Brave New Worlds opens tomorrow, and many of the artists have been in the Walker installing their work. Photographer Gene Pittman captured some images of the installation in process. There are a few more images on flickr, too.
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Before Thursday night’s opening of the exhibition Triangle of Need, photographer Cameron Wittig captured artist Catherine Sulllivan and curator Doryun Chong putting the final touches on the multi-screen installation.
Photographer Cameron Wittig captured in silhouette while photographing Kara Walker’s Endess Conundrum this morning.
(Click for full-size image.)
Best known as a photographer and the 29-year director of MoMA’s Department of Photography (1962-1991), John Szarkowski’s long career has lesser known origins in these parts. Born in Ashland, Wisconsin, and educated at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, his first job out of college was managing the Walker’s photo studio. And his first show as a solo artist, a series of self portraits, took place at the Walker in 1949. (His MoMA exhibition Mirrors & Windows: American Photography Since 1960 was exhibited here in 1979.) Retired from administrative duties, Szarkowski is focusing on his photography (he has a solo show at Peter Fetterman Gallery in Santa Monica through January) and apparently has more time to talk. In a new LAWeekly interview, he discusses the history of photography and, mentioning a “perfect picture” by Sheron Rupp in the Getty’s show Where We Live (on view until February 25), what he thinks makes an exceptional image:
In a bad photograph, a lot of the time, the frame isn't altogether understood -- there are big areas of unexplained chemicals. It's especially difficult as the picture gets bigger. If it's small, a little piece of black can look like a dark place, right? But as it gets bigger, eventually it just turns into a black shape. And you look at the surface of the picture and it reminds you of the chemical factories on Lake Erie, creating pollution problems by making synthetic materials out of soybeans and petroleum derivatives. And you don't want that. The basic material of photographs is not intrinsically beautiful. It's not like ivory or tapestry or bronze or oil on canvas. You're not supposed to look at the thing, you're supposed to look through it. It's a window. And everything behind it has got to be organized as a space full of stuff, even if it's only air.
Some photographers think the idea is enough. I told a good story in my Getty talk, a beautiful story, to the point: Ducasse says to his friend Mallarmé -- I think this is a true story -- he says, "You know, I've got a lot of good ideas for poems, but the poems are never very good." Mallarmé says, "Of course, you don't make poems out of ideas, you make poems out of words." Really good, huh? Really true. So, photographers who aren't so good think that you make photographs out of ideas. And they generally get only about halfway to the photograph and think that they're done.
Above: St. Albans, Vermont, one of Sherron Rupp’s photos in the exhibition Where We Live.
Alec Soth Falls 34 2005
Several years ago, photographer Wing Young Huie's Lake Street Project, a series of photos taken in the neighborhoods abutting this south Minneapolis street, was displayed on billboards and store windows the length of the six-mile avenue. Walking the route, past tiendas, Vietnamese nail salons, and Mexican restaurants, I'd stop and pore over images of people who, if I moved a foot to the left to look into the hairstylist’s shop where the photo was displayed, might not be so fond of such wanton peering. That experience came to mind last month when I was interviewing another Twin Cities-based photographer, Alec Soth. In the course of our discussion, Soth talked about life after his inclusion in the 2004 Whitney Biennial, his new project Niagara, and the art of looking. In this Walker blog exclusive, that's where we pick up the conversation:
Alec: I just think about how wonderful it is to be a photographer, because it's this permission slip that you're given to go into the nail salon or to walk up to that person at the bus stop and say, "Can I stare at you for 30 seconds?" It's an incredible luxury. We could do this without a camera, but it'd probably be even more awkward... I used to joke that I was going to become a "binoculographer." I'd just go around staring at people with binoculars. Kind of performance art... I feel like a large part of photography is like a performance. And the photograph is like a document of this performance, of this encounter with the world.
Paul: What about--I guess the question is: what makes a good photographer, but I don't really want you to answer that because I think it's too big (and too subjective) of a question...
AS: It's a corny question, but it's a good one. And suddenly I have an answer. I think what makes a good photographer is being willing to explore what you really want to explore. If you really want to photograph furry kitties, just do it. It's ok
PS: But what about the in-the-moment nature of shooting? Is the good photographer--whatever that means--the one who just knows: this is something I want to photograph? Does it happen for you [...] that there's a surprise when you develop?
AS: There's plenty of discovery along the way. The fun part is discovering what it is I'm attracted to. I recently heard an interview with a writer who said, and you've heard this a million times in different ways, that they write to find out what they're going to write. I'm interested in photographing to find out what I'm attracted to photographing. You end up learning something about yourself in that process.
PS: If you're starting a new project, how does that work? Do you just start shooting and see where it takes you?
AS: No. I did this project recently in Niagara Falls, and it started before I'd ever been to Niagara Falls. I had these pictures in my head of things I'd hoped to find. I have a list of things I want to shoot. One thing is "men in pajamas." I've yet to find a man in pajamas, but it's something I'm looking for. Why is that? That's the way I go out into the world, is looking for certain things.
PS: Do you have a picture of a man in pajamas in your head? Do you think visually like that?
AS: Yeah. This is totally corny, but the way I think about it is I really close my eyes and I try to imagine an exhibition of pictures and see what kind of pictures--what is it I really want to look at?--and then go try to make those pictures. You never make those pictures, because they just don't emerge that way, but it takes you on a path. Recently, I was in Georgia and it was the beginning of a commission. What did I want to photograph? Like, I'm interested in hermits. So I do a little Google search on "hermits," "Georgia." And I find this Greek orthodox monastery in rural Georgia, and I go there and have this amazing encounter with these people. Those pictures weren't in my head--Greek Orthodox monks--but something developed and it took me on this crazy path.
PS: Keeping lists suggests that, yes, art is about innate talent and being visionary, but also research and process and development.
AS: And just going out and doing it. It's easy to make the lists, but the hard part is actually going out. And it's scary. Driving up to the monastery in the woods, I was horrendously nervous about what's going to take place and just trying to relax and go with the flow and seeing where you end up.
Alec Soth Mother and Daughter, Davenport, Iowa 2002
PS: I love this photo [above]. It's just a fragment, but it's rich with narrative. What were their stories?
AS: This was in a sort of massage parlor, or what have you. A lot of the people I photograph, I ask them what their dreams are, and I have them write it down on a sheet of paper. "'My dream is to be an RN,' wrote Aja. Her mother, Julie, said that she had given up dreaming a long time ago." I give these little nuggets of information discretely--these little footnotes for those who want it. I love that she wants to be an RN. It's hopeful.
PS: It's such a bodily picture--there's so much flesh there, which connects to the RN thing in a way, in a more wholesome way, perhaps.
AS: This picture, large, you can really stare at them, really stare at their flesh in a way that'd be highly uncomfortable in real life. It's really that simple... We all like people watching. It's just a sensual pleasure. Flesh is a sensual pleasure. It's really that simple. One needn't write essays about it.