Posted on April 13, 2012
So, today I am sharing my love for more random things. This time it is chairs. I am not sure why they are so appealing (I know it’s a bit strange). There is something about empty chairs, though, which draws me to them – compels me to photograph them. They have to be slightly-out-of-place-looking. Sort of lost; expectant; hopeful. Waiting to be useful, perhaps? Waiting for someone to take their willing seat, to mould themselves into their close contours. A chair is full of promise. (A bench is not the same thing at all, by the way. People perch on benches. They sit on chairs, get comfy, relax, wriggle a bit until they find a good position. Like a cat which pads around on a welcoming lap until it finds that perfect arrangement of cat-on-lap). A chair is a good thing. And they seem to often come in pairs. This is one of my favourite chair pictures. I hope you like it.
© Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2012
Posted on April 12, 2012
I am re-reading Roland Barthes’ Camera Lucida. What has struck me with much greater emphasis this time around is Barthes’ highly emotional response to the subject matter of photography. He realises early on that he will not be able to write on the subject in his usual objective, scholarly style, being unable to separate himself from his own personal, instinctive and of course highly subjective response. He wants, instead, to understand photography in a “primitive” way “without culture”(p.7) and his language, accordingly, is visceral; at times violent in nature. He describes how individual photographs have the power to induce a range of intense emotions in him ranging from fear and grief to excitement and love (and then at times just plain indifference). The metaphor that strikes me with its force and agression is that of photography as a “wound”:
I wanted to explore [photography] not as a question (a theme), but as a wound: I see, I feel, hence I notice, I observe, and I think. (p.21)
A wound is something painful and unpleasant, but more than that a wound is flesh which has been penetrated. His investigations are not just intrusive, they are brutal, primal, and inextricably linked with being.
So this project – to understand photography – is not just a scientific or scholarly one, it is an essential one; it is phenomenological, and it is ontological. These themes which underpin Camera Lucida are entirely human: life, death, pain, ecstasy. Indeed, Barthes writes of the experience of being photographed (he likens it to being “in parenthesis”) as akin to dying (p.14). This separation of himself from reality, this looking upon himself, or ‘othering’ is truly a morbid experience for him, turning him into a kind of sceptre, and throughout there is a sense of alternating between extremes of emotion on the subject of photography. He is attracted to it (he descrbes in erotic detail the excitement the mechanical ‘click’ of the shutter induces in him). But there is fear there, too. Not in the mechanics of the camera, which is satisfying and comforting, but in the eye of the photographer. The eye penetrates him, and it kills him. Just a little bit.
Barthes doesn’t know how to categorize photography, but he recognises it is somehow essential. In the end he is unable to separate his own self; his own emotions and desires, and his own essential being from photography.
So photography is a confusion of the subject-object relationship, in that we cannot separate it from ourselves. A photograph “carries its referent with itself” (p.5) which induces this kind of unnerving or perhaps unheimlich experience Barthes has when he looks at some pictures. This carries us neatly back to themes of haunting and death. I have often thought of photographs as kind of shadows or ghosts; little replicas (“little simulacrum” (p.9) Barthes calls them) of moments in time; moments otherwise long forgotten, dead. A photograph occupies its own time-space, or creates it rather, and I think this is quite unnerving.
Anyhow, I digress (albeit it willingly) and need to pull myself back to Barthes and his concepts of studium and punctum, otherwise this blog entry will not make a whole lot of sense…. here we are back to the idea of photograph as wound. Whilst studium is described as a kind of general interest in the idea of a photograph (the way we might be interested in something when we ‘study’ it, so in quite a detached way); the punctum is the bit that disturbs all that and leaps out at you, excites you; the pin prick of surprise, the question mark – the bit that gets you in the gut. It is, in essence, the emotional response – the element of surprise. Of course he describes it so much more eloquently, so I shall refer you back to his wonderful words:
…the photographs I am speaking of are in effect punctuated, sometimes even speckled with these sensitive points; precisely, these marks, these wounds are so many points. This second element …. I shall therefore call punctum; for punctum is also: sting, speck, cut, little hole – and also a cast of the dice. A photograph’s punctum is that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me). (p. 27)
This photograph of a dress hanging outside a second-hand shop is my attempt to illustrate punctum. The street scene in itself is fairly ordinary; a quiet residential suburb of Berlin – a few cars, grey buildings, a beautiful sunny day the trees cast dappled shadows on the cobbled pavement below. The shop owner has decided to display her wares on the street. She has saved one special dress for prime position; hanging from the awning it catches the eye immediately (studium?). It is the dress of every little girl’s fairy-tales: romantic, swishy, twirly, frothy and flouncey. It makes you feel good just looking at this dress. And the way it dances there provocatively in the gentle breeze is so pleasing to the eye. The happy accident, or the punctum, for me is the perfect shadow that the full bloom of the dress casts below in the direct sunlight, drawing the eye to the fore of the picture and then back up to the dress again. Not so much an intentional detail, as I recall, it provides that extra little ‘oh’ of joy; that “sting” of surprise. The other thing I like about this capture is the way the dress juxtaposes with the banality of the street scene almost as if it has been superimposed upon it. The way it’s floaty ephemeral-ness sort of jarrs against the ordinariness of the row of parked cars. Maybe that is the punctum? Now that I close my eyes and look at it again, maybe that is the thing that works on me.
I wouldn’t be so bold as to suggest that I have succeeded in demonstrating Barthes’ theory with this image. Of course there are many photographs in the book which he uses to illustrate it much better. But I am working towards it… let’s call it an attempt. Let me know what you think…
Text: Camera Lucida, by Roland Barthes, published by Vintage, 2000 and originally published in 1980
© Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2012
Posted on April 11, 2012
I was inspired today and for that I would like to thank Camille Pasquin and Natalia Shaidenko and their joint blog-project Diptychs. Their images are responses to a single word selected at random, and they are charming. I love the juxtaposition of their different styles and the way their personalities shine through in their photography. I love the fact that the pictures open up their own secret worlds, but together create something new and exciting. It’s interesting too to read people’s responses to their images, because it seems to me that most people don’t just look at these pictures (although they do that too because aesthetically they are very appealing), instead they are looking for something, searching, interpreting the pairing. This is what I would call active seeing.
I think Diptychs a great example of how collaborative photography can challenge our perspective and make us see differently (in this I am talking about the viewer and the photographer). It also demonstrates my point about how images can take on different meanings in different contexts, which is one of the things have been thinking about a lot. One of my favourite diptychs of theirs is sort . I love the visual impression of a haphazard kind of order and the ‘thingness’ this pairing radiates. It appeals to the collector within me.
As a sort of response to this I decided to look back through some of my favourite pictures of things on windowsills. People do collect interesting stuff on them. A windowsill (or a shelf) is a display of sorts; sometimes neat and ordered and well thought out and other times forgotten and neglected. It can be biographical: a snapshot of a person’s life (but we should be careful not to sentimentalise and read too much into this interpretation; after all windowsills are on display, and what we put on a windowsill represents a choice of sorts). It can also be nostalgic, poignant, eye-catching, inviting, minimalistic, or maybe just empty. Some of these images are of public (shops, cafes), and some private spaces.
© Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2012
Posted on April 9, 2012
A photograph: a note, a thought, a flicker, a shadow, a shade, a glimpse, a glance, a moment, a blur, a trace, a shot, a capture, a fragment, an instant, an etching, a sketch, an inscription, a quotation, a resurrection, a memory…
… What is it that lies in the space in-between?
A daydream? A keepsake?
A secret time-space, revealed to the eye, captured and stored inside.
The concept in phenomenological thought of bracketing as a reductive process, allowing us to examine things up close was introduced by Edmund Husserl, the father of phenomenology. Seeing things in parenthesis is of course what we do when we take a photograph: our eye selects a scene, something interesting; we take the picture; the picture becomes an object in itself; we put it in an album, on the wall, on flickr, or facebook to share with friends and family. It has been divorced from its original context. It has been re-claimed and re-contextualised.
I love this picture, which I took in Berlin, of a girl reading on a step framed by a jungle of vivid green, punctuated by billowy white roses. I feel like I am peering into someone’s secret space every time I look at it. I think it makes you wonder, too who she is, why she is there and what she is reading. Does she sit there often? Is it her space? Or is she a tourist like me, who just came across a nice place to sit, like I came across a nice shot? What is her story? What was she doing just before, and just after this picture was taken? Is she happy or sad?
I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that it doesn’t really matter, because it was just a fleeting moment, in-between a zillion other moments, and I have used the capture I came across and borrowed for my own purposes, so it’s part of my story now.
© Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2012
Posted on April 8, 2012
I had a bit of time this morning whilst the rest of the family was at church (happy Easter!) and so decided to make a collage with some of the other more abstract instagrams I took on the tube the other day in London. They don’t really stand up so well on their own, but as a collage I really like them. I used picnik.com, which, incidentally is closing down on 19th April so you can use their advanced features for free until then. It’s very user-friendly and easy to make simple and more complicated collages. It’s a bit rough and ready but I quite like the look and feel and think I’ll experiment a bit more with this visual format.
© Emily Hughes, 2012
Posted on April 7, 2012
I spent the day in London yesterday with Alex. It was great just wandering around with my camera. I took lots of pictures but this snap on the tube with my iphone is one of my favourites. There was this little girl sitting opposite me and she had these really great red shoes on – you know the kind you always wanted when you were a child and you wanted to be Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz (well, if you were like me!). Anyway, I like the way, even though there is lots going on around her, your eye is drawn to that splash of red: her tights, and those shoes.
© Emily Hughes 2012