Reading more, or the history of a quote

  If your pictures are not good enough, you are not reading enough. 

     – origin unknown ?

The internet has a unique ability to amplify misinformation. From false facts and incorrectly or unattributed photographs, things quickly spread and mistakes are perpetuated. In preparing a talk I had given for publication and doing some quick fact-checks, I came across a recent example, which has a curious history. I had used the above quote, a smart turn on Robert Capa's famous quote, in my talk and was trying to find the exact origin.

Most readers of the blog will quickly identify the quote as attributed to Tod Papageorge, the photographer and educator. The quote can be found widely online, but the original source was not immediately apparent. After a quick search, I discovered Papageorge supposedly said it in 2007 at a NYPL panel discussion hosted by Blindspot, entitled "Truth and Authenticity in Photography" Part III. I was pretty sure I had watched the video a number of years ago, but I decided to watch it again because the panel included Paul Graham, Mitch Epstein and Danny Lyons. However, in rewatching it, there is no evidence Papageorge ever said the above quote. I watched it twice.

Determined to find the source, I began searching further. I skimmed Papageorge's book Core Curriculum with no luck. After some careful Google searches, the first appearance online of the quote appears to be an article written by Adam Broomberg and Oliver Chanarin for foto8 entitled "Unconcerned by not Indifferent" (March 8th, 2008). In that article, they cite the 2007 NYPL panel discussion. Since it did not appear in the talk, I emailed Broomberg and Chanarin's studio and asked if they had another possible source. They insisted it did appear in the panel discussion, or happened outside the recorded talk, and provided no further information.

After appearing in the Broomberg and Chanarin article, the quote seems to have taken on a life of its own. It appeared in innumerable blogs, articles and books, including my own talk. The most influential and widely cited source is David Campbell's excellent lecture "Narrative, Power and Responsibility," which is the source of many references. Broomberg and Chanarin's article was also reprinted in James Pomerantz's widely read blog A Photo Student (here), which is where I first encountered it. The quote also appears in print in Robert Hirsch's Photographic Possibilities (Focal Press, 2008, 3rd Edition) and more recently Fred Ritchen's Bending the Frame (Aperture, 2013), which I am currently reading and recommend. Hirsch cites the panel discussion and Ritchen cites Campbell.

Since I had no luck with Broomberg and Chanarin, I emailed David Campbell, who pointed to the talk and was equally baffled. Hirsch was also perplexed. In a final effort, I emailed Papageorge himself. While he did not disagree with the quote and admitted to making comments about his own dismay about people not reading in the past, he does not recall ever saying the exact quote or anything close. Case closed? I'm not sure.

It seems likely that the misquote begins with Broomberg and Chanarin and spread from there, but it is possible the source lies elsewhere. Perhaps Papageorge did say those words and simply forgot. Perhaps Broomberg and Chanarin crafted the quote to fit their arguement, knowing that it might be something Papageorge would say. Perhaps they simply misheard Papageorge or misread their notes and mistook their own words for Papageorge's. Perhaps someone else made those comments off the record that day and Papageorge got the credit. We may never know. Given the widespread proliferation of the quote both in-print and online, it's unlikely that we'll know the real answer or that it will be corrected anytime soon. It is also unlikely that this post will do much to correct the problem.

History is full of similar misquotes and/or falsely attributed quotes. Quotes that are fabricated, polished and modified by reporters, writers or other sources, until they take on a life of their own. In this case, the murky origins don't diminish the haughty truth of the quote, they just point to the all too human way in which information is spread and altered both online and in other media.

If you have any further information, please let me know.

Andrey Tarkovsky: Films, Stills, Polaroids, and Writings

My review of Andrey Tarkovsky's: Films, Stills, Polaroids, and Writings (Schirmer/Mosel, 2013) is now available on photo-eye. You can get the book here.

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How does one contain a film within a book? Distill the 24 frames per second into the pages of a book? In many respects, any such attempt is half-hearted and can only point and freeze moments from something fluid. Andrey Tarkovsky is a towering figure in film history influencing such contemporary directors as Béla Tar, Hou Hsaio-Hsien and Theo Angelopoulos, as well as countless others. Although the Russian filmmaker only made a handful of films in his lifetime (five in his native Russia and two in exile in Italy), his cerebral, purposefully enigmatic and arrestingly beautiful films continue to captivate audiences. Perhaps best know in the United States for the films Stalker and Solaris, Tarkovsky also wrote extensively about cinema and enjoyed taking pastoral and meditative Polaroid pictures of his life in Russia and later in Italy. Edited and compiled by Tarkovsky's son, Andrey Tarkovsky Jr. and Hans-Joachim Schlegel, this new retrospective monograph offers a survey of his films, writings and photographs.

All images © Andrey Tarkovsky and Schirmer/Mosel, 2013

As a fan of Tarkovsky's work, I'm sad to say I'm a bit disappointed by the book. In its overly reverential approach, the book feels like a missed opportunity to reassess Tarkovsky's work and his continued relevance. Understandably, Tarkovsky's son is seeking to secure his father's place in cinematic history and provide a lasting record of his films. The problem is such a record already exists – in the films themselves.

The bulk of the large book is devoted to Tarkovsky's seven films. Each is given its own section with roughly twenty-five stills per movie and a short intro that includes production notes and a brief description of the plot. Tarkovsky's films' are notoriously slow and evocative. Unfortunately, the plot summaries read like stilted bullet-points and the skeletal descriptions suck the life from the subtle nuances and often moving narratives of the films. The stills for many of the early films also look like screen-grabs from the digital transfer and contain ugly digital pixilation. Pulling a still from an existing print is a costly effort, and was perhaps prohibitive for this book, but the poor quality detracts from an otherwise beautiful shot. There is also little behind-the-scenes imagery, which would have provided further context to the film and its production. It is possible that there was no still photographer or that any production photographs were simply left out to focus on the films; the most likely answer is they've vanished into a bureaucratic hole in the former Soviet Union when Tarkovsky became a persona non grata and went into exile. For a scholar of Tarkovsky, the over 200 pages of movie stills might prove useful, but any fan will return to the films.

All images © Andrey Tarkovsky and Schirmer/Mosel, 2013

All images © Andrey Tarkovsky and Schirmer/Mosel, 2013

The book also contains a wide-range of writings about and by Tarkovsky. Opening with a nice retrospective essay by Hans-Joachim Schlegel, the book also features historical reviews and writings by Sartre, Ingmar Bergman, excerpts from Tarkovsky's book Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema and several brief autobiographical pieces. The essays and historical writings give a sense not only of Tarkovsky's influential role during his life, but also his continued importance. Concluding the book are two sections: a modest photo album of Tarkovsky's family, and a selection of personal Polaroids from the early 80s shot in Russia, and later in Italy, while Tarkovsky was in exile.

All images © Andrey Tarkovsky and Schirmer/Mosel, 2013

All images © Andrey Tarkovsky and Schirmer/Mosel, 2013

It seems unfair to be negative about an artist I admire, but Tarkovsky deserves more. In the end, the numerous stills 'doth protest too much,' feeling more like a monument than an energized or fresh look at Tarkovsky's work. However, now that such a reverential book exists, perhaps it leaves room for a more inventive and engaging approach that can bring Tarkovsky alive for a new generation. For now, rent Stalker or Ivan's Childhood, read Geoff Dyer's Zona, and if you're hooked, delve more deeply into the few films he left us to ponder.

Please note: This review originally appeared on photo-eye magazine on Friday, June 14th, 2013. You can get the book here.

Paris Photo by David Lynch and ed. by Julian Frydman

My review of Paris Photo by David Lynch and Julian Frydman (Paris Photo/Steidl, 2013) is now available on photo-eye. You can get the book here.

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Art fairs are corrosive beasts. The convenience they provide collectors by gathering so much work in one space is often at odds with actually seeing work in any intelligent fashion. Although a lot has been said and written about art fairs and their effects on artists and the art market, not all fairs are bad. For photographers, and lovers of photography, Paris Photo is probably the preeminent fair. While Paris Photo shares some of the shortcomings of many fairs, there's a lot more good than bad. Paris Photo, an anthology selected by David Lynch and edited by Julien Frydman, is an idiosyncratic record and guided tour of Paris Photo 2012 that showcases Lynch's favorite photographs from the fair. What at first glance appears to be a bloated catalog of photos for sale (the kind of art fair catalog you might pick up only to recycled once you're home) is actually a smart collection of odd and wonderful photographs only Lynch could compile.

All images © respective artists and Paris Photo/Steidl, 2013

 At this point in his career, David Lynch has achieved iconic status. Such is his influence that his name is often lazy shorthand for anything remotely uncanny or strange. This is unfortunate, but true for anyone so influential and singular in both vision and talent. In this book, Lynch has gathered ninety-nine of his favorite photographs from Paris Photo 2012. There are expected choices, like Joel-Peter Witkin, but the book also includes many unexpected selections like Helen Levitt and Jan Groover. Canonical photographers like Josef Koudelka, Sarah Moon, Lee Friedlander and Kenneth Josephson, share space with numerous contemporary photographers like Christian Patterson, Guy Tillim, Alison Rossiter, Helen Van Meenen and Philip-Lorca diCorcia. Fleshing out the anthology are a variety of anonymous historic photographs whose subjects range from nudes and dogs to terrifying WWII naval battles.

 

All images © respective artists and Paris Photo/Steidl, 2013

All images © respective artists and Paris Photo/Steidl, 2013

Refreshingly, the range and depth of the work flies in the face of any glib assessment of Lynch, his work or assumed aesthetic taste. While many images are disturbing or share an unsettling psychological register, these images are counterbalanced with landscapes, still-lifes and abstractions. Interspersed with short epigrams and musings by Lynch, the book also contains a smart introduction by Kathleen McKenna that traces the common thread through Lynch's own films, photographs and artwork, and the selected photographs in the book. While the images are organized in a loose thematic pattern, there is no overarching structure to the book. Given the wide range of work, the book should appeal not only to fans of Lynch and photography, but also lovers of the medium.

All images © respective artists and Paris Photo/Steidl, 2013

All images © respective artists and Paris Photo/Steidl, 2013

One of the greatest strengths of any art fair is the sheer volume of work it packs into one location. It's also its greatest weakness. Context, continuity and connections are often lost in the sea of images. Smart work is smothered, or shouted down. Images bleed into one another and weariness sets in. Despite all these problems, the volume of work also allows each person to craft their own experience – selecting their favorites, dismissing the dross and ignoring the rest. In Paris Photo, we've been invited to follow David Lynch through the endless booths to discover hidden treasures, to be startled and surprised. We may not agree with all the choices, but the trip is worthwhile.

Please note: This review originally appeared on May 23rd, 2013 on photo-eye. You can get the book here.

A Partial Eclipse by Martin Boyce

My review of A Partial Eclipse by Martin Boyce (MACK, 2013) is now available on photo-eye. You can get the book here.

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It begins with an encounter in a museum, ruins and a stolen camera. The images aren't entirely gone. They've just gone somewhere else. Perhaps already deleted. Fading from memory. Martin Boyce's gorgeous book, A Partial Eclipse, begins with a story of loss and confusion, and leads us through an archive of images that cycle between the natural and constructed, offer glimpses of the past, but also point forward. The haunting spaces and subjects of Boyce's photographs teeter between asserting their structural integrity and succumbing to the forces of nature and entropy, collapsing and at last disappearing into the landscape, yet offering hope and possibility.

All images © Martin Boyce and MACK

Boyce is perhaps best known for his sculpture and installation work, which won him the Turner Prize in 2011. Drawing upon early 20th century modernist design, architecture and sculpture, his work incorporates text, sculpture and light. His 2010 Turner prize nominated show, 'A Library of Leaves,' included numerous works that were derived in part from Joel and Jan Martel's 1925 concrete tree sculptures from the Exposition des Artes Décoratifs in Paris of that same year. Although subsequently destroyed, maquettes and photographs of the work survived. Repeatedly mining the Martel's work, Boyce has teased out motifs and options within the work arriving at his own unique vision. For a photographic audience unfamiliar with his work, this information provides important insight and context to his work and the book. Boyce is clearly drawn to ruins, monumental architecture and decorative architectural elements. Edited and selected from a large personal archive of images, the murky and foreboding photographs in this new book do not seem radically dissimilar from his other non-photographic work. Like his sculptural work, they are elegiac and cautiously hopeful. The look backward is not merely nostalgic, but is rooted in a desire to reclaim lost possibilities from the past.  

All images © Martin Boyce and MACK

All images © Martin Boyce and MACK

Aside from the opening story, which frames the images, the photographs don't provide any narrative. Instead, they feel like sketches for the artist or the hazy, partially forgotten and lost images from the protagonist's stolen camera. Concrete stairwells lead to cracked tile floors and graffiti carved tropical plants languish under the noon sun. Palm trees sway forlornly in the wind. Empty gardens and pavilions take us to ruined steps. Decoratively patterned grates, doorways and windows cast mysterious elliptical shadows – each a threshold that both frame our relationship and experience of the space, but also delineate the space itself. Although likely taken at a variety of different locations, one has the sense that the photographer stumbled through an abandoned villa at dusk. Like a harried surveyor or speculator, he's captured the details of the space that suggest its former glory, but also reflect the photographer's own melancholic state – mournful of what is lost, capturing what remains and pointing to new possibilities.

All images © Martin Boyce and MACK

Although not overtly lavish in size or scope, it is worth noting the extraordinary reproductions in the book. Printed on a double-sided paper, the small glossy photographs resemble fine inkjet prints or Cibachromes. The subtle dark tones of the images are handled beautifully and allow the viewer to peer deeply into the shadows. The backside of each image is a light matte green. The somber green tones matches the dark images and ties the work to the peripheral vegetation and nature seen throughout. Moving through the book, the pages alternate between facing photographs, glossy photos facing matte and facing matte pages. There aren't a lot of photographs, but the stunning reproductions command attention and close scrutiny. Initially unassuming, the book is a beautiful object.

All images © Martin Boyce and MACK

As a recent press release for a 2011 exhibition states, "Boyce['s work] makes specific reference to the ghost of Modernism as it haunts the public urban and architectural landscape."* Any effort to reference and pay homage to modernist architecture and design of the early 20th century must also acknowledge its own elegiac nature. It must recognize that the dreams of modernism are distant, and demarcate what, if anything, we hope to recover. Perhaps the title, A Partial Eclipse, is a recognition that these faded visions are not forgotten, whilst also granting that the past can be recovered, reclaimed, re-explored and made present and new.

Please note: This review originally appeared May 6th, 2013 on photo-eye You can get the book here.

Backwards and Forwards by David Campany

Normally, I try not to reblog anything, but I wanted to make an exception for a recent piece by David Campany. The short essay appears on Still Searching, the Fotomuseum Winterthur's excellent blog. Campany is currently their visiting blogger. The whole post is great, but I was particularly struck with the end.

The discourse of photography has a habit of seeing its own present problems as unique, and its own moment as the most intellectually nuanced and radical. This failing leads it to underestimate continually the sophistication of its past, and to see itself as entirely separate from it. I am reminded of a suggestive and elegant reply Umberto Eco once made to the question about the merits of study:

"We often have to explain to young people why study is useful. It’s pointless telling them that it’s for the sake of knowledge, if they don’t care about knowledge. Nor is there any point in telling them that an educated person gets through life better than an ignoramus, because they can always point to some genius who, from their standpoint, leads a wretched life. And so the only answer is that the exercise of knowledge creates relationships, continuity and emotional attachments. It introduces us to parents other than our biological ones. It allows us to live longer, because we don’t just remember our own life but also those of others. It creates an unbroken thread that runs from our adolescence (and sometimes from infancy) to the present day. And all this is very beautiful."

Umberto Eco, “It’s not what you know …” The Guardian, April 3, 2004

Read the entire piece here, as well as Campany's other recent entries.

Casa De Campo by Antonio M. Xoubanova

My review of Casa De Campo by Antonio Xoubanova (Mack, 2013) is now available in the latest issue of afterimage (Vol. 40, No. 6).

Here's a little preview:

It has been speculated that if New York City’s Central Park were to vanish, the city would quickly wither and die. Like any good city park, it is the heart of the city and a critical salve for urban life. One of Europe’s largest public parks, Madrid’s Casa de Campo occupies an enormous stretch of land to the west of the city. A former royal hunting estate, the land was first opened to the public during Spain’s Second Republic in 1931. Closed to traffic, the vast woodlands and fields offer a welcome respite from urban life, the pervasive concrete, and crowds. Yet despite being carefully zoned and managed, parks are never fully controlled. They all contain unruly pockets and spaces free from municipal oversight. In Casa De Campo, Antonio Xoubanova has strayed far from the manicured and sanctioned spaces of the park to explore its interior and the spaces that have given way to more personal and private rituals. Divided into five unpaginated sections, exploring “love, death, fleeting moments, symbols and a lack of direction,” Casa De Campo offers an affecting and idiosyncratic portrait of the secret life of a park.

You can read the rest of the review, which is entitled Park Life, in the issue, along with some other great pieces. Get a copy of the book here.

 All images © Antonio Xoubanova and MACK

 All images © Antonio Xoubanova and MACK

 All images © Antonio Xoubanova and MACK

 All images © Antonio Xoubanova and MACK

 All images © Antonio Xoubanova and MACK

Passengers by John Schabel

 

My review of Passengers by John Schabel (Twin Palms, 2012) is now available on photo-eye. You can get a copy of the book here.

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From the relatively new fear of terrorist attacks and catastrophe to the maddening inconvenience of flight delays and endless security lines, commercial air travel elicits a combination of fear, frustration and tedium. Nevertheless, flight is miraculous. As a technical achievement, it is as marvelous to contemplate, as it is convenient. While documenting and conveying the complex emotional and psychological effects of travel is particularly challenging, it is not impossible. John Schabel's evocative new book, Passengers, collects a series of portraits of people shot through the windows of airplanes waiting to take off on the runway. Elegantly restrained in both design and concept, Schabel's book powerfully captures the tedium and vulnerability of modern air travel.

It is hard not to look at Schabel's work and read it against the backdrop of post-9/11 air travel. An impossible project in today's world, Schabel photographed his subjects in the mid-90s at various airports in the United States as they awaited take off. Shot with a long telephoto lens far from the tarmac and closely cropped to the windows, the photographs give us an intimate look at each passenger. Mostly shot at night, and often during inclement weather, each window frames the person and seems to glow. Like an illuminated screen, the windows offer a voyeuristic peek at the waiting passengers. Shielded behind thick glass, the faces are obscured by rain and incidental reflections. Most are distracted and sit patiently, quietly reading newspapers or books. Others are turned to their travelling companion or are already fast asleep. Some peer out the window to meet our gaze or simply contemplate the journey ahead. In one image, a woman with large framed glasses looks out the window, her expression both startled and afraid. In another poignant image, a small boy raises his hand to touch the window – reaching out to the photographer and us, waving goodbye.

All images © John Schabel and Twin Palms

All images © John Schabel and Twin Palms
  
Passengers and modern travel have a rich history in photography. Among contemporary photographers, Michael Wolfe's images of torturously compacted Japanese subway commuters strike a similar vein – albeit in a more brutal manner. Alternatively, Andrew Bush's Vector Portraits offers an amusing twist on cars and their drivers – each passing window framing their idiosyncratic personalities and offering a glimpse into their mobile world. However, the most obvious touchstone is Walker Evans' seminal book and series Many Are Called. In this work, Evans surreptitiously photographed fellow subway travelers in NYC through a hole in his trench coat. Tired and guarded, Evan's fellow commuters slowly make their way to work or journey home below the city. Both Evans and Schabel capture resigned tedium and vulnerability of modern travel – be it the New York City subway or modern air travel. Forced into close proximity to our fellow passengers and trapped inside, we must all surrender to the plane or train that carries us.
 

All images © John Schabel and Twin Palms

All images © John Schabel and Twin Palms
  
There is a curious phenomenon that occurs on airplanes. Hovering above the world, protected only by metal and glass, our emotional fragility is laid bare. Forced to watch a limited selection of movies on our tiny screens, even the worst Hollywood treacle can cause us to cry. Faced with our own mortality, defenses drop. Will we make it? Why did the seatbelt light go on? Trapped in a narrow seat, we have nowhere to go. There are no tears in Schabel's images, but he does capture the coerced fragility and state of surrender. The hope that the plane will take off, land and arrive safely, that the miracle of flight will hold true if just one more time.  

All images © John Schabel and Twin Palms

All images © John Schabel and Twin Palms

Twin Palms and Schabel have taken a long time putting this book together and it shows. Although seemingly simple in design, the spare elegance of the design allows the work to shine. As the illustrator, graphic designer and author Christoph Niemann recently wrote, "Simplicity is not about making something without ornament, but rather about making something very complex, then slicing elements away, until you reveal the very essence."* In this sense Schabel's book and images does exactly what it should and no more. The book contains no explanatory or self-justifying text and instead presents each image almost full-bleed on the page – sometimes facing another image, and other times by itself and facing a black page. Moving through the book, one has the sense of scanning the horizontal rows on windows on a taxiing plane. As distant observers, we can only watch, knowing we are all travelers at some point - alone, surrounded by fellow travelers and waiting to depart.  

All images © John Schabel and Twin Palms

Please note: This review originally appeared on photo-eye on April 22nd, 2013. You can get the book here.