When Photography Seeks Its Recipients (1995)
PHOTOGRAPHIC RECIPIENTS
The artist, the artwork, and the recipient are the three entities that play a role in the work of creation. The first struggles with the second, ignoring the third. This ignorance is not contempt but a logical consequence of the fact that the initial recipient of the work is the creator himself, and that the final arrival at a third recipient is not communication but a mere, and not necessary, encounter. The last will remain in the shadow at the same time that for the first he is just a hope. The artist with creation satisfies a need for spiritual survival. This act has no recipient. It is a closed circle act; theoretically, no conclusion, i.e., artwork, is required. Let's remember Winogrand who for the last ten years of his life photographed without wanting to see his works. Was he therefore less of an artist? Besides, isn't the artistic process itself a form of spiritual survival, even without its conclusion? When does a photograph exist? When we press the button to generate photographic time, or when we retrieve the photograph for the first time from the developing tray? Let's remember here Craigie Horsfield and the double date with which he marked his works. Nonetheless, beyond any theoretical doubt, the final photographic work at some point is in our hands. By generating, it too raises a series of questions. Does it have a physical presence? If we destroy it, do we also erase its image? And where is it trapped? In the negative or in one of the countless possible reproductions of it? Or perhaps ultimately in our memory? However, the accumulation of so many images in our minds, in our memory or in our drawer, sharpens the confusion without helping to establish a discipline so necessary for the unruly work to gain cohesion and continuity.
PHOTOGRAPHIC USES
Thus, the production of the final photographic work, with its doubtful and incomplete completion, must be clothed in another garment, that of presentation. Communication is rather a pretext and public display perhaps an enemy. What we need is a clearing of accounts and a signposting on our path. Art, as a manifestation of the spirituality of the senses, hardly finds a place within the boundaries and functions of the real world. Since it left the sacred spaces, where its practical value was inherently related to the metaphysical, it found peace only in the museum halls, whose existence is justified because they preserve the "useless," that is, the memory and spirit of people. All efforts to integrate art into the everyday convert it necessarily into advertising or decoration, since the functionality of today's world does not accept non-integrable dimensions. Photography suffers doubly, as it owes its presence to the existence of the real. Denying the latter thus seems like patricide. It is therefore particularly difficult to deny it integration into the real world at the moment when it owes its existence to the recording of this real. In the public consciousness, photography is justified only as long as it serves another value. When, for instance, it advertises, informs, or reminds. However, something must be done with the images born from the photographer's obsession to see certain things in a certain way. A fact that should interest only the creator himself, or those who know him. From the moment a photograph does not owe its life to any specific purpose it serves, then the familial bond with the creator is unbreakable. The photographer can, if he wishes, work only for the limited audience of his "relatives," those he loves and those he appreciates. But this will deprive him of the charm of sending a message to the unknown, and at the same time, he will not experience the thrill of public exposure and confession. Possibly, the comforting participation of the "relatives" will not allow him the final organization of his work that the rules of public display would impose on him.
PHOTOGRAPHIC PUBLICATIONS
How, then, is a photographic work published, with what restrictions, and what are the implications? The publication of a photographer's image, cut off from a slightly fuller part of his work, deprives the viewer of the possible reading of a personal style and a photographic commentary. Especially if this isolated publication accompanies and illustrates a text, the risk to which the image is exposed is great, as then the subject of the image will occupy the maximum percentage of the viewer's interest, while the text will function as an authentic interpretation of the photograph. Therefore, the photographer prefers a fuller presentation, even if only a part, of his work and not the isolated publication of just one image of his, which would thus be linked with other extra-photographic elements and be associated in the most superficial way with the title, caption, text, pagination, and all those that will lead the reader to an explanatory approach to the photograph, re-incorporating it into the space of utilitarian images. Perhaps this means that such a fragmentary integration of the photographs should be excluded? Such a prohibition seems excessive in our times and unfair to a photographer who can thus supplement his income or gain a small first audience. Whenever it happens, the photographer must be concerned with the conditions and prerequisites under which it takes place. The thoughtless use of images for various purposes, vastly different from those for which they were created, can lead to a complete betrayal of the photographer and his work. The only possible justification then would be the financial exchanges, whose significance will be judged by their value to the photographer, and which, in any case, do not concern this investigation. Unfortunately, the Greek press often makes arbitrary and illegal use of photographs to illustrate articles only part of which is related to the title or content of the journalistic text. This, of course, betrays an unforgivable ignorance of the value of an image on the part of most journalists and often leads to hilariously tragic combinations. We could thus see Kertesz's photograph with Mondrian's pipe illustrating an article on the harmful consequences of smoking, or the beggar with Winogrand's outstretched hand accompanying a pamphlet of the Archdiocese, we could also expect a nude by Brandt to illustrate an advertisement for an Aesthetic Institute, or the couple making love in a photograph by Bresson to accompany an article about condoms. It is evident from the above that I do not agree with the arbitrary integration of works of art into the everyday practice of journalism and advertising, and I will continue to wonder every time I hear background music in a yogurt advertisement, when it is, as happened recently, Mozart's Requiem, especially the part entitled "Day of Wrath" (Dies Irae). Perhaps the Joconda chocolates made a School.
PHOTOGRAPHIC EDITIONS
However, beyond opportunistic publications and after the new photographer overcomes the absolutely understandable first excitement of his printed name and photograph, the next step should be the publication of a portfolio and, even better, a monograph. In the first case, he should now be concerned not with the coexistence of his images with a text but with their presence in a magazine, the style and quality of which he effectively adopts, i.e., he should be careful from now on, apart from his signature, where he puts his photographs. It would indeed be particularly inappropriate to see Horsfield's series of nudes in Cosmopolitan, or Smith's war photographs in Signature of Diner's. I must note, however, that despite my aversion I would not be surprised if something like this (or something from the examples I mentioned earlier) actually happened, so that the confusion of values has now been established. But he should also be concerned with the composition of his portfolio. That is, if the few photographs that comprise it have a reason to coexist. I deliberately adopt such a general prerequisite because it is not only the photographs of the same content, form, or theme that can coexist. Very often something like this is justified with contrasting photographs. The collection of images must be related in some way.
Something similar should be noted for the publication of a monograph. Here we will also be concerned with the publishing logic. That is, a new object is born, the book, which exists beyond the photographs it contains. A book always has a subject and a title. Thus, it is integrated into the bibliography, thus on the shelves of the bookstore, and thus in the consciousness of the reader. Of course, this title and subject may be the name of the photographer himself. However, this presupposes a photographer with a photographic age that allows him a comprehensive, retrospective view of his work. It is a bit difficult for this to happen with a new photographer who is in a period of fruitful search. He can only present his various concerns. Thus, his photographs will mark a piece of his work, a period, which will not have homogeneous thematic content, but definitely a unified direction. The very specific subject can only slightly help the circulation of a book. And this is because the audience can easily perceive the difference in handling the subject between someone for whom the subject is a goal and another for whom it is a pretext. The volume and size of the book must also concern the photographer for two reasons. The first is that it emphasizes the importance that the photographer attaches to this stepping stone of his upward career. An excessive presentation, apart from revealing possible narcissistic tendencies, would suffocate the works, which probably could not bear such a heavy wrapping. The second reason is that the limitation forces the creator into a much stricter selection, which can rather confidently be said to benefit the final result. A photographic book is usually a commercial failure, unless the photographer is alreadyvery well-known, or the subject is extremely popular. In most cases, however, covering the costs is the best one can hope for. It is well known that photographic books, once sold out, are rarely reprinted, since the unusually long time for the sale of the first edition makes repetition unprofitable, and printing a new work much more logical. However, this should not discourage photographers, who, at least in our country, usually self-finance their books, because the expense for the publication of their work is a necessary milestone in their photographic journey. Let them accept that along with the costs of equipment and the production of their photographs, they will also calculate the cost of publishing their work, which also constitutes their imprint on photographic history. The otherwise commendable modesty of some photographers to refuse the publication of their work with the argument that it is not at a level commensurate with their aspirations may hide excessive arrogance and in reality avoid presenting a work that does not compete with those of their photographic heroes. It is common to rail against the State and its ever-erratic cultural policy. While it should strengthen non-commercial artistic activities from the first level of creation by creating the only necessary infrastructure, namely artists, it always engages in showcase projects and either goes through periods of provocative indifference or periods of hypocritical interest. But a creator cannot depend his work on the goodwill of the State, nor on his ability in public relations. Even his anger is barren when directed against the indifferent State, while the anger itself should be a driving force for creation. Our need to gather and publish our work should be such that it provokes and justifies personal sacrifices. And along with us and our "relatives," there will always be a small number of people who will appreciate what we do.
PHOTOGRAPHIC EXHIBITIONS
From the beginning of its history, photography has been compared to painting, whose material presence it borrowed (even when it did not imitate it), whose glory it envied, and whose presentation methods it adopted. Thus, the exhibition of photographs was considered the first, most natural, most suitable, and certainly the most economically accessible method of presenting photographs. Adopting the logic of painting exhibitions, photography also acquired a monetary value that converted it into an object for sale. This practice, initially logical and beneficial for the photographer, became more widespread after the 1960s, when commercial galleries and art agents opened their doors to photography. They had to shape a product, create a market, and face a problem. That of the reproducibility of the photographic image. This ability removes from photography the value of a unique object and raises the question of whether it is, after all, an object, or perhaps an intangible image whose paper depiction is nothing but its projection in space, like the projected transparency on a screen. As if to say, what is it that incorporates the work of Bruce Davidson in Subway, the 24X36mm slide he shot, its projection on a screen, or its printing on reversal paper? And if the latter is sold, can it be sold as a standalone unique work, or as an imprint of an image that exists beyond it? And, if instead what was sold was a perfectly made photocopy from those that are now feasible with the machines that exist, by what percentage should the price be reduced? All this led to idiosyncratic solutions, always with the thought to give greater value to the unique object, thus creating a school of neo-pictorialism that delights in large-sized photographs, conceptual approaches, photographs without negatives (recently triumphantly revived for the same reason the photogram), Polaroids, and anything that can impart uniqueness and economic value to the film we all use, with the prices of these works reaching millions (often double-digit) and dragging along the works of simpler photographers, such as Henri Cartier-Bresson and Garry Winogrand, whose last works sold at auction for prices of 500,000 drachmas and 350,000 drachmas, respectively. These amounts are quite reasonable compared to the astronomical ones achieved by much younger colleagues. The hunt, however, concerns very few systematic collectors in the world, while the rest of the photo-loving exhibition viewers do not buy photographs, except only if they are closely related to the photographer. Nevertheless, this hunt has significantly influenced the photographic style and ethics of many young photographers. What was written above about the need to publish photographic work applies with slight variations to exhibitions. Here the photographer tries a new surprise. To see with his own eyes his unknown recipient approaching with vague feelings his own work. A fruitful experience, because it makes him realize the autonomous path of the work he generated.
These feelings, however, hide a great danger. That consisting in the photographer considering the encounter of his work with the recipient of paramount importance and making it a guide to his creation. As a result, he hopes not only to gain the appreciation of his viewers but also to seduce them. If the photographer enters this slippery path, then he will become a producer, not a creator, of works. The other danger of exhibitions is that, from a substantial mark on the photographer's path within photography and his communication with the world, it transforms into a typical event of his resume. The latter has unfortunately taken on capital importance for the social presence of the photographer. It is noteworthy that resumes have come to be compiled with the emphasis on chronology, so that a year empty of activities causes panic in the photographer, who seeks at all costs to fill the lines. Regardless of whether he has something to show and whether he has someone to show it to. I fully understand the two above weaknesses and simply sound a warning bell emphasizing, however, that this danger must not deter us from the fruitful exhibition for our work, but also for our social role.
When the photographer "sets up" an exhibition, it is good to see it (like the book) as an autonomous work. Like a stage performance. Where the space, the themes, the lighting, all play a role. The most disparate photographs can be presented together if their arrangement in the space justifies it. This also applies to sizes. Whether the photograph will be printed in one of the usual sizes, or whether it will be much smaller, or much larger, can be due to many reasons. Either (very prosaically) due to financial inability, or to the dimensions of the exhibition space, or to the photographer's view that the content is enhanced by the size. While in the case of usual simple dimensions the size does not interfere with the reading and appreciation of the photograph, in extreme cases the size becomes an external formalistic element of the photograph, much like the choice of prints. There it must not only be justified but also not constitute the dominant, if not unique, element of photographic value. A large-sized photograph may gain because of its size, but it must be able to function (if it has content) in smaller dimensions if the conditions require it. Craigie Horsfield's photographs published in this issue are usually exhibited in very large dimensions, but this does not make them less important when seen printed on the pages of a book. It would indeed be provocatively pointless to exhibit them in book dimensions, or to publish them in wall dimensions. It would somewhat remind one of the impression-making efforts to which we have been accustomed by artistic graphic designers. The function of the two presentations is quite different. In the exhibition, the photographs resist, as they are "alive" on the wall and impose their times on us. The viewer awkwardly chooses the duration and distance of his presence. In the book, the reader dominates the image, controlling its time. He brings it back at will and looks at it in peace. Size, in the final analysis, is something similar to the warmth or coolness of the paper, or the degree of contrast. Important choices, but not definitive or decisive. The great weakness of the exhibition compared to the book is that it does not allow for the repetitive and short-term viewing of the photograph, as, moreover, suits it. While the book is there to be seen and seen again and to add new elements to the photograph, which we could not appreciate the first time. The other weakness is that when the exhibition ends, no sign remains to remind us of it. Everything is now concentrated in a poster and in our memory. Something that again brings to mind theatrical performances.
PHOTOGRAPHIC MILESTONES
The end of an exhibition is usually accompanied by a sense of emptiness, much like the end of a celebration, or again, a performance, when the sets are taken down. The photographer, already anxious and doubtful about his works, after the intoxicating intensity of the opening and the artificial tension of the subsequent days, feels that perhaps everything was meaningless. The good reviews (since the bad ones are usually not expressed) still sound discordant in his ears. His photographs, which had brought him so much joy initially, now seem lifeless as they are taken down. The disappointment with the book is different. There, the deflation follows a slower rhythm, perhaps akin to the lesser intensity that accompanied the beginning. Moreover, there was no human presence there. Therefore, the photographer must treat these public appearances as necessary interludes in an endless story. They are merely stations—neither starting points nor destinations—that allow him to breathe, weigh his work, perhaps unload it, and continue on the same path, full of questions and doubts, but also intensity, allure, and curiosity.
Plato Rivellis