In the context of my ‘Self-Portraits’, it was useful to visit the David Bailey ‘Stardust’ exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery on Sunday.  Bailey isn’t a photographer who comes in for much close examination in the realms of academia (so far as I know) but he is a significant creator of images in popular visual culture in the second half of the 20th century – and I have chosen to use his ‘style’ for one of my first self-portraits.  There were no great surprises in this extensive presentation of his work; I had seen a TV preview with Bailey himself (who also curated the exhibition), so pretty much knew what to expect.  It is, though, interesting to see the ‘documentary’ work that he has done in, for example, India and Papua New Guinea, alongside the celebrity and fashion images, for which he is best known.

The aspect on which I feel most keen to comment is the ‘hanging’ and, in particular, what I can only describe as ‘display walls’.  It is the tendency to hang images high on the wall, which I also noted at some the Paris exhibitions last month, that fascinates me.  This ‘family wall’, chiefly featuring photographs of his wife, Catherine, is the best example.

THESE IMAGES ARE NOT MEANT TO BE LOOKED AT!

It is physically impossible for anyone to look at most of the photographs on this wall and so the only conclusion is that he does not want us to look at them closely. (I might say, in passing, that the larger prints in some of the other rooms were also well above natural eye-level, for an averagely tall person.)  One can only step back, as I did in taking this photograph, and stare at the ‘spectacle of the display’.  I am tempted to compare this approach to the barrage of visual images we see every day online and in publications – individual images are ‘devalued’ by the impact of quantity, so that it becomes impossible to actually ‘read’ anything from them.  In this case, I would suggest that they neither say anything individually nor as a series.  It’s more like something done by an interior designer than an an exhibition of photographs.

In the Sky Arts interview referred to previously, Bailey pays tribute to Catherine, his wife and muse, so, speculating about Bailey’s purpose in presenting them like this, I tend towards the idea that he sees the ‘spectacle’ as a kind of physical and visual tribute, an expression of pride in his family perhaps.  The room is specifically titled ‘Catherine Bailey’.  However, it is not a style unique to this show.  There was evidence of the same approach in both the Cartier-Bresson and Mapplethorpe exhibitions in Paris.  And whilst that might lead one to think of it as a modernist trope, glorifying the images display, I then recall that it also happened in the more contemporary context of the Ponte City exhibition at Le Bal.  As I say, ‘spectacle’ is the word that keeps coming to mind – impressing with the overall impact rather than homing into either individual images or, say, the narrative of a series.

So, it was particularly interesting to compare the same approach again, next day, at Tate Modern, but in a rather different context.

These are street posters from the Russian Revolution.  They are specifically about display and propaganda, of course; about creating an impression rather than passing on information or illustrating something specific.  They are also intended to be viewed from afar.  So the overall impression of style and colour comes together well in these big, multiple displays, which cover three walls of a single room.  I am, I have to say, rather less convinced by the effectiveness of the ‘wall-filling’ approach when used for 40-or-so smallish black & white framed prints on a high wall at the NPG.

Les Invalides lies just over the Pont Alexandre III from the Grand Palais, where a major exhibition of the work of Robert Mapplethorpe was on show, and very close to Rue Varenne, location of the Rodin Museum, where there was a corresponding exhibition comparing the works of Mapplethorpe and Rodin.  I was able to see both last week – another experience that left me with a sense of privilege.

Mapplethorpe’s work isn’t always easy to deal with, of course.  There has never been any problem with his images of flowers and his studies of the human body are highly respected – hence the Rodin comparison – but when he moves into the erotic and exotic, it may not always be comfortable viewing.  Though, actually, these exhibitions have largely changed my view on that point.  In this video on the Grand Palais website, his long-time friend and collaborator, Patti Smith, says that he sought to raise the sexual and erotic to the status of ‘art’ – putting flowers, the body, genitalia on an even footing.  Avoiding for now any debates about what might comprise ‘art, this exhibition demonstrates that he succeeded.  A hugely-printed quote, early in the Grand Palais show, has Mapplethorpe adoring and in awe of the human body; another has him seeking perfection in form.  The latter is clear from the exceptional quality of the prints on show in both exhibitions.  It is through the strenuous application and maintenance these very, very high aesthetic standards that he enables us to look at, and even respect, subject matter that we might otherwise struggle with.  It confirms, for all of us, the importance of setting such high standards and striving always for the very best in presentational quality.  (Something that fellow student, Amano, and I observed to be rather less in evidence at another exhibition we visited, described by him here.)

In the Mapplethorpe-Rodin comparison, I found myself making some value judgements about the sculptor versus the photographer – a meaningless exercise in the end, but an interesting opportunity to make such comparison across media.  The basic reaction, I think, is to sense that creating a meaningful, three-dimensional form that speaks very clearly about the human body, forming it ‘hands-on’ from some basic material and an empty piece of space, that is probably a greater challenge than using the medium of a ‘machine’ to create a two-dimensional photographic image.  But then, to create a sense of ‘real’ three-dimensional form on a flat surface, with a true impression of form and texture, that too is a challenge, whatever the medium.  It doesn’t greatly matter, as I say, but looking at the two, side-by-side inevitably leads to those thoughts.  The curators used a number of areas of comparison in order to give the exhibition structure – black & white; highlighting of detail; texture; use of drapery; assemblage; erotic/sexual content being some of the key ones.  The notes in the leaflet accompanying the Grand Palais exhibition describes Mapplethorpe as “A sculptor at heart …” and an “Admirer of Michaelangelo …” who “… championed the classical ideal …”.  So much is clear from these shows; and one feels that he would have been delighted to see his work on display in these grand surroundings and directly compared to Rodin.

One aspect that was of particular interest to me, in the context of my Body of Work was Mapplethorpe’s Self Portraits.  There were several, scattered around both exhibitions, as they are ‘scattered’ through his lifetime.  I enjoyed the sense of ‘performance’ in them – certainly exploring different sides of his character, but with a sense of wit and performance nonetheless – even the 1988 one that featured in the Grand Palais publicity and posters, taken when he knew that death was unlikely to be far away.  And there was a direct parallel in one of the exhibitions running alongside the Martin Parr at the Maison Européenne de la Photographie – Luciano Castelli.  More colourful and flamboyant than the Mapplethorpe’s, perhaps, but very much of the same era.  Which provides an opportunity to mention another Mapplethorpe quote from the Grand Palais, that he “… looked to photograph the world and its curiosities … what was New York at that time … it couldn’t have been done anywhere else …”.

The Pompidou Centre was featuring a major exhibition of another great photographer of his time – Henri Cartier-Bresson.  I had already seen a big presentation of his work at the National Media Museum, in Bradford, some years ago – Scrapbook: Photographs 1932-46 – so a lot of the work on show was familiar.  There is no doubting Cartier-Bresson’s enormous contribution to the development of Photography, as art and in documentary/photojournalistic terms, and this exhibition explored it to the fullest extent – adding painting & drawing plus later photo-journalistic work & contextual material to the images I’d seen previously.  I probably prefer the earlier, more art-based work myself, but some of the material presented in relation to his work for the communist newspaper, Ce Soir, was interesting.

This collection (note the high hanging again!) is of features about ‘lost children’.  It all seems have been a bit of a ‘set-up’, whereby the newspaper miraculously and joyously re-unites the children with their parents.  There is nothing new in the world of journalism, clearly.  There is a famous Cartier-Bresson photograph taken in Moscow in 1954, which is featured in this Guardian article.  It was interesting to see, in the Pompidou Centre exhibition, examples of range of magazines and journals in which it subsequently featured.  So, this is an extensive presentation of Cartier-Bresson, his work, and the context – well worth the visit.

There was one element that ‘wound me up’ (not always too difficult these days, I admit).  Most Cartier-Bresson shows would, rightly, feature his photographs taken in the UK in 1937, when he was commissioned (by Ce Soir again, I think) to cover the coronation of King George VI.  He famously took many photographs of the crowd and few, if any, of the royalty.  This was the English translation of the text that accompanied some of these images in the exhibition at the Pompidou Centre:

Watching the king go by

In May 1937, Cartier-Bresson was sent to London by the Communist daily newspaper Ce Soir to photograph the coronation of George VI. The pictures he took showed not the new monarch but people looking at him. The photographer was particularly interested by the devices for aiding vision used by the spectators. Here it is important to understand that these optic devices, ranging from a simple mirror tied to the end of a stick to the most sophisticated periscopes, obliged the viewers to turn their backs on the king to see him as he went by. In the Sixties and Seventies, Michel Foucault showed how far the positioning of bodies in space and the use of optical devices led to situations of power. In 1937, Cartier-Bresson had already grasped this entirely. By photographing the people’s about turn, he envisaged the overthrow of power. This is what gives his pictures an eminently revolutionary value.

Without doing more research into what Cartier-Bresson himself might have said about the images, I can’t be sure; but does one feel that the writer is trying to make rather more of these documentary/journalistic images than they warrant by suggesting they preempted Foucault; and which particular overthrow of power is being envisaged?  As I say, I am easily wound-up these days!

Where to start?  One week in Paris; 6 galleries/museums; 9 exhibitions; oh, also, beautiful spring weather, good food, accompanied by the love of my life; and the chance to spend some good quality time with a great bunch of fellow students who had come to Paris from various corners of the world!  It was a special week.

My blogging will concentrate on the art, of course, and it looks as though it will come out in three ‘episodes’ – or maybe there will be a fourth.  There is no particular order to it, but I’m going to start with an interesting comparison between two very different photographers, who produced – unsurprisingly – two very different exhibitions.

I first spotted that there was to be a major touring exhibition of Robert Adams’ work a couple of years ago, when it opened in the USA; and also noted, at the time, that it was not coming to the UK.  So, it was a privilege to have the chance to view it at the Jeu de Paume last week.  Entitled The Place We Live, it encompasses more than 200 prints of his work, from the 1960s to the present day.  I have never found myself especially attracted to his work and so have never looked at the many books he has produced.  This exhibition confirmed the importance of seeing his work in series and in sequence.  It still left me feeling somewhat ‘cool’ about it – but with immense respect at the same time.

I find Adams’ photographs very serious and intense.  He combines his obvious humanity and ‘goodness’ with a high level of tenacity, application, and commitment.  His series are highly intelligent – intellectual even – produced to a very high standard, and communicate with a notable consistency of voice.  At the same time, they tend to underwhelm me – even when brought together in the way they are in this exhibition.  The images seem, to me, caught up amongst the modernists and traditionalists – speaking with a calm and thoughtful voice that perhaps isn’t loud enough or brash enough for today’s world.  I realise that some would say ‘all the better for that’, and I can understand that point of view; but I seem to find myself looking for a bit more anger, more vibrancy, more obvious passion.  That wouldn’t be Robert Adams, I realise, since he seeks ‘balance’ and ”… a tension so exact that it is peace”.  So, I reiterate my respect for him and his work, and my privilege at seeing this collection.

In complete contrast, at the Maison Européenne de la Photographie, was Martin Parr’s Paris – which we viewed later the same day.  The gallery’s note says that it “… lui a donné carte blanche” and the result is around sixty large scale prints, in vivid colour, and pointing the Parr ‘finger’, good-heartedly, I’d say, at various aspects of Paris life.  This is new work, produced over a two year period, and also in book form (arranged as though it were some form of Paris map book, with plasticised’ cover).  The exhibition is (no surprise) brash, vibrant, highly colourful, and highly enjoyable.  The photographer’s eye for absurdity, his love of kitsch, and his sense of humour, are all in full action.  Does it have something serious to say – possibly not – though it didn’t feel unlike the Paris we’d been walking around for a few days before.  I did find the arrangement of the images – the sequencing – interesting.

On this wall, a garish image of ‘escargots’, their shells covered with smooth hair-like patterns and their insides stuffed with bright green garlic butter, are juxtaposed with a woman’s head of flowing hair and a wispy green ‘hair-like’ plant.  At first, the image of two hard-boiled eggs below seem out of place, until we see the ears of the man in the next picture – who appears to have just had his hair shaved, judging by the little pieces lying on his collar and scarf.  Then we return to the long, flowing locks, and so on …  It isn’t especially sophisticated, but it works (for me).  It occurs to me that Parr’s aesthetic is that of the advertising poster or the magazine.  That makes it familiar and easily accessible – populist, I guess.  It is certainly different from Adams’.

That’s why I found these two exhibitions such a fascinating contrast on the same day.  It’s a bit like an exam question – compare and contrast – which do you like best and why.  I’m prepared to admit that the Martin Parr had more appeal for me.  Adams, great as he is, feels as though he is speaking from a different time – all balance and reason, form and composition, restrained black and white.  Parr is today – attention-grabbing, noisy, assertive, full of colour and energy, often superficial, always on the move.  I wonder what each would make of the other’s exhibition?  As successful professionals, they would have mutual respect, of course – but something makes me feel that Parr’s respect for Adams would be greater than that returned the other way!  Who knows.

Even with the space of a few days to reflect, I find myself unsure about my response to the Philip-Lorca diCorcia retrospective at the Hepworth Gallery, Wakefield, which I visited with fellow OCA students & tutor, Andrew Conroy, last Saturday.  It’s a big exhibition; and I also remain slightly sceptical of my own ability to take in work that I view with a large group of people – useful as study visits and contact with fellow students are, always.  I need to go back and look again.  But the uncertainty of my reaction is also, I think, about the work itself – and our group discussion also reflected the same questions, I recall.

It is a retrospective, as I say, but somewhat unusually the work is apparently presented in a sort of reverse order – starting with East of Eden, his more recent and ongoing work that follows the economic collapse of 2008 and relates to both the Old Testament ‘Eden’ and the Steinbeck novel of the same name as the series.  It then progresses with Lucky 13, his photographs of female pole-dancers (partly, apparently, reflecting the images of falling bodies at 9/11); Streetwork and Heads, both created – in different ways – on the streets of major cities; the famous Hustlers series depicting male prostitutes from Hollywood’s Santa Monica Boulevard; and ends with A Storybook Life which was published as a book in 2003 but stretches right back to 1975, and so, fundamentally, reflects his earliest work.  Everything except the final group, is presented in the form of very large prints (the most recent being inkjets), but the 76 prints for Storybook Life are on a more intimate scale, running as a series around six walls in two connected but separate spaces.  The general reaction of our group, to which I would largely subscribe, was that we found the recent work somewhat contrived and difficult to ‘enjoy’; the oldest work the most accessible and, probably, most ‘enjoyable’; and what went between impressive and thought-provoking, whilst open to question as well.

It’s never a bad thing to consider what words immediately spring to mind when reacting to works of art – the ‘gut reaction’.  I wrote down “Impersonal, detached, formal and intellectually thought-provoking” – but I would add that those words apply less to the Storybook Life series.  Let’s take the well-known Heads series, as in this composite image taken in the gallery.

Famously, diCorcia set up strobe lighting on scaffolding, which was then triggered by passers-by, whose faces were captured in split-second isolation as they walked the streets of New York.  The accompanying curatorial text uses words such as “anonymous” and “enigmatic”.  I had seen most of these before in books but here they are printed very large and command your attention – but I’m left wondering what they actually say to me.  It is only diCorcia’s isolation of their ‘portrait’, his formalisation of their image as a beautiful print, and his decision to make them so big on a gallery wall that gives them any significance at all.  We compared their creation to the Cartier-Bresson ‘decisive moment’.  Whilst that idea itself may have become open to question, it was at least formulated on the idea that the photographer’s mind/eye combination would select the significant instance in which to press the shutter.  In this case, the photographer created the situation, but left the ‘moment’ to chance and has, as a result, created significance out of insignificance.  That isn’t such an unusual approach in photography, of course; in fact, it’s what I’m doing myself, certainly with the studio work.  But I think that’s where I end up with this work (and perhaps where diCorcia ends up, too) – it’s quite formal work about the medium of photography and its relationship with the truth and the real, just like so much contemporary work.  It certainly isn’t about these people, or even about people at all,  It’s about the combination of camera and light to create a momentary ‘something’, which might provoke questions in the mind of the discerning viewer.  It’s also diCorcia overcoming his reticence about photographing people, using a detached and impersonal approach that essentially ‘removes’ him to one side of the process.  It’s about modern photography’s ability to produce monumental gallery images that have the sort of presence formerly associated with painting.  And it’s also about the art market – naturally!

(Almost all of the images in the gallery were glazed.  In order to avoid ‘starring’, I have shot these at an angle.  I pondered whether to contact diCorcia’s office for permission to use the actual images but decided to use my own.  That was partly prompted by the fact that the one below, taken from the front seat of a car, seems to work quite well at this odd angle!)

Mention of ‘market’ brings me to Hustlers, the series with a transactional dimension to it. diCorcia paid the prostitutes to have their portraits made; the fee being whatever they would normally charge for sex.  We know that, from the history of the work and from the accompanying text; and we know the amount from the captions.  So we must assume that diCorcia wants us to view these images in the full knowledge of how they were made.  That, for me, makes them much more ‘personal’ than the Heads series.  The subject knows that he is being photographed and has collaborated with diCorcia in the process and pose.  The gallery text compares the two forms of transaction, concluding that they are “… both forms of selling their bodies for another use”” …” and also suggesting that “… the men depicted become a collective symbol of broken dreams …”.  I can see both those points, of course, by I also got this sense of detachment again.  They almost all stare off into the distance, which kind of makes the ‘dreams’ context a bit obvious.  And I wondered whether the beautiful cinematic lighting and (again) high quality gallery-size print didn’t almost glorify their circumstances and pander to the dreams, to an extent.  There were two exceptions to the ‘distant stare’; and I felt that there was more in these two images – both individually and as a contrast – than in the others.  What a difference when the subject is looking right back at us.

Now the detachment is gone and we are engaged with and by the young men.  And what a contrast in the gaze.  For me, these two were the most effective in the Hustlers series – yet they were the least typical.

To my surprise, it was the A Storybook Life series that engaged me most.  There is a ‘flip through’ the book here.  I didn’t really get fully to grips with it in the limited time available, and I do intend to go back.  The sequencing was fascinating and needs more time – I sensed that sometimes it was based on form, sometimes colour, sometimes subject matter, and sometimes unconnected detail.  With 76 images on the walls, there was plenty of opportunity to speculate about that aspect.  Many/most of the images are ‘staged’, so we are still working with that aspect of diCorcia’s work – photography’s ability to explore/challenge truth and reality – but the smaller scale and the variety (and quantity) of images seemed to invite a more ‘human’ engagement.

And there I come back to being ‘unsure’ about my overall response.  diCorcia’s reputation would seem to rest, mostly anyway, on those big ‘block-buster’ series like Heads and Hustlers; and those series are impressive and thought-provoking.  But I find myself more interested in some lesser-known and less immediately impressive work where, rightly or wrongly, I felt there might be more of diCorcia the person/artist.  It is a very big exhibition and I really do need a second visit.  To be continued …!

Edited with this addition 20th April 2014

I have been back – last Thursday.  Reading through this post, written just after my first visit, I tend to think I got it ‘about right’.  This time I went through in chronological order – and I think that’s the right way to do it.  The ‘A Storybook Life’ series is a fascinating one – both for its content (some ‘real’ and some ‘constructed’) and for its form & sequencing.  I found myself wondering whether I was ‘forcing’ my interpretation or genuinely ‘reading’ the work.  But I think that’s the very point – di Corcia is presenting us with a stimulus and leaving us with plenty of scope to put our own interpretation on it.  ‘Heads’ seems, even more on second viewing, to raise questions about the photographic image on a gallery wall.  There is, I sense, nothing at all in the subject matter of the images; they are entirely ‘insignificant moments’.  Only the photographer’s combination of a flash of light, carefully positioned and primed equipment, selective editing, and printing to monumental size, is significant.  And the more recent work feels unfinished, which I suspect it is.  I’m glad I went twice; I broadly feel happier with the work and my reaction to it after a second viewing; and I now rate it rather higher, overall, than I did first time round.