It is ‘quieter’ than my usual style of street photography. It is not as clear or graphic as some of my topographic images. The light is rather special. What difference does that make?
The place was quite quiet. Quieter than earlier in the day. Quieter than the developers would have hoped it would be when they built it less than a decade ago.
The image is quieter than the images which, five years ago, I imagined I would be taking in this newly developed area of the inner city. It is also quieter than it might have been if I had not been reading Gerry Badger’s essay on “The Quiet Photograph”.
Digital photography: the revolution “that has not happened” – yet?
Jörg Colberg presents wonderfully understated flick-through videos of photobooks on YouTube. And on the Conscientious weblog he regularly presents reviews of photobooks and on Conscientious Extended he offere further posts on photography and photographers. On that site (June 12, 2012) he put out a challenging post, asking why the advent of digital had not provoked more of a revolution in photography.
It is a stimulating read but perhaps not as provocative as Jörg himself hoped. I think this is because it takes in too many targets at once: the present waves of nostalgia are not quite the same thing as the “conservativism” that Jörg feels photography as whole suffers from. Jörg reminds us: We’re all photographers now. Every photo has already been taken. Much of what is called “new” is no more new than a detergent that has been repackaged under the slogan “NEW!” and asks: Where is the photography after photography to come from?
There follow some rather vague complaints about the way technology produces a kind of ersatz-newness. I am not sure enough of what exactly Jörg has in mind to be able to offer comment. Instead I want to start my response by doing a riff on Jörg’s comparison of photography with music. In particular, I want to pick up on a clever comparison in the last line of his blog: the search for the new within jazz and the persistent popularly of Dixieland.
In music a digital evolution has indeed given us a range of new possibilities: digital enhancement, sampling, piracy, synching and stretching sounds in new ways. But has it really changed the way in which we listen ? Perhaps we are still a generation away from learning whether the generation happy to walk through crowded streets plugged into Mp3 players will really expect something different from music.
Before computers made much of an impact, early synthesizers emulated older, analogue, instruments while at the same time making us accustomed us to new, techno sounds. And they still required a good deal of skill to play well. Manipulating music digitally on a computer is an even more complex process. It is not difficult to understand the skill and discipline involved. And in the analogue world, anyone who can coax magic from a fiddle / violin still has a huge aura.
Music (and dance) might seem really democratic, accessible forms of creativity but photography is not only more accessible. It is actually easier. “You press the button, we do the rest” promised Kodak in 1905. This meant that from the first we learnt to appreciate and to find room in our albums for even our mistakes. Accident, chance, experiment, even risk were built into the medium from the time of the first Box Brownie.
Jörg likes Kraftwerk, the German 1980s techno-pop band. I think that they are meant to be an example of something new that heralded a technological revolution (or at least innovation). Well, I am not sure. I liked Kraftwerk… then… in the 1980s. They were fun. Not radical. Just fun. Bahn, bahn, bahn, on the Autobahn... They tapped into the connection between music and motors, the ‘muscle’ of mechanical rhythms… They weren’t challenging or mind-blowing. Their rhythms were really old-fashioned. They were fun. And successful. They spawned imitation and, along with that, also innovation.
But imagine a technology that really made all existing, analog, musical instruments easy to play. I suspect that the musical equivalent of Flickr would be filled with quite a lot of Dixieland. And doesn’t YouTube have an awful lot of teenagers re-inventing Heavy Metal?
In Huddersfield, not far from where I live, they hold an annual festival of new and experimental music. Audiences for such music are tiny and I am not sure that it is that kind of experimentation that is pushing music forward. In fact, thinking about music makes me pause for thought: does music need to be pushed forward? Does any art need a sense of direction anymore? We are curious about change. We admire innovation but I am really not sure that the very notion of a “forward” has not itself past its sell-by-date.
Having vast libraries of music is now something which not only the rich aspire to. Most music collections range across time and place. It is not just that “world music” has grown in popularity but access to more music has educated listeners to the importance of cross-fertilisation. Fusion is one of the most beloved words in the music world.
The past is another country. They do things differently there.
L. P. Hartley
Perhaps the real revolution is in the geography of the past. It does not recede from the present at quite the same pace as it did through most of the 20thC. Why should this be?
Well, partly we no longer believe in technology in the way we once did. Jörg’s disappointment with digital photography seems itself nostalgic. That kind of hope was surely more or less exhausted by the 1960s as the last waves of late Modernism were circulated at the height of the Cold War.
And the ideological hopes, fears, and divisions of that period have been transformed, haven’t they? No, we have not seen the ‘end of ideology’ but the divides of our century do have different feel, don’t they? The proliferation of archives of every sort means that history is less easy to transmute into myth. Hope has lost some of its innocence.
Revolution? What revolution?
The idea that art must push forward is a legacy of the ideological struggles of the last century. There really was an “avant-garde’… many, in fact. Left-wing, right-wing. Photographic history was dominated by exiles of one sort of another. A Hungarian wave of photographers fled the first Fascist revolution in 1920 (Kertész, Brassaï, Munkácsi) and supplied the first photomagazines (key figure: Stefan Lorant). The Soviet avant-garde, the Bauhaus. Artist ambition and political hopes (and fear) were so closely bound up in that period.
In my last post on Atget and Kertész I wrote about the wonderful moment in 1927 when the Surrealists discovered the antiquated majesty and mystery of Atget’s prints AND the extraordinary possibilities being explored by Kertész and the new Leica 35mm camera. Actually Kertész had anticipated the innovation of the Leica. He had dreamt of and conjured up the kind of candid, vital camerawork which it made easy. Kertész’s 35mm revolution extended across half a century.
Kertész elaborated so many new possibilities. Before WW11 overtook them he, and Brassaï and Cartier-Bresson and their kind, had marked out the new geometry of photographic space and compiled a huge thesaurus of photographic visual elements. They had completed the primer in the photographic language we have been ‘speaking’ ever since.
And, if you want to communicate, you do need to respect – conserve – the language, the tradition. Even if your aims are experimental.
Jörg updated his thoughts H E R E and, then, on Twitter appealed for contributions to this debate. This is has been mine.
What happened to the artistic ambition in the medium? Why is so much of that ambition directed backwards, towards the photographic past? Where is the drive to go forward?
Jörg, we love the achievements of the past because it was tied to such huge – and as it now seem, naïve ambitions. Jörg complains of contemporary photography…
… it seems so free of ambition. Or maybe more fairly, the ambition contained in that approach seems to be so, well, small. Where’s the passion… ?
Jörg, there is plenty of it about. It may be hard to distinguish from the flood of imitations that clog up the distribution channels. But it is out there. Beautiful work is being done. Bill Viola and Sam Taylor Wood have both made me cry. Are they the way forward? I am not looking for a way forward, Jörg.
Let me finish with a few further thoughts on why “forward” is not necessarily the way to go.
Revolutions, as Walter Benjamin reminded us, are a leap into the past. (Tigersprung ins Vergangene.) Most revolutionaries are, in one way or another, fundamentalists… demanding a return to fundamentals. Re-collection… I will leave that thought there…
And then real innovation does not ‘push back the boundaries’. But it does often mark out those boundaries. And then that leaves it to the future to go over the terrain so marked out. James Joyce’s Ullyses is an encyclopaedia of innovations and experiments which novelist ever since have been able to plunder and re-apply. Whole prize-winning novels have been spun out of applying just one of his innumerable experiments consistently across a whole novel.
In photography, too, the greats of the past seem so much more radical than those of the present. To be a true innovator it is necessary to grasp that there is in the past so much with which we still have to catch up. That is the beauty of experimentation.
Eugène Atget is the subject of one of the richest and most thoughtful essays in Gerry Badger’s collection The Pleasures of Good Photographs. André Kertész is the subject of a few rather condescending remarks in an essay in which his version of “essentially optimistic” humanism is contrasted with the more pessimistic vision of Martin Parr.
Let’s just for a moment put Atget and Kertész into a rather different, and closer relation. That was my aim in one of my first published pieces on photography in which I ‘compared and contrasted’ their work.
Badger writes eloquently about what animates Atget’s photographs. I will leave those subtle suggestions for another day. But before he does that, he addresses what he calls the “Atget problem” in the following terms…
“Atget’s work has become central to our understanding of what photography at its best might achieve.
But where does one begin? Let’s put theorists and curators aside for a moment and start with photographers. For a number of reasons, Atget is an important influence upon many photographers. Indeed, I would almost go so far as to say that if photographers don’t ‘get’ Atget – or Walker Evans for that matter – they don’t really get photography. He is as fundamental as that.
And though contextualists might carp, one important reason for Atget’s influence is formal. Photographers are always looking to learn formal lessons, and Atget is a veritable encyclopedia, demonstrating a myriad of ways to put together a picture.” (page 41)
That seems to me an inspired and insightful formulation. But surely Kertész’s work should be appreciated in the same terms? There is so much innovation in Kertész, such freshness. It makes me rather flinch when Badger writes dismissively…
“For all his acclaimed humanist bonhomie how deeply did André Kertész actually dig into the human condition? It seems to me that much of the delight in Kertész – and it cannot be denied that there is delight – derives from his images’ elegant, painterly formalism.
Often, Kertész’s people are reduced, albeit painlessly, to mere formal ciphers, to compositional elements. This by itself is not eternally damning, but to my mind the bittersweet whimsy afflicting so much of Kertész is the simple obverse of the eternal, coruscating angst that drags down the work of say, Garry Winogrand. Both in a way are equally narrow and one-sided – great artists though both of them are.”
It does not seem reasonable to complain about Kertész’s essentially optimistic vision, anymore than it would be to want darker, less colourful pictures from a Matisse or a Miro.
In 1984 the weekly magazine New Society published a short piece by me contrasting the work of Eugène Atget and André Kertész. I think it was the editor of the magazine that gave it the title “Poets of the Camera” because that title applies far more to Kertész than Atget. That small publication proved lucky for me. The National Museum of Photography, Film and TV in Bradford put on a major retrospective of the work of Kertész to mark his 90th birthday. The BBC’s Radio Four looked around for someone to review the exhibition and my little piece got me the job. And that led to me getting to meet my hero, Kertész on his actual 90th birthday at a luncheon hosted by the museum.
Afterwards I wrote two small poems of appreciation and sent them off to Kertész. I have no way of knowing whether he received them but I am really glad I got them into the post. Within a year he was dead.
Here, unedited, is my piece as it appeared in New Society
Poets of the Camera: Eugène Atget, André Kertész and the Image of Paris
Eugène Atget often took his photographs in the early morning, before the rising sun had made the light too bright and contrasty, and before the bustle of the Parisian crowd had dispelled the stillness with which he imbued his pictures. He would carry his heavy antiquated camera through the streets, set it up at a site probably chosen beforehand and, using long exposures and old-fashioned techniques, he would set about constructing an image of Paris which few had seen but which would profoundly influence the way the city is remembered.
Beginning around 1890 and working until his death in 1927, he produced many thousands of plates, some of them inspired, many of them mundane. His 19th century mode of documentation, combining description, classification and cataloguing, was ideally suited to his aim: that of providing a complete and true photographic portrait of Old Paris.
André Kertész began taking photographs in Hungary around 1912. His camera was a very basic one, using glass negatives. But it was small enough to be hand-held, because from the start his interest was in a mode of photography that was mobile, capable of catching the world unawares, and registering unexpected juxtapositions. From the flux and chaos of human life he seized images which revealed odd angles, suggestive detail and satisfying form. Like Atget, he had the knack of showing what was unobtrusive, inconspicuous or simply neglected in a way that seemed laden with significance.
Atget and Kertész were the first great camera-poets of the city streets. Between them they charted new depths, and new extremes, in the relation of the camera to the experience of the metropolis. Atget set out to paint the city’s portrait, constructing from myriad, lovingly assembled fragments a true image of the city in repose. Kertész perfected the art form of the snapshot; his images are not sonnets, but haiku. The differences in outlook and technique between the two are profound and instructive. But it may be just as instructive to note the elements of their work that link them and set them apart from the scores of professionals who have come after There is an exhibition of Atget’s work at the Serpentine Gallery in Kensington Gardens, till 25 March. In June the National Museum of Photography in Bradford is putting on a Kertész show.
Both Atget and Kertész photographed the city’s trivia as well as its monuments. Both refuse the official view. They gently subvert the city’s presentation of itself with images that are profoundly personal yet somehow authoritative. Both are highly selective in what they show. Our sense of their life’s work is conditioned as much by what they leave out of their pictures as by what is included.
Neither Kertész nor Atget are chroniclers of the ills of the world. Kertész was with the hussars in the first world war and belonged to a group who went over to the communist side thereafter. Although he must have seen enough violence and pain, his photographs throughout his life concentrate elsewhere. Atget often reveals the forgotten “underside” of urban civilisation, in scenes of decrepitude and neglect. But he focuses on the experiences of the city, rather than the misfortunes of its inhabitants.
Themes recur. In Atget: the empty streets, crumbling statues, scarred walls, overgrown gardens, eerily reflective shopfronts, and everywhere a cold, diffuse light. In Kertész: the bold angles, strong shadows and shapes, a view from above, the sense of movement, purpose and pattern. These make up the signatures of their works. But if each of them developed a style and a choice of subject that was highly personal, they shared a loyalty to a kind of photographic objectivity Their kind of truth was not opposed to subjective vision but subsumed it.
We all have experiences which fulfil the photographic desideratum of letting “things speak for themselves”. In dreams and in memories, things speak. In these most personal of experiences, subjectivity is suspended. Atget’s and Kertész photographs, in their different ways, have this quality.
When the photographs of either Atget or Kertész are viewed in sequence they begin to speak to one another. You begin to feel that they hold the key to some kind of truth, perhaps truer than “real life.” The truth as glimpsed in the photographs of the Kertész or Atget is not the same as the “message” of the “committed” photographer. Photographs are poor vehicles for carrying messages of that kind. In Atget or Kertész it is less the truthabout things which matters than glimpses of a truth residing in things: in the way they look, in the way they are, and especially in the ways in which they coexist. In the lavish, carefully printed editions of their works (Eugène Atget, Works, in four volumes, £25 each, Gordon Fraser; and André Kertész, Hungarian Memories, £35, Hutchinson – plus a variety of anthologies published by Thames & Hudson), you see their work as it has never been seen before
When Atget began collecting his photographic “documents” in the 1890s, Paris had already been subjected to sustained destruction and transformation by the followers of Baron von Hausmann and the town planners of the Second Empire. Only after the trauma of the first world was as a “historical consciousness” aroused among the citizenry, anxious to preserve whatever was old or grand or quaint. Atget had been at work for many years already, tracing the image of the old city in its neglected and inconspicuous facets. He ignored the Eiffel Tower and all symptoms of the future. In the wealth of detail and richness of tone, he rendered the flavour of a epoch already passed away. Instead of “the way things really were,” he rescued the image of the city as it would appear to recollection.
Kertész’s own prints are often contrasty and sometimes unclear, but they are vital and full of movement. They capture a variety of moods, rather than Atget’s sustained moodiness. Detail is as important within Kertész’s pictures as it is in Atget’s; in fact, it is often triumphant – a tiny pigeon flies up or promenades, a half-concealed reader escapes into a book, a lonely cloud mocks a mountain of glass and steel. Harmony and freedom are glimpsed within Kertész’s urban landscape. In Atget’s, they are remembered. In the patterns in which scurrying passers-by are cast by Kertész, there is the shadow of a promise of a purposeful, peaceful, collective existence. In the brooding calm in Atget’s images, there is congealed a history of past struggles – an archaeology of the city’s fight for survival.
In 1925 in Paris, Man Ray introduced his assistant, Bernice Abbot, to Atget, who was then almost 70. They began to prepare some of his plates for publication in a surrealist journal. In that same year Leica went into mass production with a quality small (35mm roll film) camera, which was to influence photographic practice profoundly. It was also in 1925 that Kertész, who had already, in his early work in Hungary, developed an aesthetic (or optic) to suit the new camera, arrived in Paris from Budapest.
In 1927, the year of Atget’s death, Kertész had the first-ever one-man photographic show at the surrealist gallery, Au Sacre de Printemps. Atget influenced photographers like Bill Brandt and Bernice Abbott, who saw his work. But it was the possibilities of small mobile cameras which excited the next generation of photographers.
In those years between 1925 and 1927, the baton was passed from a peculiarly 19th century sensibility – elegaic, classifactory, obsessive – and the promises of the early 20th century. The photographic assimilation of the city since has involved camera work that is alert, fast-moving, fascinated by chance and bursting with a sense of possibilities. Now at the solemn end of the 20th century Kertész’s world may be the more difficult for us to fully comprehend. Atget’s eerie desolation haunts and fascinates us. But Atget’s autumnal vision of the city is the historical and natural complement of Kertész’s, in which there are always signs of the coming spring.
or ‘Martin Parr and me’. I want to write a bit about Martin Parr, starting out from Gerry Badger’s essay, but trying to acknowledge both Parr’s importance in photograph and the personal significance his work has long had for me. Continue reading “Martin Parr”
It might seem patronising to want to offer thoughts about ‘how to read an essay’ but I am sort of learner who thinks it is always worthwhile to go back to basics. And here ‘basics’ means remembering that an essay is usually an attempt, an experiment. It is often worth asking about any essay with which we engage: what is being attempted, what is being tried, or tried out?
Simply put: Gerry Badger tried out the notion of ‘a quiet photograph’ in prose, with examples. I want to try out that notion, in practice, but with some reflection in writing.
If we think of an essay only as a noun, it is in danger of being seen as simply a text among texts. Structural and post-structural linguistics has shown great ingenuity in ‘reading’ all kinds of writing as ‘texts’, and even applying textual analysis to what was never written.
The danger is that we see all kinds of communication as somehow argumentative in the same way… in the words of a sage dear to me… ‘They all have their own agenda, don’t they?’
Google offered the following on the topic of “Essay”
Let me illustrate my point by reference to Gerry Badger’s essay on “The Quiet Photograph”. I suspect that when it came to selecting materials for inclusion in the admirable collection The Pleasures of Good Photographs Gerry Badger might have felt some sentimental attachment to this piece. After all the ‘quiet photographers’ he lists, Frank Gohlke, Richard Misrach, Robert Adams, Nicolas Nixon and Stephen Shore (p.217) are favourites of his, some of them close personal friends. What if this was the first piece of writing in which they were yoked together as a kind of tribe? And then maybe this was the first attempt, the first time he has essayed the notion of the ‘quiet photograph’. Maybe this essay has survived only because it launched an intriguing notion which has not really been explored more productively elsewhere? I wish I could offer some of the facts to fill in here where I have essayed only speculation.
The notion of ‘the quiet photograph’ is, for me at least, an intriguing one. This blog is an attempt to demonstrate why that is so. For me, it has pointed up something about my own approach — but by way of contrast. I am anything but a ‘quiet photographer’. I want in future posts to explore a notion I see as related but not synonymous: the notion of ‘slow photography‘. My own skills have been developed in a quite different direction: my photography is neither quiet nor slow. My most recent project has been the hundreds of images on the theme of consumerism and retail therapy that I collected on my phone and processed through Instagram to form the two ‘stained-glass windows’ which went into the recent Your Retail Soulmate exhibition (see example above).
One reason I was able to ‘collect’ so many ‘street photography’ images on my phone so very quickly is that I have been thinking about consumerism and the image environment it has created for a very long time. At least since I saw John Berger’s brilliant 1972 BBC-TV series Ways of Seeing soon after it was first broadcast in the UK. Another is that I have a quick eye, well-developed habits of geometry and composition and I have had several years of practice at just this kind of photography.
The phone was better suited to the ‘style-for-the-job’ than a 10 x 8 camera would have been.
My ‘stained-glass’ windows were a commentary on the image-ecology (you heard it here first, folks… I am essaying that notion, here) of consumer capitalism. The windows contain a mass of individual images but many of the images themselves combine numerous images or image-layers. Attention is demanded in order to resolve the cacophony of image-arguments into specific moments of our encounter, engagement and seduction by the images that surround us.
This is not the place for a detailed account of my own thinking or practice in that project. (I have already put together two small books of images and will be going back to my translation of Walter Benjamin and the essays of John Berger in order to explore these themes more fully.)
Within this blog I want to go on to explore the notion of ‘slow photography’ and to explore issues of authority and modesty, and to look at the implications of the larger formats – and the 10 X 8 camera in particular – for the ‘tone of voice’ of the photographer. In order to do so, I will – in later posts – look at some of my favourite photographers including John Davies, Mark Power and David Goldblatt.
And ‘ecology’ — a concern that links Badger’s ‘quiet photographers’ — is another notion that is worth returning to. Give me time.
This is not the photograph I would have taken if I had had more time to compose more carefully. But I like it. I need to reflect on how accident has shaped an image that I find quite satisfying.
The photo about was snatched. I noticed the two figures a moment too late to capture them as they crossed in the little pool of light which they are just leaving. If I had had even a moment to spare I might have stepped forward to exclude post for the traffic lights from the frame. But then I would still have had figures tiny in the distance.
Passers-by were too infrequent at that time of the evening for me to go and spend time exploiting that patch of light. I do intend to return to the scene. I will think on these things when I do. But in the meantime I have, partly by accident, ended up with a photograph I find really satisfying: a picture of light and dark, companionship and solitude, old and new, development and its arrest. On the far side of the road is a gap where old buildings were torn down to make way for new which, after 2008, never got built.
These are the same two young women seen in the distance in the photo above. This is taken a moment or two later but it is a photo that I would have quickly discarded, if it were not that I wanted to reflect on my own photographic habits. Gone is the gorgeous orange, the contrasty light. The figures are viewed from an angle (rather than frontally). There is a sense of proper distance. Composition in general is unexceptional, hardly worthy of note. I am tempted to say, unsuccessful. (Especially the pole emerging from the top of the head.) This concern with composition probably signals the sense in which I am not a quiet photographer and this might be considered a “quiet” photograph. Perhaps we need another example…
I had noted the exciting light when looking along the road (Whitehall Road), and was reflecting on these questions when another figure approached. This time I photographed her in a style which many would recognise as very much my own. This was the result…
Is that a good photo? The face does not stand out against the background quite as much as I would like. I could use Photoshop to drop the building a tone or so. But as it stands it is a straight uncropped snapshot. As so often in my snapshots, the geometry seems a bit exaggerated. The diagonal of the pavement goes straight to the solar plexus, helped by the orange wall on the right. Hands and eyes show us exactly what she is concentrating on. The little figure in white is caught in the sun and balances the white of her phone. I even like the neat energy of her slightly bent knees and the geometrical shapes behind her.
Not a great photograph. But it if I pursue my project of photographing the area, in this period of ‘arrested development’, this photo might make the final edit. It is says something about women walking home in pleasant but quite lonely parts of the inner city. It reminds one of the role of mobile phones in offering something like companionship and safety.
‘The “quiet” photograph is a difficult notion to define with any exactitude, partly a question of style, more a question of voice.”
Badger (page 210) characterises “quiet” photography as modest, self-effacing, not hectoring. Shunning the egotistical mediation of the determinedly expressive auteur. Understated. Eschewing ‘quirky tricks of technique or vision’.
He goes on to quote Thomas Weski who describes such photographers as shaping their results ‘subtractively’…
Badger’s essay then goes something of a detour, first explaining that the “quiet” photograph is certainly “straight” but that not all straight photographs are quiet. (“The images of both Sugimoto and the Bechers positively scream…”) The “operatic” prints of Bill Brandt or W. Eugene Smith are likewise straight, but by no means quiet. Badger contrasts “quiet” photographs with the obsession with size, and the need to exhibit consistent style that betray a concern with the art world, rather than the world itself .
“The world is infinitely more interesting than any of my opinions concerning it. This is not a description of a style or an artistic posture, but my profound conviction.” – Nicholas Nixon’s dictim is clear but it does not get us closer to understanding the aesthetic of the “quiet” photograph. We might understand this a bit better if we remember Frank Gohlke’s aim of the “‘passive frame’, in which the image appears not to have been composed actively, with any great forethought, but has happened ‘naturally’ as it were.” (p.218)
But this “prediliction for what can be discerned as a hiding of the artist’s hand” doesn’t sound to me like the ‘transparent eyeball’ of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Too much artfulness involved in hiding the art.
Does quiet photography have to be composed in such an artfully neutral fashion? I feel I need to go and look again at Badger’s examples.
We come to the end of the essay without much of a positive definition or characterisation. And we are offered little guidance for practice. I am not even sure that we have been helped to appreciate the work of Gohlke, Richard Misrach, Robert Adams, Nicolas Nixon or Stephen Shore (p.217). To me they are too ill-assorted, their work too multi-faceted, to really help us grasp this slippery notion of the “quiet” photograph. But I know that I will be looking again (more or less immediately) at the work of each of these men with Badger’s words in my mind.
The notion has indeed been difficult to define. Although the following words do not add up to a definition they are likely to stay in my mind for some time…
“The voice of the quite photographer remains modest” (p.216).
Scrupulously maintaining the camera’s “inherent neutrality” (p.217), he maintains “a discreet emotional distance from his subject, he allows it to tell its own story, and as the conduit for this story, is content, indeed insistent upon, subordinating his own ‘story’, if you like.”
What is the “tone of voice” of a photograph? or of a photographer?
What role does composition play? or treatment (processing)?
Perhaps it is easier to understand what a quiet “tone of voice” in photography might be if we consider its opposite: a strident, or emphatic, tone of voice…
I am a sucker for photographs that are self-captioning. Saturday night is the favourite time of the people grouped in the photos on the hoarding below. It was also the subject of a documentary photography project that I pursued for two years along with my friend and colleague, Stephen Griffin. We used an extensive photoblog, which we called HEADROW (click to view), throughout the project. But what about the following “evening” photograph?
I think this is a “good photograph”. At least, I find it satisfying and I find it eloquent. In it I hear a new tone of voice, rather more subdued than when visited this same area five years ago in order to track its rapid re-development.
The composition here is rather obvious. The viewer is able to read the hoarding and assess the way photography is being used there to talk up city centre living in Leeds (Leeds, Live it, Love it is the familiar slogan in the circle next to the photos on the hoarding). The hoarding has been set in the context of the quiet summer evening, the fairly unremarkable (old) buildings, set off by beautiful evening light.
Just around the corner was another hoarding with a slogan and photos that I wanted to record. The light made it more difficult. I only wanted a record. I put the resultant image through Instagram and the result was the image below.
Doesn’t this image form an interesting contrast with the one at the top of the page. Surely a different tone of voice? The peculiarity of the lovely evening light has been transformed into a screaming contrasty colour scheme. A square crop (the original had the same format as the photo above) has put the figure on the left in direct relation to the slogan on the hoarding. The top of the hoarding directs our eyes to his and highlights his unsmiling stare at the camera. The loose tie, the two bags suggest that this is not his favourite time in Leeds city centre.
One might go further, his path seems to take him ‘downhill’. The hoarding has completely obscured the horizon. But the angles here seem to ‘amplify’ the slogan. It has been given a more strident, emphatic ‘tone of voice’.
Propaganda? I am interested in propaganda. Many of my photographs are reflections on the propaganda of modern marketing. I often use angles and diagonals in quite an extreme way. Here my photo of the hoarding was intended to remind one of the superbly designed propaganda images of the past such as the Soviet poster for OVMED state broadcasting (left).
Recently I have been using a number of tools to re-appraise my approach to photography. Instagram has provided a kind of sketchbook for thinking about a variety of new ideas and notions. (Reading Gerry Badger’s essays in The Pleasures of Good Photographs has been another stimulus for this re-appraisal.)
So let me finish off this post with two versions of my approach to (the path that led me to) the hoardings in the two pictures at the top of the page.
The Instagram version of the scene is a detail cropped from the photo below. Instagram has intensified the colours and made its own sense of the contrast between light and shadows.
Below I have offered the uncropped image as processed by me in Lightroom. It was a difficult edit. I am happy with this result. Perhaps later I will try it in black and white.
Is it a “quiet” photograph? I don’t know. And I don’t know if I care. It was a photograph taken in the quiet. It is a photograph about the quiet. It is a quiet I wanted to listen to and respond to. It is a photograph of a space in which I wanted to be quiet, to put aside for a moment, worries money worries, personal anxieties.
I knew that I could return later, and that I would have time to reflect on the patterns and rhythms of human life and development.