The recognition of an art form is neither formally awarded nor ceremoniously granted. Nevertheless, the extent and manner of its acceptance by the general public has some significance. In the informal list of established arts, cinema acquired the seventh number in the artistic hierarchy and became known as the "seventh art". However, photography, which predated cinema and was responsible for its discovery, remained outside the official numbering for a long time, even though it was later quietly added to the list with the number eight (fortunately few know this, and we avoided references to the "eighth art"). Perhaps the delayed recognition of photography is due to its easy technique, though poetry was not more difficult. However, poetry did not manage to acquire its own number independently but is always subsumed under literature. While many photographers would prefer photography to be included in the category of painting, since both reproduce reality and moreover in two-dimensional form, the real reason for this preference is likely the hope of achieving a higher sales price for their photographs. The addition of "comics" in the ninth position on the list of arts foreshadows the expansion and elongation of the catalog.
Beyond the somewhat comedic element of such rankings, which should probably remain "of unknown paternity," there arises the discomfort people have regarding the definition of art so that they can treat something as a work of art whether it moves them or not. However, this discomfort and the related rankings stem from genuine questions and hesitations. These arbitrary categories and classifications can prove relatively useful in trying to define the peculiarities of each art form, as well as the content of Art in general. From this effort, any fanaticism and sectarianism must be excluded in advance, as the definition of art can be broadened or narrowed as one sees fit.
For instance, one should decide whether to include applied arts in their definition of art. My choice is that, despite respect for the technically and aesthetically flawless production of a utilitarian object, art (for me) is limited to "useless" creation. Here, it must be reminded that "useless art" began with religion, the other "useless" pillar of human metaphysical contemplation.
Photography might have been born in the 19th century, when the affinity of art with religions began to fade. However, so many centuries of religious art that preceded cannot yet be uninfluential to both old and new arts. Hence, there's a sense of sacredness for every work born without a specific goal and need, because the more "useless" a work is, the more its reason for existence is the creation itself and its connection with the creator. In the image and likeness. "Useless" photography addresses no one and can be treated like a bottle in the ocean. Therefore, the construction of an office building may be an impressive architectural feat, but with a weaker transcendental gravity than (what was) the construction of a cathedral. And I remember being surprised when I heard a young architect thirty years ago rhetorically asking in a lecture "has architecture ended when they stopped building churches?"
Because the boundaries and definitions when referring to art are -and must remain- flexible and abstract, there are examples of applied art that claim a place (and possibly a prominent one) in the firmament of artistic creation. Yet our admiration for such works and the recognition of their inspired craftsmanship usually stumble upon the compulsory grounding imposed by their utility, depriving them of the possibility of transcendence and transformation. On the other hand, there is a plethora of works that, because they were made under the shadow of exclusively personal and "useless" creation, with the -albeit unfulfilled- pursuit of transformation, convince with the sincerity of their intentions for their artistic identity, even when they do not achieve artistic quality.
To these thoughts, a pessimistic observation can be added, that for many years now, utilitarian production has been increasingly distancing from the creativity of the old masters, while artistic production tends to increasingly transform into a kind of utilitarian and applied art, aided by the misuse of theoretical support for art works. All these make me emphasize that the abstract power accompanying works of art over the centuries must be noted, but not beneficially analyzed, and that boundaries can be set by each one for oneself without interpretations and exclusions.
The effort to seek the peculiarities of each art is useful for being able to exploit the special path that will chart the way for the creation of a significant work. The first distinctive feature of photography is that it describes with painstaking accuracy. However, unlike cinema or literature, it cannot narrate. It only describes what is contained within its frame (and nothing outside it) and does not attempt (nor can it) to interpret it. For example, a photographed woman with a baby is a woman with a baby and not a mother with a baby, as most would tend to see by adding information not contained in the photograph. Therefore, if we think more persistently, we realize that the photographer essentially records nothing more than space and time, a minuscule fragment of the world at a fleeting moment, thus creating a photographic space and time. Therefore, the photographer's responsibility peaks in the instinctive selection of what to include in the frame and what to exclude from it and in the equally instinctive choice of the moment of capture. This precise description, combined with the arbitrary cutting of time and space, must logically be hostile to any obvious information, as the latter would exhaust the photograph in its self-evident reading and obvious interpretation.
At this point, it must be noted that photography does not produce a "tangible" work. It does not produce objects like painting or sculpture. The body of the artwork is merely a trace. The same is true for cinema or poetry. This makes the restriction of reproducing a photograph in numbered copies somewhat absurd, as established by art galleries in the last forty years in an attempt to transform the photograph from a trace into a commercially exploitable object.
Often, however, we forget or pass by with embarrassment and (worst of all) guilt the most authentic and primary use of photography. The recording of memory and the updating of the past. Indeed, there is no one who has not kept photographs of loved ones, which gain immeasurable value after the death of those depicted. It is characteristic that despite the spread of video, people, for the most part, prefer photography as a carrier of memories. This probably happens because they perceive that memory needs only a wick, in this case, the photograph, to fuel memory and make what has been lost in time topical again. I believe that this sacred role of photography, which has spread across the planet, remains embedded and characterizes all photography and every photograph. In simpler and more provocative words, every photograph is a memory. Or more precisely, every "useless" photograph encompasses a memory. The very strange thing is that at some point it became apparent to me that every "useless" photograph of mine that I choose is part of my memory, with the self-evident consequence of being unable to distinguish the memorial from the creative photographs, since every photographic trace resulting from my choices refers to the "useless" creation of personal memory.
In my youth, I didn't have a camera, but paradoxically I collected any photograph of relatives, acquaintances, and friends, even from their relatives I had not met or from times I had not been born. And paradoxically, even the photographs I chose from my artistic involvement began to have a value for me similar to that of my old memorial photographs. They are personally precious to me. I then began to think that the memorial dimension of photography exerts a mysterious attraction. And it has the peculiarity of transcending the relationship of the viewer with the subject and being able to be "read" differently by each viewer, who will draw from the photograph not only its description but also the intellectual and emotional intensity of the photographer's gaze.
A non-photographer friend once told me that memorial photographs exert this mysterious attraction because they are "invested with emotions." The accuracy of the observation impressed me, and I asked him to allow me to adopt it. I believe that this quality is ultimately possessed by every photograph, even if it was not born exclusively as a carrier of memories. With the sole exception of those photographs that are primarily associated with the past, but with a specific utilitarian or more generally useful purpose of their birth. Therefore, I attach great importance to the "useless" aspect of photography that interests me.
However, there is still one more step that photography needs to take to extend the power of the invested emotions. Given that each photograph is equivalent to a condensed gaze of the photographer at the space and time he chooses, immobilizes, and perpetuates, it is easily understood that a long gaze at his photograph will not enhance the intensity of the emotion it provokes, but on the contrary, will weaken it, succumbing to the much easier temptation of analysis and interpretation. Conversely, distancing from the specific photograph and returning to it will provoke each time a new triggering of the emotion and a reapproach to the photograph with renewed curiosity and dialogue with it. The humility of photography -every photograph- combined with the emotions/references/extensions/implications embedded in it requires multiple new readings and approaches, not surgical and obsessive stares. The photograph that moves us leaves in the mind and soul an imprint that seeks its time to be honed and the renewed approach to blossom. Perhaps this is one of the reasons I always felt awkward in front of a solitary and complacently hung photograph on the wall. I would prefer it to be hidden and to be revealed again and again, ever unchanged and yet new.
Perhaps there is also another way to achieve this always new approach. The obsessions of each photographer and the "invested emotions" of his memory usually follow similar rules and kindred impulses, while obeying a common language. Therefore, if we gather more photographs of the same photographer, then our wandering from one photograph to another and our return to the previous or next one reveals the greater magic of every artistic work, which is nothing other than the artistic language itself. This wandering prevents logical interpretations and relieves emotions from the burden of reading and recognizing them. Thus, the photographs of others that we choose to love can also become part of our own "invested" memories.
Plato Rivellis