Recently did an interview with Valeria from Love and Dishwasher Tablets who managed to get me to open up about some photos. Take a peek at their site, plenty of great material including an interview with Efe Cakarel of MUBI and a write up on Allison Schulnik, whom I adore.

“Is photography rewiring my brain, my memory? Is it slowly removing me from reality? As I grow as an artist, I am confronted by the fact that the photographer I am is based on the inability to accept, on the need to immortalize life as I see it and as I wish it to be. So I question, is this the nature of photography or photographer?”

Post #7, Communicating the Incommunicable, Leica Blog

While in Antoine D’Agata’s workshop in Paris I was referred to as a young, contemporary American photographer. This label didn’t make sense to me. With further critiques and the ensuing physical and psychological distance from the world of photography I’m accustomed to in America, I began to see my work in a new light. There came a point when I felt a significant lack of authenticity in my images and those of my American peers. Namely, a large amount of distance between the life we live and the life we portray in our photos. I saw a beautification and perfection I didn’t notice before. A pop and cleanliness that reminded me how Capitalism and advertising has worked its way into the subconscious perception of Americans. I thought, maybe we are so desensitized by imagery we embrace artifice without realizing it? It was a strange feeling to see my images shape-shift in front me, like watching the eyes of a loved one go from blue to black.

Sitting in that classroom in Paris I was taken aback at how occupied all of us have become with staying on top of editor’s lists, photo blogs, social media, gallery shows and the such. It seems a lot of us are either too distracted or too lost to have the energy to sit down and genuinely use photography as a personal tool. What happened to making images that we would choose to make regardless of anybody or anything else? I was reminded of what I’ve always known: I don’t care about the hype or the money and I really don’t care about the business model. Dreams for sale are not dreams.

And I understand we have to walk a fine line. We have to keep taking other people’s pictures in order to pay the bills and earn the time to do personal work. And this is where it becomes so easy to lose touch with who we are and what really matters. We often think that if we work hard enough on personal projects it will eventually lead to and fuse with paid work. But I would ask, what kind of personal work is the kind you make under those conditions? And I would argue that if you work hard taking other people’s pictures long enough, you’re likely to keep taking their photos without even realizing it (isn’t Beauty empty without truth?).

When I’m at the end of my life and thinking about what I’ve given back, the last thing I’m going to care about is the magazines I shot for, the museum I was in, or the recognition I received. The only thing that will matter is how honest I was, how fully I lived my life, and whether I made the kind of photographs that were deeply mandatory.

I can see now that, among other things, I am much too aware of the photo industry and other photographers to make sustained, reflective and authentic work. I am easily distracted and it shows. One of my biggest take-aways from my experience in Paris was the reaffirmation of the fact that in order to touch bottom, you need to disconnect from the noise.

For now, the only thing that matters is that I close the gap between the life I live and the photographs I make.

…

“The only photographs that truly exist are the ”innocent” images. We find them in the family photo albums or in the police archives. Beyond serving as a simple documentation of reality or of a certain aesthetic sense, they attest to the role of the photographer, of his implication, of the authenticity of his position in that moment. The compositions of light, narrative, are no longer, for me, fundamental problems but superfluous lies. What interests me today in an image? The perspective that has justified the act of photography, the interference of the experience, of the ongoing scene, the texture, the material, the meaning of the self-portrait, of the individual, the incoherence of the unfolding sequence, the maniacal reconstruction of the random experience – the photographs, like words, are meaningless when isolated…” -Antoine D’Agata

Earlier in the month, after helping Ross Mantle set-up the gallery show he was in town for, the two of us were walking to dinner when we came across a large 48-unit building fire in SOMA. Ross was a little more reluctant than I about going to the site and taking pictures. Neither of us have any interest in “spot news” but we were both curious about what was happening. So we went to the fire and after a few minutes, standing in a street filled with smoke, we realized it was a serious situation. I had just started shooting when the camera I was using completely malfunctioned. I was pissed. Of all the times to have a camera fail me, why does it have to be when I’m witnessing such a dramatic scenario unravel.

As frustrated as I was, it was a moment of realization that in hindsight, was more valuable than the photos I missed. If I had been alone I would have felt a sense of failure, that I had lost something important. But because Ross was there, photographing (with his $100 P&S), it was okay because the event, the memory, the trauma, the tragedy, the sudden re-arrangement of life – it wasn’t disappearing into the ether, it was being recorded by someone whose vision I trust.

Finally, after deleting all the photos I had on my card and resetting everything, the camera started working and I was able to photograph the later part of our experience. A crowd had formed of a hundred or more people. Some who had lived in the building were in shock as they watched their home and all their possessions burn down. Some were simply curious or fascinated by the spectacle of it. There was even a group of guys playing basketball that seemed completely unaware of the situation. I wondered how I, as a photographer, fit into the drama. Was I like the firemen, trying to help and make things better. Was I a spectator? or was I just some kid playing a game with a camera, disassociated from what was happening?

The whole experience made me, once again, criticize why we do what we do. I know that at times in my life, I have completely exploited situations and people for the advancement of my vision and chronicled perspective. I’ve convinced myself mentally that I really cared for people when all I really wanted was to photograph them and not get too involved. That was what going to college for photojournalism felt like to me, being forced to care on a weekly basis. Perhaps I lack the empathy that others have, or that I’m not meant to be a documentary photographer. Or maybe I just see the big picture differently. Since my foray into social documentary work, I’ve yet to feel comfortable working in the genre again. The only way documentary photography makes sense to me is if I document something that I am living through, something I’m experiencing first hand, or something that I really believe in. This is why I’ve turned most my attention to street photography. I’m allowed to be anonymous or confrontational, honest or slanted, spontaneous or deliberate. I’m allowed to stay inside of my own head and not be discounted for it.

The fire reminded me of these issues and the the ones surrounding voyeurism and the “taking” of photographs. It reminded me of the many roles photography can play in a person’s life. It reminded me that I have a vision and statement to make, and that, really, I am taking pictures for myself. I believe the very act of photography is one of theft. And after a lifetime of stolen pictures, I am hoping I will have something to give back. Something that could make a difference; Or not. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that I am being honest with myself, my vision, my philosophy. Photography gives me the ability to communicate why I’m not losing my sense of wonder and passion for the life that unfolds around me. And the times I do lose my excitement, it helps me find it again. I’ve learned that photography came into my life as a personal necessity, and when it’s not that way, it slowly loses its original value.

“I told her that I was a pervert, voyeur, and flasher all rolled into one photographic monster, but that I felt close to the people in the Subway.”
-Bruce Davidson, Subway

“Tough meant it was an uncompromising image, something that came from your gut, out of instinct, raw, of the moment, something that couldn’t be described in any other way. So it was tough. Tough to like, tough to see, tough to make, tough to understand. The tougher they were the more beautiful they became.”
-Joel Meyerowitz

“Some seem to think my work is drawn from an expression of horror, which has never really concerned me. Pleasure is impossible to define. But I feel horror occupies much the same territory. But you see, I’m optimistic by nature. I’m optimistic about nothing.”
-Francis Bacon, Love is the Devil

Some thoughts and images from the Leica Project as featured on the Leica Blog.

The more I invest my energy and time into street photography, the more pronounced a certain question becomes. What is street photography? This is by no means a new question as countless discussions and conclusions about what street photography is and is not long haven taken place before I even existed. With that said, what is interesting about the question for me, is the question itself. In other words, do I want to define what it is I do? What would be the purpose of this? Will it help me better understand who I am and where I’m going, or will it distract me?

After a good conversation about street photography with Mark Murrmann last week, photo editor of Mother Jones and avid Leica street photographer, he suggested I sit down and read, “Bystander: A History of Street Photography.” So I went to the San Francisco library and spent some time with the book. I was most engaged by the conversation in the back of the book with Joel Meyerowitz. It was fascinating to hear about his experiences with Gary Winogrand and Diane Arbus. (On a side note, I was comforted to learn that Winogrand was right handed and left-eye dominant, as I am, which ostensibly caused his frequent use of the tilted frame).

While looking and reading through the book, I was quickly overwhelmed by the vast history and evolution of the genre. Photographs I had never seen, important photographers I had never heard of. Again, I found myself in a position where I had to ask, “How much do I want to know?” Skipping through the text I was drawn to a quote from a photographer named, Robert Doisneau, whom I had never heard of until reading:

“If I took apart my old alarm clock, I could find out how it works, but afterwards I might not have a way to get up in the morning.”

It reminded me of a quote from David Lynch, a significant creative inspiration in my life:

“It’s better not to know so much about what things mean or how they might be interpreted or you’ll be too afraid to let things keep happening. Psychology destroys the mystery, this kind of magic quality. It can be reduced to certain neuroses or certain things, and since it is now named and defined, it’s lost its mystery and the potential for a vast, infinite experience.”

There is undoubtedly a wealth of information in the history of street photography that would potentially make me a better photographer, artist, maybe even human. But I don’t feel a need to explore what others have done or learned and I think this is a legitimate feeling. Does this lack of information or education result in a photographic naivety? Yes, and that is exactly what I want. A lack of awareness can be helpful in finding your own vision, or your own way, because it forces you to reference the personal and the honest and the authentically felt. Does this show in the work? I don’t know.

A friend of mine who is a writer recently told me that he thinks the writing workshops he attended as a teenager were detrimental, that by listening to others, his literary voice was set back years of potential progress. I feel much the same way. I am not saying we cannot or should not learn from those that have gone before us, because obviously there is much to learn. But that we should only search for inspiration where it feels natural. That we should be careful about what we might let into our subconscious and more importantly, why. I’ve come to learn that the more analysis I do, the less honest and instinctive my work is. And the less I think about what I’m doing, the more satisfying the results.

It seems street photography is merely a reflection of whatever you want it to be. For me, I am happy to keep it as a tryst, a dance with what I do not understand. It is a sacred space that is not about climbing the industry hierarchy, historical dialogue, credibility, producing “good” work, etc. It is a method of photographing that has the least to do with photography, and the most to with what it means to be alive, here and now.

“Cinéma vérité is the accountant’s truth; it merely skirts the surface of what constitutes a deeper form of truth in cinema.”

-Werner Herzog

Notes from October 4th:

I’m down to a 139 lbs. now. Little gray bags under my eyes that don’t go away. I spend almost two hours a day on the bus. I look at them; the faces. Some sane, some not. Working 7 days a week allows for little decompression. No room to be creative or indulge any type of behavior that provides me even with an illusion of happiness. I get confused about what day it is. Spent an extra 45 minutes at work this afternoon because I forgot when I was supposed to be off. My mind is growing more fragile, more violent. I’ve skimmed what is not a necessity in my life away. I have no friends-no social life-no love interest. I take a few pictures on the street during my breaks, or after my shift – and that’s everything. Day after day I fall asleep watching the same movie that I never seem to finish. The other day, someone mentioned living in San Francisco and I couldn’t help but look up in surprise. I live in San Francisco. But it doesn’t feel like I live in San Francisco. As far as I can tell I live on a narrow path the bus creates between my bedroom and my two jobs. The thought of leaving this predetermined course seems alarming, almost frightening. There is an entire world beyond this never-ending list of responsibility I have before me, a world I can’t keep up with because I’m too busy doing my job. This is how people fall asleep in their late twenties and wake up in their forties. This is how people get married without knowing it – have children without actually wanting any. A man on the streets offered me LSD today, “I have work tomorrow,” was all I said.