The Engstrom Men

The youngest

have the fewest photographs.

He was awkward.

Not like the eldest,

who understood his role in life.

For he had an example

The father

that had lived a life his progeny had not

stands as an example

or cautionary tale

depending on

how you feel.

A found photograph in search of a title.

Winner: ¿Dónde están mis pantalones?
Provided by Akash Ayare

Color of the Week: Yellow

The Mall versus the Salon

I am part of an online Facebook-based photography group, called Flak Photo Network (FPN).  Discussion recently turned to questions about the future of delivering art through means other than the established gallery route. Gallery representation is seen by many as the prime legitimating gatekeeper to this world that describes itself as "fine art."

During the discussion, someone pointed to 20 x 200, a project by Jen Bekman, the goal of which is to provide great art at affordable prices.  At that point, some person (who is on the staff of a museum on the east coast) chimed in with "20 x 200 brought the mall experience to collecting." I invited this individual to elaborate what he meant, but he declined.

This kind of statement is emblematic of the world view that real art is somehow reserved for people of a certain educational/professional/financial accomplishment, whose tastes have been rarified to the point to where they know what is good and bad with regard to art. This world view scoffs at attempts to bring art to those who are not part of this true art elite.  To these people, art is something that can be discussed, dissected, commodified, and evaluated on something other than completely subjective basis.  This myopia leaves them both blind and self-congratulatory.

Why does this attitude bother me?  Art is for everyone.

Poetry and the Unprofessional

A friend of mine, photographer Jaime Permuth, recently attended one of the sessions of FotoFest and relates this story:

Rainer-Maria Rilke

'I heard from a reviewer at FotoFest that there is an artist who answered each of his questions by opening a well-worn copy of Rilke and reciting a line of poetry. When the 20 minutes were almost over, the reviewer asked one final question and the artist handed over the book and said to him: "here, read for yourself."

Jaime shared this story on Facebook and reactions to the post included the suggestion that the artist was being "unprofessional," and a "pompous, pretentious fool."  

In the ordinary course of our lives, we speak and think in prose.  The visual artist does not.  

Words, by their very nature, reduce and limit.   Also, words, despite their apparent objectivity, are subjective.  In that, they are like photographs.


I do not know what other artists are trying to do. But for me, when I create a piece of work that is successful, whether it is a photograph, a painting, or a sculpture, it must have a certain quality about it: it must be referent to something that transcends language.  


This particular photographer decided not to play by the rules.  No doubt that more than a few reviewers were put off by his recitation of poetry.  If so, they missed listening to some beautiful poetry and probably missed looking at some beautiful images.


There are no rules in art.

Baggage Room

[I have drafted this essay as an introduction to the photographs I am showing this week in Houston, Texas at FotoFest 2012, a meeting place for gallery owners, museum curators, art collectors, and critics.]

Before you look at my work, I ask that you read this essay.

The thing that unites you and me is that we are both searching for images that matter. This task is made difficult, but not impossible, by the fact that photographs are everywhere, every place, and being created all the time by a growing number of people.

Are the images that matter the ones whose content was conceptualized, planned, constructed, executed, and synthesized?  To quote Paul Graham, the art world is eager to showcase artists who “use photography to illustrate their ideas, installations, performances and concepts.”  These artists operate by a creative process that art dealers can explain to their clients.  Curators of museums can explain these works to general public in a straightforward manner.  How these photographers work is readily understood.


But what about those photographers who engage the world as it is, whose works are not devised, arranged, or fabricated for special situations to imitate or replace usual realities.  One would think that, after the likes of Atget, Frank, Eggleston, Winogrand, and Graham, that the art world could appreciate a photographer whose work does not fit into a nice, neat, linear, coherent series.

If you could ask any of the artists above why they took a particular photograph, what they were trying to say, odds are that they would look at you as if your head were not screwed on straight. The answer to those questions is the image you behold.

The art world usually rejects work that it does not readily understand.  By readily, I mean within minutes.

For the most part, I am not interested in creating work that is easily understood.

I am presenting a work in progress, called Baggage Room. Since all the reviewers are not native English speakers, I will further explain the title. “Baggage” is American slang for a situation/condition/person/thing that gets in the way; a burden one is stuck with.  My photographs are designed to explore this concept, as well as the release or escape from “baggage.”  

Irony?

Last week, I attended the annual dinner and slide show held by the Seattle chapter of the ASMP (Amer. Society of Media Photographers).  As I mingled, I noticed nicely printed cards with photography related quotes on them, scattered among the tables.

I wandered, picking up cards here and there, looking for one that I liked. I'm a sucker for a good quote.

I stopped looking after finding this quote:

If your pictures aren't good enough,

you're not close enough.

- Robert Capa

Capa, one of the founders of Magnum, died after stepping on a landmine.  The mine blew his left leg off and he suffered shrapnel wounds to the chest.  He was covering the First Indochina War/Anti-French Resistance War.  The year was 1954.

Hockney & Atget

Avenue des Gobelins, Bainbridge Island, Washington (2009)

I don't remember when I first saw David Hockney's giant photo collages that he constructed by standing still and moving the frame of the camera around and building a scene, visual block by visual block.  It was in the early to mid 1980s, when I was a teenager.  For some reason I think it was at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C.

The work struck me on a couple of levels.  First, Hockney proved to me that there were pictures within pictures within pictures.  Second, it transgressed "the rules" and yet was successful.  Third, it was playful.  While it was breaking the rules, it smiled in the process.  Lastly, there is a strong intellectual underpinning to the work.

Having only recently resumed looking at photography, I neglected it for the better part of the last two decades as I figured out what I am supposed to be doing on this planet, I was struck by how the relative absence of images that could be described as both playful and intelligent out there in Photoland.

Photographers in the fine arts today seem to be predominantly conjuring up images and projects to create a works that evoke pathos. Sure, the ability to transform someone's emotions through images are what artist's strive to accomplish. There are things that photographs do inherently well. With no effort, they create nostalgia, which is a close cousin to pathos.

Atget, Avenue de l'Observatoire (1926)

At some point, I want something more than pathos. That's where Eugene Atget (pronounced Ah-Chay) comes in. One of the foundational figures in photography, he died in 1927, he took pictures of what he liked to look at. He wasn't working on some grand commentary on why modernism is stripping the individual of his identity. He photographed what interested him. [I suspect that he would not fare well in today's art world, but that is an essay for another time.]  What interested him was the spectacle of life around him.  Sure, there is pathos, but the unmanufactured pathos of life.  But there is also humor, irony, sarcasm, and a whole host of other subjects that fell under his lens.  Here is a wonderful article written by Minor White, published in 1956, about Atget, made available through the George Eastman House. (Be patient.  It is a big PDF and takes a minute to download and is travelling all the way from 1956.)

3" x 3" Spoke Card

Found: 1957, person and location unknown.

"Get a good pair of walking shoes and…fall in love."

The Blue Pot Knows, Bainbridge Island, Washington.

When asked for his advice to young photographers, Magnum photographer Abbas responded "Get a good pair of walking shoes and…fall in love."  A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to hang out with a young photographer, a 10 year old boy named Dylan. I did dispense some advice while we went on a photo-walk with his mom. Though I did not suggest that he fall in love, I did mention that appropriate footwear is always a good idea.

Last week, I walked over a 100 block of Manhattan at least 3 times, wandering from the Upper West Side all the way down to Chinatown and Wall Street.  Though I walk every day, being in New York gave me a little extra to keep walking and walking.  I brought two pairs of shoes, a pair of black leather cap toe shoes and my Patagonia Waterproof insulated boots that I live in from October through April.

The advice about getting a good pair of shoes is invaluable.  But why does he say "fall in love?"  I think that it is because love is best pursued on foot.  That way you get a good look at everything on the way to love.

A review of the review.

Last Tuesday, I attended a fine art portfolio review organized by the New York City chapter of the ASMP (American Society of Media Photographers), a trade group of which I am a member.  The review, held in the meeting space of Calumet Photo in Manhattan, brought together 40 gallery owners, curators, editors, and collectors to look at new work.  There were between 100 - 110 people in attendance.

I had the good fortune of expecting a friendly face:  Doug Ljunkvist.  Doug and I met late last year in a photographer's forum on Facebook, known as Flak Photo Network.  We had exchanged observations about various points of photography and we quickly discovered we had similar photographic sympathies.  The review provided us the opportunity to meet in person.  He was sharing his ongoing project involving Ocean Beach, NJ.

I arrived early and was able to secure my choice of reviewers.  For me, the value of this experience lies not in examining a single person's thread, but stepping back and looking at what all the strands look like, including the strands drawn by other photographers showing that night.

For example, I love that, of a particular image, one reviewer said: "I think this is a really powerful image," where another observed about the exact same image "A little heavy handed, don't you think?"

I enjoyed discovering those particular images that made the reviewers slow down, to discover those 4 or 5 images that hooked them.  I have never written poetry, but it I imagine it is like watching someone read a selection of your poems.  I enjoyed watching the reviewers read my pictures and knowing where their eyes were on an image.  And it is a particular pleasure to see someone smile when they look at my work.

While I waited in between reviews, I chatted with a wide range of photographers sharing their work.   I could make some pretty good guesses about who in the room thought they were the next big thing. Some hid their craving for approval better than others.  The majority seemed like decent enough people.  My one generalization: the room could have been divided between those presenting their vision and those seeking affirmation of their vision.

A couple of days later I went for a photo-walk with Doug and we talked about our respective photographic journeys over pizza in Brooklyn.

I will be attending another fine art portfolio review, next month in Houston.  More about that later.

The greatest photograph I never took.

It was in the middle of a vibrant street market in one of the squares in Marseilles.

It was of a group of Muslim women, crowded and pressing up against each other, pawing around a 8' x 8' table filled with colorful assortment of undergarments, ranging from push-up bras to strapless numbers, as well as the great diversity of panties from small to smaller, and to smallest.  The banter was highly animated and full of laughter, with women helping other women find that special something, even holding up bras to model.

The light was perfect.  The colors, spectacular.  I could have taken 2 shots without breaking stride.  I knew I could.

If I lifted my camera, it could have become an extremely unpleasant scene very quickly.

So, as I walked by, I lifted the camera to my eye in my imagination alone.  I know my camera like the back of my hand, so I know what would have been where in the frame at the precise moment I would have fired the shutter.  I saw my focus point.

They are beautiful photographs.  I think I like the first one better than the second.  Perhaps, one day, though some as-yet-unknown scientific process, we will be able to create the pictures that live in our memory.  When that day comes, I promise to post it here.  

There is no reason.

2012 Snow Diptych, Bainbridge Island, Washington.

Q: Why did you take that picture?

A: For no other reason than I wanted to.  It was an impulse to make a photograph.

Q: But what are you trying to say?

A: Why do I have to be saying anything?

If you like this photo. . .

The first snow, Bainbridge Island, Washignton.

One of the things that I think is funny is there is a great need for photographers, and artists in general, to be held out as singular visionaries, whose genius springs forth from their brains, as complete as Zeus' children.  

The fact of the matter is that any photographer who is worth anything has in his or her brain millions of images that have come before.  And that is just talking about photographs. No more than our bodies, to a greater or lesser extent, reflect what you feed them, how we photograph is a reflection of what we choose to look at.

People often ask me how one learns photography.  I think it was Walker Evans who admonished his students to really look, to stare.  I would add to that, look at good photography.

I tend to like "old school" photographers.  One of the greatest was Harry Callahan.  [Wikipedia will be offline on Jan. 18, 2012 to protest SOPA.] The photograph on the right is one of many Callahan took of his wife, Eleanor. If you interested, here is a link to an interview of Harry Callahan from early 1980s.  He's as unpretentious a photographer as you will find.

It seems a little unfashionable in certain photography circles to talk about who your inspirations are.  I have no problem telling you that Harry Callahan is one of my artistic heroes.  

Winter light.

Small reflection.

When I am in between jobs I walk around with my camera and take photos of whatever interests me.  I like to think of if as taking batting practice, but where I get to keep the triples and home runs.  I got some nice hits today.

Looks like a crime scene to me. (Part IV)

Phil, Bainbridge Island, Washington.

I live on an island that lies a 35 minute ferry boat ride from Seattle.  In the early 1900s, Bainbridge Island was the center of shipbuilding on the West Coast, on account of the quality and quantity of timber.  Bainbridge is nearly the exact dimensions of Manhattan.  The entire island was clear-cut more than 100 years ago.

Where trees were not replaced, farms were born.  If you have read Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Guterson, you have read of the fictionalized life of Bainbridge Island.  It is a place where Japanese farmers settled in the early part of the 20th century to farm strawberries.

Farms live and die.  There are efforts underway to bring several back to life.  Some, though, are being reclaimed by the land.  This is a photograph of just such a place.

Joining the great stream of images.

In this post-modern world, the real smarties go around saying that are no original thoughts.  The annoying thing about these post-modernists is that if they knew Ecclesiastes, they would have realized that their important insight about unoriginality is, in fact, a very unoriginal thought.


This is a rather round about way of introducing you to a new addition to my website, called Projects.  I create a tremendous amount of images, not simply as commercial work, but from my own need to photograph.  For the last three years, I have probably averaged 35k images per year.  (I raised the question of "how many photos do you take a year" once in a photography forum.  A lot of people had some very strong opinions about the value of working one way or another, which I found odd, as if there were some correct way to produce a photograph. I was just curious how many photos other photographers took, as I don't hang out with photographers, except virtually.)

In fulfilling my own need to photograph, patterns and themes and objects naturally arise.  There isn't anything I am not interested in photographing.  Under the new heading of Projects, I will be presenting different collections of images.  Some with be quite linear, like the first entry: Chairs.  Others will not be.

If you want a trip down back in time to 1950s America and want to see another photographer (some punk named Robert Frank) who liked chairs, visit this issue of Life Magazine.

What we don't see.

One of the aspects of photography that I enjoy is the silent collaboration I have with every person that looks at my photographs.  As a photographer, I can only hope my images find people who are in the mood to look.

I took this photo last September on Waikiki Beach on the island of Oahu, Hawaii.

I was struck immediately by the way this man walked out of the  water.  He strode.  There are certain men whose movements are marked by having served in the military.  This man was one of them.

His friend is enjoying a dip in the warm and blue waters of Waikiki.  They have been life long friends.  They like to travel.  His friend loves to swim.

"It's his favorite thing," the man told me.