In this black and white photograph a peasant woman hunches over in a field, her country’s mountainous terrain spread out in front of her. It’s the country of Georgia in the early 1990s and the woman, seen from behind, is layered in the kind of loose clothing that has always been associated with dignified laborers. We see her from an unobtrusive distance, observing her at work. This vast ancient landscape is both her job and her hearth. It breaks her body and nourishes it. The scene is her daily view; it is unspectacular to her. A peasant’s world touched with the sublime romanticism of a dream, like that of the Andrei Tarkovsky film The Mirror. It quietly opposes the revolutionary romanticism constructed by Soviet propaganda.
I wonder what she’s reaching for because the ground doesn’t offer anything except unforgiving dry dirt punctuated by patches of wild vegetation. Maybe she’s putting something down, giving something back. I think of the way farmers must relate to their land in the same way that fishermen relate to bodies of water. They live on its rhythms, around its schedule. This photograph is small like an old photograph, printed on paper that is cut unevenly on its edges and curling slightly with age like a dying leaf. The picture swallows this anonymous woman who is a product of her land, her country and her time.
Note: This photograph by Natela Grigalashvili is included in Definitions, a group exhibition of Georgian photographers at Newman Popiashvili Gallery, New York.
Inside an art gallery in New York’s Lower Eastside, buried in a side room, was a small black and white image of a barren dessert landscape on a bright day with slight traces of human presence – the kind of scene that would capably backdrop a cowboy movie. It looked like Utah, though I’ve never been there before. Further detail about the picture escapes me, but what stood out was a flat white, rectangular building with a cross at the end of it barging into the picture on the left. This modest church at first looked like a printing error amidst the coarse expansiveness of America’s nature. The dimensionless whiteness hovered irrelevantly over the modulated gray of sky and earth, both of which seemed to be made out of sand. But the cross gave it away as architecture within a landscape. This little picture read like a subtle affront to religion, casting a house of god as a pictorial error, a rigid two-dimensional block devoid of substance and grace. A space for worship disconnected from the real world around it.
Note: This photograph by Seher Shah is included in her solo show, Object Anxiety, at Scaramouche, New York.
Note: This piece is a work in progress essay being developed for an upcoming exhibition about how America is seen by photographs of Chinese artists, documentary photographers and non-professionals.
American photographers are often on the road, overcome with disrespectful wonder at what their country offers in the way of surreal surprises. Moralists and conscienceless despoilers, children and foreigners in their own land, they will get something down that is disappearing – and, often, hasten its disappearance by photographing it. -Susan Sontag, On Photography, 1977
Photography was invented in France by Joseph Niepce and Louis Daguerre in the early 1800s, and developed further in England when Henry Fox Talbot figured out a way to make negatives and print multiples of the same image. This allowed photographs to be duplicated endlessly, clearing a path for the concept that images can be everywhere and document every moment. Photography counts on multiplicity and in this way embodies an American sense of comformity, born from the ethic to efficiently manufacture products like cars, machinery, appliances, and now pictures. Now in the digital age, photography has taken on the immateriality of conceptual art. After all, this movement presaged the information age. Photographs now exist as disembodied images, shared and posted within streams of related data and commentary. Otherwise, they are unseen and appropriately occupy the “memory” within smart phones, hard drives, and digital cameras.
Even though it was invented in Europe, photography didn’t find its natural subject until Americans started using it to document their New World. Photography was as raw as the country and their growths mirrored and enhanced each other. As Americans hit the highways in the 1950s, the camera started becoming more portable, cheaper and more available to more people. Driving across America and photographing it became a rite of philosophical maturation – to have driven and seen (photographed) your country is to have truly lived the concept of America. Robert Frank, a Swiss immigrant, did this in the 1950s to profound artistic effect and his book The Americans remains the portrait of America’s subconscious as it struggled to find itself in the aftermath of two World Wars and a Great Depression that left it standing as the young prince in a beaten-down, war-wary world.
Imagine what kind of excitement and awe the invention of photography must have engendered in the mid 19th Century. It was chemical science wrapped in the possibilities of art: mechanical picture-making. A fleeting image emerges from light, silver, iodine and mercury on a piece of metal (then later glass and paper). Life moves ever faster and photography is a way to capture it. That’s why taking pictures goes hand in hand with mobility and travel. And it is why photography is so important to those that permanently dislocate: immigrants. As immigrants from all over the world poured into America after World War II, taking pictures became a primary way that people mediated their expectations of a place relative to its reality. The land of the gold rush, of opportunity, Hollywood, Times Square, Grand Canyon, cowboys – how did blustery descriptions of the promised land match up to those risking it all to come here?
Sontag again: “As photographs give people an imaginary possession of a past that is unreal, they also help people to take possession of space in which they are insecure. Thus, photography develops in tandem with one of the most characteristic of modern activities: tourism.”
For my purposes, I would substitute “tourism” with “immigration.” For my dad I’m sure that part of the appeal of taking pictures in America was that it proved the value of leisure time that hard work bought. And each picture he took of our lives in America validated the decision he and my mom made to escape China during its cultural revolution. Each picture from a developed roll coming back from the Walgreen’s photo counter was a trophy of this.