, the Stones, the Band, etc. But I also like to dance to dance music, disco etc, for hours.

What is your reaction to Donald Trump?

A disaster, how stupid this all is. I have no words for it. I hope Hillary will make it.

We'll see. I don't want to get my hopes up. 

Leap Day Rant

I've spent some evenings the past week with Remi Coignet's Conversations, a recent book of interviews with contemporary photographers from all over. I've always enjoyed the dialogue format and this one is an interesting read, with good conversations throughout. My one slight gripe is that the chats lean heavily on the topic of photobooks. I guess that makes sense because it's, well, a book by an author. So by definition the subject of books is near and dear to Coignet. Just as it might be natural for film directors to make movies about budding film lovers, or orthodontists to steer conversations to crooked teeth, authors are into books. That's why there are so many stupid books about becoming a writer. 

Fine. But Coignet goes slightly overboard. He reels every photographer back to books, even when they might want to discuss something else. Sample excerpt:

Remi Coignet: I would like to talk about your books. You have published about 200. Why is the book so important in your practice? 

Daido Moriyama: The most important thing for me, before making books, is taking pictures. My life is all about taking photos. I possess the energy to take photos. So it is pretty normal if a lot of books come out of it.

Remi Coignet: Yes, but I was under the impression you gave more importance to books than prints. 

Daido Moriyama: …for me a book is a time to think. Clearly it is very important.

Remi Coignet: Since your first book, Japan: A Photo Theater, you mixed very diverse subjects…

And so on. I think Daido would rather talk about making photos. He leaves the door open, and if pressed the conversation might go somewhere fun. But Coignet will have none of it. For him it's books, books, books. The other interviews follow suit in a similar vein. JH Engström, Pieter Hugo, Paul Graham, etc. Any bookmaker would put good odds on their next book being well made. But what about photomaking? 

Untitled, 1972, Daido Moriyama

Coignet's tunnelvision is a sign of a wider syndrome: everyone in photography wants to talk about photobooks. Some have labeled this "the golden age of photobooks". Others say it's not. I don't know about either claim, but it certainly could be labeled the golden age of photobook commentary. Over the past decade or so, the metaworld of pundits and educators has been pulled strongly toward photobooks. Every December the various photobook lists are published online. At this point "photobook of the year" is a rough equivalent for "photographer of the year". Then come the lists of the lists. (Photolia, Andthewinnersare, Ohtopbook, HAFNY, Don't Take Pictures, Streetshootr, etc) Then comes the whining about the lists. Then the whining about the whining. Then the whining about the lists of lists of lists. You need a bookie to keep track of it all. 

Oh well, self referentiality has always been a hot ticket in the art world, and the photography ghetto is no exception. Photographers enjoy self-reflection. But why is the object staring out the mirror always a photobook? 

The phenomenon extends beyond end-of-year lists. LPV's podcast has been revamped to focus on photobooks. Concientious has transformed from wide ranging commentary primarily into weekly photobook reviews. Collector Daily, which once focused on New York exhibitions, now gives near equal weight to photobooks. Aperture slips a Photobook Review into every other issue. MFA programs —typified by Hartford's limited residency program— are oriented increasingly around the photobook. And so on. I realize photobooks have been around forever, but the increased focus on their importance seems to me very contemporary. 

from Redheaded Peckerwood, 2011, Christian Patterson

On Thursday I caught Christian Patterson's entertaining talk at the University of Oregon. Patterson might be considered Exhibit A in the shift to photobooks. He began as a protégé of Eggleston in the straight documentary mold. See the world. Capture it. Repeat. 

But over the past decade Patterson's focus has shifted to long range projects realized in book form. Redheaded Peckerwood is a brilliant book. But it's not a book of photos. It's a Photobook, capital P. Patterson spent weeks in Nebraska tracking down subjects, and he made many of the photos which eventually appear in the book. But his photos were means to an end, minor elements in the larger project. The bulk of his energy went into research, forensic study, editing, and generally constructing the final form of the book over a five year period. Fond Du Lac continued in a similar vein. Patterson spent just a few days making photos. This was followed by years of tinkering and editing to get the thing just so. For Patterson making photographs is an art tool, not a revelatory action in and of itself. For him, the book is where the revelations come. 

If you're a young photographer tuned to all of these information streams, you might think the primary goal in photography is to make photobooks. And for some it is. But in the rush to make photobooks, an alternate photographic path has gotten short shrift —the mere translation of the world into pictures. This is the path of Sommer, White, and Callahan, not to mention Eggleston. Like those towering figures it might be viewed as old fashioned or crotchety or passé. But it's still a valid path, and done well it can be as satisfying and meaningful as bookmaking.  

I'm not anti-photobook. I love looking at them, thinking and writing about them. They're often the best vehicles for photographic presentation. But I think a photobook can sometimes come at the end of the image-making process, and not always be injected from the start. That order has largely fallen out of favor, as many photographers embark on projects now with some vision of a book guiding decisions during image-making. This image will go near the start. That one is a two-page spread. I need image X to fill this sequence. Etc. Making photos becomes a process of marking off items on a checklist, and the photographs are mere pawns in the larger effort. 

A step-by-step checklist is a fine way to make a book. It also works quite well for building a model airplane or replacing a deadbolt. But what about the other way? What about photographs coming first? I used to have a quote on my website, Shoot First, Ask Questions Later. This means let the photographs steer the ship. Let them push the agenda. Photographs found in the wild are like rare flowers. The hunt can be wonderful! Who knows when you might find one or where it might lead? I think this is what Daido Moriyama is talking about in the quote above, and it's what Richard Benson is referring to in this panel discussion with Lee Friedlander which has circulated online recently. 

"One of the things we're all sad about," says Benson."is that photographers don't walk around with a camera all the time and photograph without a project." Hallelujah!

Sitting right next to Benson is the patron saint of Shoot-First-Ask-Later, Lee Friedlander. His practice is to shoot whatever interests him, then figure out afterward what the photos mean and which piles to put them in. Ironically, Friedlander is a prolific maker of photobooks. Photobooks are important to him, his main mode of expression. Most of his photobooks are wonderful. But I don't think any of them were conceived before he made the photographs they contain. 

Sometimes you get the opposite outcome. Ken Graves made many brilliant photos in the seventies with a shoot-first-ask-later mentality. When they were finally compiled into a photobook decades later —2015's The Home Front— the result was horrible. The form of the photobook stifled the photographs. There are no guarantees.

In any case, Friedlander and Graves are old school. Their method is in decline. The photograph rarely comes first anymore. Why? I'm not sure. There may be some curatorial bias at work. In Paul Graham's words,

"The broader art world has no problems with the work of Jeff Wall, or Cindy Sherman or Thomas Demand partly because the creative process in the work is clear and plain to see, and it can be easily articulated what the artist did: Thomas Demand constructs his elaborate sculptural creations over many weeks before photographing them; Cindy Sherman develops, acts and performs in her self-portraits.  In each case the handiwork of the artist is readily apparent: something was synthesized, staged, constructed or performed.  The dealer can explain this to the client, the curator to the public, the art writer to their readers, etc.  The problem is that whilst you can discuss what Jeff Wall did in an elaborately staged street tableaux, how do you explain what Garry Winogrand did on a real New York street when he ‘just’ took the picture? Or for that matter what Stephen Shore created with his deadpan image of a crossroads in El Paso?  Anyone with an ounce of sensitivity knows they did something there, and something utterly remarkable at that, but... what?"

The Home Front, 2015, Ken Graves

But curatorial bias is only a partial explanation. I think there is also some generational bias against gleaning. The carefree 1970s of Friedlander's heyday are long gone. Taking its place is a 21st century is of packed schedules, amplified social stratification, and roughly 3 billion photographers. It's a rat race. A day spent searching for unplanned photographs occupies the roughly same place in society as a day of fishing or panhandling. There may be a place for it, but only among the idle or unambitious. The upwardly mobile set —and that includes the art crowd— believes in controlled time.

To wander for hours searching for the unknown requires faith. One must trust that unmarked time spent photographing will result in the world revealing itself, and that your translation of the world will be meaningful. That's a tough mindset to maintain, because sometimes photos happen and sometimes they don't. And all the while the metaworld is screaming "Books! Books! Books!" For making books, projects rooted in ideas are perhaps more reliable image generators. 

Is it any wonder the faith has waned? The one place it is strong is in street photography, a genre bogged down with preconceptions. The faith is there, and maybe even a spiritual component, but both are too often channeled into religious dogma.

If you've spent much time reading B, none of this will be new. I try to focus my interviews around the old fashioned practice of making photographs. In WWHT? I focus on the moment of perception and exposure, because that's what I'm most curious about. I make photographs, so I'm naturally interested in how other photographers make photographs. Making photobooks comes later.