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October 21, 2006

The ultimate arrogance of artists

from Why Has Maya Lin Retreated From the Battlefield of Ideas?

The ultimate arrogance of artists is the belief that they control the meaning of their work, the shape of their career, the pattern of their own biographical narrative -- and their importance in the larger history of art. Composers dismiss their juvenilia from consideration. Novelists decide they're poets, and churn out mediocre verse. Yet very few artists ever exercise any ultimate power over how they're evaluated by posterity.

I guess the ultimate arrogance of Philip Kennicott and other journalists is that they know better.

For both artists and journalists the Fox News rule should apply: They report. I decide. Well maybe that is the ultimate arrogance.

All meaning accrues in duration

"all meaning accrues in duration — sometimes you have to just slow down and look"

What a great quote.

Jerry Liebling
NY Times feature

In teaching, he said, he tried mostly to impart a deep suspicion of dogma, of piousness and of the compromises that can lie just beneath the surface of American culture. “I wanted them to see that there are no shortcuts,” he said. “It’s too easy if everything is soft, and you can just buy your way and live well.

Dirty Annie

From the NY Times review

Exquisite printing aside, the family images are professional but pedestrian. The best are, not surprisingly, portraits that bestow an aura of quasi-celebrity, especially one of her mother looking sage, lively and handsomely androgynous.

In the show’s introductory wall text, Ms. Leibovitz is quoted as saying: “I don’t have two lives. This is one life, and the personal pictures and the assignment work are all part of it.” But saying it doesn’t make it so.

Leaking vanity and ambition, at once yearning for greatness and blithely assuming that greatness has been achieved, the works on view are like a high-brow, static form of reality television. It is fueled by an obsession with celebrity and accented with the trappings of first-class travel, serious real estate and privilege. Its revelations are mostly inadvertent.

Ms. Leibovitz’s images are best at magazine scale, and here you can skim across them, like turning pages.

The show’s low point comes at the end, with a gallery devoted to eight ridiculously large and blurry black-and-white landscape photographs ... but mainly these photographs read as a frantic plea: “Take me seriously as an artist!”

October 16, 2006

Roll Over

"dual fascinations with gadgetry and self-memorialization" sounds like blogging to me.

From Roll Over - analysis of snapshot photography, photos of everyday life not initially produced as art
Afterimage, Sept, 2001 by Joel Smith

"A throwaway, single-use camera is to the old take-everywhere family camera as a drive-through lane is to the neatly set dining room table: not so much an updated model as an abject admission that even the least of the old domestic procedures now asks too steep an investment of time and care. Digital cameras, still more fatally, surrender the memory-making process to conscious editorial control before an image even gets to the hard drive; together, the preview screen and the "Trash" button insure that the pictorial era of the headless grandma is truly at its end. (Snapshot-style slapstick is becoming the exclusive province of the handheld family video camera, which now supplies a n entire genre of television comedy.) On the "image-delivery" end, laptops and PalmPilots invite users to download the virtual faces of family and friends for occasional visual reference amid email and stock quotes-the final stage in miniaturization of the pre-computer office desk environment. Emailed picture files are our era's true ephemera, unlikely ever to graduate into physical form for the accidental benefit of later generations; even those that are printed will lack the archival hardiness of 70-year-old drugstore prints.

In the matter of photography's long-contested status as a fine art medium in its own right, the snapshot poses more complex issues. With its preloaded roll-film and its fixed shutter speed and focal length, the first we-do-the-rest Kodak camera of 1888 was, as its inventor readily emphasized, less a technological advance than a master stroke of marketing. George Eastman's keys to success--mass produce, sell cheap, ease down standards, distribute internationally, advertise and sell to the broadest conceivable market and, most crucially, manufacture need on a mass scale--converted photography from a specialized tradesman's science into the very prototype of twentieth-century consumer capitalism. Not incidentally, Kodak and its thousand successors succeeded by fueling what proved to be a growing middle class's dual fascinations with gadgetry and self-memorialization. The point-and-shoot camera came early into the hands of artistic photographers, whether through daily domestic circumstance, as an emblem of the demotic enemy, as the means to a distinctive new formal idiom free for the taking or even, as in Stieglitz's famous case, for all three reasons at once

Throughout the twentieth century, the snapshot served malleably as the foil, inspiration or offstage line coach for photographic artists as diverse as Harry Callahan, Lee Friedlander and Nan Goldin. The "snapshot aesthetic;' a virtual house style at art photography's break-out moment in the 1970s, boasted a broad aesthetic range that included Henri Cartier-Bresson's poetic humanism, Bill Dane's existential slapstick, Ken Josephson's shrugging conceptualism and instances of what might be called the ephemeral sublime. As a dialect of art photography, the snapshot's appeal derived in some cases and to some degree from its populist associations, but had more to do with the high creative dividends that the 35-millimeter camera repaid the slightest--least "artful"--of gestures. Tilt a hand, and the world tilted with you; turn your head in another direction and you might stumble upon a new world of subject matter.."

The more things change the more they stay the same.

October 15, 2006

We are a camera

We are a camera
by David Hajdu, the author of “Lush Life” and “Positively Fourth Street,” is the music critic for The New Republic.

In the 1980’s, the early days of home video, I happened to hear a monologue on video’s technical weirdness by the director Martin Scorsese, who said the medium made him nervous. While a great deal has always made Mr. Scorsese nervous, he appeared to find video acutely wracking. The preservationist in him found the fragile images of video unbearable, and the workhorse in him found the technology’s ease of use unacceptable. With video, he said, the making of moving images was too easy.

With digital cameras, camera phones and the Web to disseminate everything now, moving images seem nearly as commonplace as written language. The world has become an inversion of Orwell’s long-dated vision of a future ruled by video; instead of being the objects of observation by a great totalitarian eye, we are all running about pointing digital video cameras, watching each other.

We have become so accustomed to cameras everywhere that we know how to behave on video as well as we know how to order a burger. And we all know what such familiarity breeds. It is no wonder that, for the generation raised on video, the au courant way to address the camera is to exude contempt for it, degrading it. This is the YouTube aesthetic; and with it, Martin Scorsese’s fears are realized.