Alec Soth

Posted on 23 de June de 2021 by nr

NR · World
Published · Online

Feature · Alec Soth
Words · Nicola Barrett

“Alec Soth does wander but he does it in a territory that he knows best”

When you think of an exhibition from a world-famous photographer, it would not be unusual to assume it would be located in a big city known for its rich cultural heritage such as London, Tokyo or New York. Certainly, your mind would not immediately go to a tiny green island between England and France. But Guernsey, which is part of the Channel Islands, is where you can find photographer Alec Soth’s exhibition Looking For Love.

Of course, this is not the first time a big name has been associated with the island, it was the home of exiled Victor Hugo and inspiration for his book The Toilers of the Sea. There are several paintings by Renoir of the rocky coves and caves of the southern cliffs. In addition to this, the Channel Islands were the only part of Great Britain that was occupied by German forces during World War II and this history inspired the best selling novel and subsequent film adaptation The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society.

In recent years the island has also become known for its photography festival involving well-known photographers such as Martin Parr CBE and Mark Power. Now the Guernsey Photography Festival welcomes Alec Soth to that list for its ten year (plus one due to delays caused by the pandemic) anniversary.

Alec Soth is an American photographer who was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He gained fame for his colour photographs which he takes on a large-format camera. His work has been described as being based in the ‘documentary style’ and much of it consists of the people and landscapes in the rural and suburban American Midwest and South.

This particular exhibition of Soth’s work ‘Looking for Love’ consists of earlier works of his, taken before the projects which propelled him into the spotlight of the art world. NR Magazine was joined by Jean-Christophe Godet who is the Artistic Director of the Guernsey Photography Festival and the curator of ‘Looking for Love’ at Guernsey Museum at Candie.

Upon entering the gallery one is greeted by a sea of black and white photographs of people with a few landscapes dotted in here and there. The introduction on the wall tells us, in Soth’s own words, about the time in his life that the pictures were taken. Jean-Christophe Godet expands on that text. “People think this exhibition is one project but it isn’t, it’s a collection of projects. This was a time when he was quite young and feeling miserable, as we all do when we are young. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his future but was still interested in photography. His job at that time was to work in a photo lab where he processed all the films. In the evening he would go to bars, and meet people and take their photographs. At this stage, he was in a learning process. That’s why we were interested in this exhibition because we wanted people to know where Alec Soth came from.”

The photographs in this exhibition were not taken on a large-format camera like much of Soth’s work, Godet explains, but on medium-format. “The next projects he did, which is what he became famous for, that’s when he started shooting on large-format with the big camera. He likes taking his time when he shoots people, so setting up the camera gives him a chance to meet and talk with the people. It helps him relax as well because he’s an introverted person. He’s the type of guy, if you sit next to him on a plane, he won’t talk to you. He learned how to be more social from doing this exhibition.”

Godet walks over to a pair of photographs, “There’s no story in this exhibition. Soth liked that, it’s up to you to decide the story of the characters you are going to meet. From a curatorial aspect, I wanted people to be able to infer their own meaning onto each picture, but also at the same time some pictures work together to tell a story.”

He points at the duologly, “For example, I decided as a curator to put these two pictures together. The two middle-aged men in one picture appear to be looking at the young girl in the other, who seems to be flirting with a boy. You question who the girl is and if that’s her boyfriend? Then when you put the two pictures together you question if the two old guys are at the same party? Are they perverts or are they nostalgic about the time when they are younger?”

Godet gestures to the rest of the exhibition enthusiastically “There’s no information about these images because Soth is more interested in human nature. He’s not a documentary photographer, he’s not telling the story of the people in a town in Midwest America, it’s more about understanding feelings and emotions. He wants you to decide the story behind them. He wants you to imply your own experiences onto them.”

He leads me to another image, this one of a young man in a suit, easily missed in the sea of photographs. “This is Alex Soth’s self-portrait. He took it the night before he was getting married. He looks quite relaxed, maybe half drunk and he looks like he is feeling quite satisfied with himself. There is something there that he is trying to tell us because his work is always about him as well, it’s about the way he feels and relates to the world. At the beginning of the exhibition, we are told that he is miserable and alone but now we discover that at some point during this project, looking at people looking for love, he found his love, in some way, by getting married. But it’s up to us to decide how we think he is feeling about this.”

Godet beckons me to the centre of the room. “In this central part of the exhibition, we changed the tone so it looks like it could be the inside of a bar or a club. In this section I was able to put three generations of three different women telling their own story. The young teenager clinging to her lover, the middle-aged women on her own in a bar looking strong but also a bit lonely, and finally the glamorous old lady with her cocktail. I love how, with Alec Soth, you can connect these together. This exhibition is about loneliness and searching, about feeling disappointed and neglected but also hope. Overall it’s kind of dark and lonely because that’s how he felt at the time, but there are plenty of layers. For me, I think that’s how he became famous because he reaches us with his human emotions which is universal.”

He continues walking around the exhibition. “He’s not trying to impose anything on us, by saying ‘oh look how beautiful that is’ or ‘I’m going to show you what love is’, it’s up to us to integrate the raw human emotions he has. You need to take your time to absorb the photos, it’s not like the Wildlife Photography of the Year exhibition. It’s not like ‘oh that shot is spectacular’, and then you forget it when you move onto the next one. With Soth’s work, it’s like you suddenly slow down and you really appreciate how much is in each photo. The images are so strong they stay in your mind for a very long time.”

Back near the start of the entrance, he points at one image which has been blown up to cover an entire section of the wall. Against a snowy backdrop is a billboard upon which is a personal ad titled ‘Looking for Love’. It’s one of the few texts to be found in the exhibition, a deliberate choice Godet explains. “Soth is a massive reader of poetry, but he doesn’t like associating the two because he says poetry and photography tend to reject each other and I understand why he says that, because there’s already so much poetry in his photo he doesn’t need more.”

“But what is the difference between Soth’s work and the images of everyday life you can find on social media?” I ponder.

Godet tells me that, “I would say Fine Art photography makes you think. That’s why the Guernsey Photography Festival focuses on contemporary photography and fine art photography because you reach a different level. Everybody says it’s quite easy to take a photo and that’s true. We have the technology to take a good photo readily at hand, but for example, if you take a photo of the sunset on one of Guernsey’s popular beaches like Cobo.” He gestures dismissively, “‘Wow great photo’. The problem is those photos will be distributed on the net and there will be a million photos of Cobo and the sunset and they all look the same. They all look pretty in terms of colour and they have the wow factor but then you forget them. Because we have been oversaturated by them. It’s like reading a good book, when you read a good book it stays with you for a very long time and the reason it stays is because it triggers emotions within you and makes you think about life, your own and others, and that’s where the difference lies.”

Curious, I ask Godet how Soth came to be a part of the Guernsey Photography Festival. He is only happy to tell us the story and talk more about both Soth’s art practice and personality.

“I met him in Paris seven years ago when I introduced him to the idea of coming to Guernsey. At the time I remember he said, “What?” and I said, “Guernsey…”, “Where is that?” And I said “Oh it’s a small rock in the middle between France and England’ and he started laughing about it. I think he didn’t take me seriously because at the time we were just starting the Guernsey Photography Festival and we were not well established like we are now.

But then word started spreading internationally that there was something quite interesting developing in Guernsey for photography and also we had Martin Parkin and Mark Power come over. Mark Power is a good friend of Alec Soth and all those people were our best ambassadors and they were saying “Oh yeah I’ve been to Guernsey, I’ve met Chris and the team there and it’s been a fantastic experience, it’s a great festival” so slowly we gained a good reputation.

So I met him in Paris again for another big photography festival, and he recognised me and I told him that we were going to celebrate our ten year anniversary. And he said, “Oh yes I’ve heard about your festival now and I’ve been told good things.” He was supposed to come last year but unfortunately, because of the pandemic, he couldn’t make it.

In my opinion, he is one of the biggest names you can get in the world of contemporary fine art photography so the moral of the story is never give up. But he’s a really nice guy, intelligent and modest as well. There’s nothing pretentious about his work. Everything is coherent with Alec Soth. When he takes a landscape, every single detail in that photo has some kind of significance. And it’s all about what he know’s best, which is America. Soth has never been a travel photographer, there is this myth about being a photographer that you travel a lot that you travel the world, the lifestyle of freedom and wandering the world. Alec Soth does wander but he does it in a territory that he knows best. All his personal work has been related to the midwest of America. I love that about him because what’s the point of sending a photographer to say the Middle East when they don’t know anything about the culture. It’s much better to ask someone local to take the photos and give us the reality of things.”

Speaking of keeping things local, “Do you think Guernsey has the potential to become a big cultural hub of photography and Fine Art?” I ask him.

He laughs, “I’ve been working on that for the last ten years. I do believe there is potential there, but I think to reach that there is a necessity for a political drive for cultural development. I think unless we reach an agreement on a political level there will always be a bit of a struggle. Because if you want to be a cultural hub you need to invest in it. You can’t just rely on a small amount of public funding and donation and sponsorship. I’ve worked on lots of different major projects in major cities and you need funding for it. With the Guernsey Photography Festival, we have tried our best and we have proven it is possible, but I think a political position is necessary. I think there is a tendency in Guernsey to be satisfied with what we have, and while I don’t criticise that, there is so much more in the world to discover in terms of the profile you can create. It’s important to help and support local artists, but I think if we want to attract people to come to Guernsey as a hub local artist won’t be sufficient. You need to have big names like Alec Soth. Then people hear about it and think ‘oh wow this is pretty cool place to visit and live, not only can you enjoy the beaches and wildlife and historical culture but you have names like Alec Soth as well.’”

Before he leaves I ask a final question, “What are the plans for the future of the photography festival.”

“This is just the starting exhibition for this years festival,” Godet tells me, “because on the 23rd of September we are having a big open night for the Guernsey Photography Festival with the Guernsey symphony orchestra and we will have a multitude of international artists. I think in total we have 25 exhibitions planned in celebration of our ten year (plus one) anniversary. We have some really exciting artists but I’m not going to mention any names, you will have to wait for the press release, but it’s going to be big!”

Later, as I walk away from the museum I think over Soth’s work exploring the beauty and complexity of the mundane and Godet’s thoughts on the need for local governments involvement in local culture. Lost in thought I stumble on another small outdoor exhibition of different photographers work, about ten minutes walk from the gallery. It’s concise and wonderfully accessible to the public. It reminds me that Soth’s most famous work was created in the region he was born. With the pandemic making us rethink travel, perhaps it’s time to look away from larger cities and instead demand for art and culture to also be brought to, and created in, our own tiny pockets of the world. Something the Guernsey Photography Festival has already been doing for ten (plus one) years.

Credits

Find out more about the exhibition on www.museums.gov.gg
Images · ALEC SOTH
www.alecsoth.com/

Claudia Andujar

Posted on 21 de June de 2021 by nr

NR · WORLD
Online

Feature · Claudia Andujar
Words · Izzy Bilkus

Andujar often applied Vaseline to her camera lens, used flash devices, infrared film, and oil lamps to create visual distortions

The Barbican’s latest exhibition explores the work of Claudia Andujar, a Swiss-born Brazilian photographer and activist who has spent her life documenting and defending the Yanomami, one of Brazil’s largest indigenous peoples. Through a collection of over 200 photographs, an audio-visual installation, and a series of drawings by the Yanomami, the exhibition explores Andujar’s relationship with the Yanomami that spanned five decades, and details periods of direct activism amongst the indigenous communities.

The exhibition is housed in The Curve, featuring powerful photographs from Andujar’s first six years living with the Yanomami and explores how the photographer used her camera as a tool to drive political change. At a time when the Yanomami’s territory and way of life is being threatened from continued illegal mining and the spread of Covid-19, the exhibition holds particular significance: it shows how Andujar dealt with visually interpreting a complex culture, and how her art serves to amplify the voices and struggles of the Yanomami.

From the start of her career documenting the Yanomami in the 1970s, Andujar’s photographic approach differed greatly from the traditional documentary style of her contemporaries. The photographs she took during this period experiment with a range of techniques to visually translate the shamanic and ritualistic culture of the Yanomami. Andujar often applied Vaseline to her camera lens, used flash devices, infrared film, and oil lamps to create visual distortions of light streaks and saturated colours that imbue her work with an ethereal quality. The exhibition also features a series of more sober black-and-white portraits of the Yanomami that focus closely on their faces and bodies, using an intense chiaroscuro to create a strong sense of intimacy.

By the late 1970s, Andujar had reached a pivotal point in her career. With the Amazon region opened to deforestation and invasive agricultural programs, entire Yanomami communities were destroyed. Andujar deepened her commitment to the Yanomami struggle, and in 1978 she helped found the ‘Commissão Pro-Yanomani’ and began a campaign to protect their homeland. Andujar’s artistic career at this point was abandoned in favour of using photography solely to raise awareness for the cause.

As a photojournalist and a European, Andujar’s project is still a complex one: it cannot be wholly separated from the history of the colonial gaze on indigenous people. Yet it is clear that she has been welcomed by the Yanomami – films, drawings and texts by the community leader Davi Kopenawa throughout the exhibition demonstrate. It is without a doubt that Andujar’s work powerfully captures the struggles of the indigenous peoples and delivers both a unique peek into the lives and worldview of the Yanomami and a potent condemnation of the violence enacted on them.

‘Claudia Andujar: The Yanomami Struggle’ is on at the Barbican Centre until 29th August. Discover more here barbican.org.uk

Luna Ikuta

Posted on 16 de June de 2021 by nr

NR · WORLD
Published · Online

Feature · Luna Ikuta
Words · Nicola Barrett

“We recognise the past, present, and future but it makes me think perhaps there is a beyond”

Ghostly white flowers float gently against a sea of black. Delicate pale fish weave their way through the waving fronds of these transparent florae. Luna Ikuta creates these mystical aquatic landscapes by stripping away the colour and chlorophyll from living plants. This process involves “extracting the living cells from plants while leaving the ECM (extracellular tissue matrix) intact.” The flowers are then submerged underwater which causes them to sway softly mimicking the movement caused by light breezes in the natural world.

Ikuta’s aim was to de-sensationalise peoples perception of the outside world by showing them the wonders that could be found in their immediate surroundings. The flowers she used were found on walks around her home in Los Angeles. By transforming them into translucent wraithlike forms these artworks evoke the image of ‘reincarnated spirits’ whilst allowing people to marvel at the natural structures found in their local environments. NR Magazine joined the artist in conversation about her work.

With your botanical artworks, how long does the process of stripping away the living cells of the plants take? And how long does the ECM (extracellular tissue matrix) last once you have completed this process?

Each plant behaves differently but on average it takes about three weeks. Even though completing a tank arrangement from start to finish takes about a month to create, the transparent gardens are all ephemeral works. These installations eventually disintegrate and disappear after about six months. The works are filmed shortly after they are installed and embalmed as digital relics.

You have stated that you believe black to be the richest of all colours. Is that why you have chosen to use exclusively black backdrops with all your botanical artworks?

I like using monochromatic palettes in a lot of my works across various mediums. In my sculptural works, I am obsessive about texture and am drawn to muted palettes for I feel excessive color distracts from form and adds unnecessary noise. These botanical works are also an extensive study of texture and form. Each plant was made transparent using a process revealing intricate vascular networks and structures otherwise invisible to our eyes. In these artworks I want the focus to be about the subject and to transport the viewer into an otherworldly space illuminated solely by the ghostly flora.

You stated that you are inspired by Japanese culture. Was there any particular aspect of this culture that influenced your botanical works?

I was born in Tokyo, Japan but was raised in the US. I travel back to Japan to visit relatives every year and grew up in a bilingual household. As I’ve grown older I realise this is my particular advantage to always be living between those two worlds. For that reason, it’s not too important for me to identify with one or the other when it comes to my work because I am just me. The Japanese inspiration comes more from a place that’s difficult to express in words.

“I am mainly interested in making work that connects to the human spirit.”

Do you think there is an intrinsic link between art and science that people tend to overlook as there is a tendency to view the two fields as separate?

As a multimedia artist I’m interested in material science, so I have always seen an intrinsic link between the two. I believe art benefits from science when trying to create experiences that are foreign to everyday life. The science behind the process of creating the Afterlife series also plays a role in the narrative of the work. These artworks combine sculpture, digital media, chemistry, and biology to create an experimental installation that transforms our natural world. The plants are no longer alive but are preserved as ghostly skeletons in the liminal space between life and death. This art practice is also an ongoing experiment. I never know the result of the clearing process for each plant and sometimes it doesn’t work out. This creates challenges and discoveries that propel new ideas and I am always learning.

You have a background in industrial design, how does that inform your art practice?

Industrial design covers a very wide spectrum of trades. What I value the most from this background is that I know how material things are made. I am very hands-on and have experimented with everything from woodworking, metalsmithing, ceramics, 3D modelling, architecture, etc. By having a foundational understanding of various production processes I can be autonomous and it’s very freeing. As an independent artist, every project has my hands on it from the finished artwork, documentation, to building out entire showrooms. My practice ranges from sculpture, installations, furniture, digital media, and now aquarium art. The biggest challenge is answering “what kind of art do you do?” since my methods of making are always changing per project.

Would you ever consider taking other biological forms than plants and stripping away their living cells to create artworks?

I have only scratched the surface of the botanical world using this process and there are so many more plants I would like to work with. I started to see that once you remove the plants from their natural context, they can transform into something entirely different from their original character. In one of my tanks, I placed Chrysanthemums, Sunflowers, and Queen Anne’s Lace as the foreground of the landscape and they resembled very close to sea anemones. Grass looks like aquatic snakes, and some plants look like clams when placed in a specific way.

“Nature has a beautiful way of effortlessly mimicking other life forms in ways I never noticed, and this space is more interesting for me to play with.”

Some of your works involve live fish. How do you deal with the practicalities and ethical concerns of using live animals in your artworks?

My pet Bettas! As a practicing aquascaper, I have experience in monitoring water conditions to make it safe for fish. They are beautifully majestic creatures and I am grateful for their involvement in my films.

Do you think people have become more appreciative of nature due to covid and subsequent lockdowns and if so how is that reflected in your botanical works?

During lockdown, all I did was go on walks outside. It seemed like my friends were all doing the same. Social media was depressing, and the news was even more depressing! On these daily walks, I would observe flowers blooming on the hillside of my house and these subtle changes in the landscape became my elusive “pandemic clock” measuring time. I enjoy watching the life cycle of nature because it’s a quiet but hopeful message. Flowers bloom and wilt but come back again next season. We recognise the past, present, and future but it makes me think perhaps there is a beyond. If so, I wonder if death is really something we have to fear? A lot of my work uses plants that are foraged from my immediate surroundings, so despite awful 2020 I am thankful for the time I had to fully immerse myself into California’s nature.

What advice would you give to young creatives who are interested in combining art and science?

You don’t need to be a scientist!

Are you working on any projects at the moment and what plans do you have for the future?

Yes! I am currently exhibiting these works, AFTERLIFE, at The Transparent Garden which is both my studio and showroom. This gallery showcases eight physical aquaria, each paired with a custom-built LCD screen preserving the video form as collectible art objects. This show was the first time I had shown the physical tanks to the public. I am also releasing a series of NFT’s of the filmed aquariums that will be released on Superrare July 5th. AFTERLIFE ends on June 13th but I really enjoyed meeting everyone who came by the space and I am excited to continue using this gallery as my experimental playground. I am also installing my first permanent public arts sculpture in Los Angeles. I have been working on that piece for over a year so I am excited to see it finally rest on site. Oh and Daruma 2022!

Credits

Images · LUNA IKUTA
https://www.lunaikuta.com/

Paolo di Paolo

Posted on 2 de June de 2021 by nr

NR · WORLD
Published · Online

Feature · Paolo di Paolo
Words · Matthew Burgos

Milano. Fotografie 1956 – 1962

As I enter an entryway clothed in a mass of tendrils and leaves, a restaurant heralds the space with diners enclaved among the green shrubbery. I follow the walkway until I find myself at the footsteps of a staircase, leading towards the gallery. Fondazione Sozzani presents the exhibition Milano. Fotografie 1956 – 1962 of Paolo di Paolo, curated by Silvia di Paolo in collaboration with Bvlgari. The series of photographs displays di Paolo’s adoration and admiration to the city of Milan, which meant a sense of traveling to a foreign country for the photographer. The exhibit showcases di Paolo’s conception of Milan, an unprecedented and untouched look before globalization. Mist hovers, residents and pigeons flock the city center, and the romance of typography and companionship croons the metropolis: the photographs lull the visitors back into the ripening state of Milan.

Humid air permeates the quaint space of the exhibit, stirring up warmth against the twenty-five-degree weather outside. The sliding door remains opened, stuck in its machinery, but whirs whenever a guest walks into the area. As I make my way inside, the glint of the seventeen overhead warm lamps, dangling over the square-shaped metal railing, reflects on the glossy purple floor. It adds illumination into the space as if the two closed windows on the left side are not enough to spill the sunlight inside. Positioned in the middle, a DNA-shaped metal seat waits for three tired guests, but there are only two visitors at the time, myself included.

Strolling to the left side by the entrance, di Paolo’s reverence for Milan springs up. The photographer captures four open windows in an architecture for La natura resiste. From afar, a person holds onto the railing of a window as they dust off the beam they crouch on, but the attention suddenly diverts to the sawed trunk and branches attached to the remains of the tree with a rope. The classic human versus nature tale leaps off the frame, a lost narrative from the two images of Fiera di Milano that position beside it. In these two photographs, captured in 1962, a crowd inspects the thermal circuit breakers with its cresting gray thin wires inserted into an unwieldy-looking box where the name KLIXON remains embossed on the side. The business men’s observant and analytical gaze at the device outlasts their time so much that they have forgotten to notice the two nuns in their habit uniforms that observe with them, who are enthralled by how the device functions. As di Paolo walks further in the 1962 technology fair, he captures three men and a woman peeking through the viewfinders of the cameras nestled into the walls which promise 3D images during the decade.

The year 1960, two years before the fiera, means di Paolo goes to Bar Jamaica and weaves through the bustle of Milan’s folks, photographing their humane interaction by giving each imagery his definition of grandeur in the city life. An orator raises his hands as he looks at the ceiling, swooned by his own declarations and dismissing the puzzled looks of the man behind him. A man sits beside a woman and courts her, bending his head sideways to usher humor into his punchlines, while she directs her eyes far from his presence. A woman looks behind her to find a man in his pensive expression as he raises his small cup, snugged between his forefinger and thumb, just below his lips. On the other side of the room, a group of men gambles in a room clothed with bathroom tiles. Here, the primary subject wears an unperturbed expression while a lit cigarette snuggles between his teeth, oblivious to the curious onlooker behind him who stands too close to the player and desires to offer advice on which card to throw on the table.

Magnolia on the radar, the celestial flow of luxury in the 1960s: di Paolo walks into the Aretusa Night Club, his camera in tow. Inside, an overhead lamp casts shadows across the space, illuminating romance and haze to wrap with the nostalgia of the evening. A man hooks his arm around a woman’s hips and tugs her to his body. They sway to the soft hum of the music and pay no attention to the patrons that surround them as they gaze into each other’s eyes, falling and ruminating. Such a sight differs in Sala da ballo as patrons dance to the sound of the live band, a mix of piano and guitar tunes over the saxophone lullabies.

Di Paolo commands his camera to record the political discussion in Duomo, the heart of Milan, when the year pivots back to 1958. The frantic pigeons flap their wings aggressively as they flock the city center, masking over the photograph. As one sees beyond the birds, residents crowd beside the monument of Vittorio Emanuele II to participate in political exchanges in their heavy winter coats, handheld purses and attache cases, tipped hats, and cigarette stubs between the lips. In the background, the forgotten era of typography in a myriad of designs and styles pepper the antique and historic architecture of Milan, a slow ascent towards modernization and minimalism.

The photographer’s storytelling on Milan endures as he captures a lone man walking on the roof of the cathedral with his phone on his ear, his scrunched eyebrows signal distressed against the lush and resplendent of the church. In Sul tetto del Duomo, – on the roof of Duomo – di Paolo hovers his camera to carpet the shot with the cathedral’s poignance, a registered vaporous memory to last and test time. As di Paolo walks down the cathedral and into the streets of Milan, he bumps into a couple, innamorati a Milano, lazing in the angle of a street – the man in trench coat looks afar as contentment flashed across his face and lets the woman beside him rest her cheek and hands on his left shoulder. Milan serenades the couple in the shelter of its romantic arms, enshrining their affair with a state of zen and mirage for years to come.

Dusk turns into nighttime, and the city center glows with Christmas string lights and street lamps. Di Paolo shoots four photographs for le luci di Natale as the exhibit forwards in 1962 and demonstrates the solemn celebration far from the Western upbringing. A policeman wears his cap and stands alone in the corner of a street, watching the pedestrians cross as the rattle of the tram passes by. Cars honk as they jam the street and appear slower than the crowd who germinate the sidewalks on foot. A policeman – his back facing the lens – stands outside Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Duomo, watching the residents stoll around the space and away from the frenzy Milan encounters today. The last photograph, the one that sits on top of the three frames, shows street lamps decorated with sticks of light to emulate fireworks in a starless sky. Here, a sense of finale has dawned in defiance.

I step back from the four photographs of le luci di Natale and turn around to find myself alone in the room. The afternoon sun creeps into its peak, and the rays pass through the window panes and bounce on the floor, attempting to replicate the reminiscence of Milan between the 1950s and 1960s. The longer I remain in the four walls of Fondazione Sozzani in Via Corso Como, 10 with Milano. Fotografie 1956 – 1962 of Paolo di Paolo, the more I realize that the beauty, divinity, and fertility of the bygone years persist.

Credits

Images · FONDAZIONE SOZZANI
For more information visit
Fondazione Sozzani
Corso Como 10, 20154 Milano
tel. +39 02.653531
galleria@fondazionesozzani.org

James Barnor

Posted on 28 de May de 2021 by nr

NR · WORLD
Published · Online

Feature · James Barnor
Words · Izzy Bilkus

Exploring the nuances and societal transitions in the 1950s and 1960s, as London was blossoming into a multicultural capital

London’s Serpentine Gallery presents an overview of the career of British-Ghanaian photographer James Barnor. Working over two continents and over six decades as a studio portraitist, photojournalist and Black lifestyle photographer, Barnor’s career covers a multitude of photographic genres and offers a wider social commentary, documenting major socio-political changes in London and Accra.

On the cusp of Ghana’s Independence in the early 1950s, Barnor set up his famous Ever Young studio in Accra. Arriving in London towards the end of the decade, he began working with the South African magazine Drum, capturing the experiences of the African diaspora and the style and creative spirit of the period. Barnor returned to Ghana in the 1970s, where he continued his work with portraiture, established himself in the music scene and created the country’s first colour processing lab.

Barnor’s street photography explores the nuances and societal transitions in the 1950s and 1960s, as London was blossoming into a multicultural capital. Returning to the city 1994, Barnor’s work focussed on documenting the Black communities that had settled in London – something that had previously been documented by mostly white, European photographers. His portraits of the African diaspora in London focus on the members of the Black Power Movement, while also capturing different fashion trends present in Britain’s Black community during the 1960s.

Barnor’s body of work spans six decades and possesses a clarity of vision and a sense of community and sensitivity that he both extends towards and brings out in his subjects. The Serpentine’s exhibition displays Barnor’s work from 1950-80 and draws from his archive of around 32,000 images, all mapping the flourishing cultures of two cities and reflecting Barnor’s ceaseless uplifting and creative energy.

‘James Barnor: Accra/London’ runs until 22nd October at the Serpentine North Gallery.

Danny Augustine

Posted on 21 de May de 2021 by nr

NR · WORLD
Published · Online

Feature · Danny Augustine
Words · Izzy Bilkus

“I’m guilty of having quite a short attention span”

Raised in East London, artist and printmaker Danny Augustine explores ideas of identity in his work, primarily addressing topics of race and gender politics. Danny works predominantly with the medium of print but has a unique and painterly approach to his projects, toying with different narratives that prompt his audience to think about modern society’s views and obsessions surrounding race, gender and sexuality.

NR speaks with Danny, discussing his background, influences and how he has navigated his artistic career.

What attracted you to first start working with print?

First, I wanted to be a fashion designer, then a photographer, then a filmmaker and then finally a painter. The problem was that I wasn’t great at any of those things. I’m guilty of having quite a short attention span. I always want to work big, and I want instant gratification, so print works really well with appeasing those traits.

You grew up in Hackney, how has living in East London impacted your work and you as a creative individual?

I’m of the generation where I ever so slightly missed or was too you young to realise what was going on in regards to the YBAs, but the water mark was clearly visible. Coming from a Caribbean family and growing up in Hackney I felt gave me the licence to push and become an artist – there’s never been a doubt in my mind.

Are any other locations inspirational to you?

Berlin and Venice – those places rock me every time I visit.

Your work deals mainly with ideas about gender and identity, does exploring these narratives come naturally to you, or is it a struggle to express them creatively at times?

I think my work ends up talking about or outlining those points on its own. I didn’t realise it was happening until I had a bit of hindsight. I think it’s pretty natural still.

“I’m not sure why it’s like that but I’m happy that the work walks out on its own and is what it is.”

What’s your usual process when designing and printing a piece?

I usually start with an idea and instantly start to build a collection of works that explores that. I like to think about it like how a fashion designer builds a collection for a new season. I hardly ever just make a singular piece.

What other artists inspire you?

Tim Mara, Eduardo Paolozzi, Frank Bowling, Cy Twombly, Francis Bacon, Kate Gibb, David Hammonds, Billy Childish. I have loads more: Hockney, Louise Bourgeois, Lucien Freud. We’re in an incredible time because so much has passed and there’s a lot to look back on for inspiration.

How have you navigated the past year in the pandemic as an artist?

Minus the horror stories that people went through during this time, I found I was able to concentrate on making loads of small prints and send them to people who wanted them, no charge.

“Knowing when it arrived and how it cheered people up, I felt happy that I was able to connect with people for no reason other than being able to make something and then send it out.”

Have there been any seminal experiences that have impacted your work or your practice?

Having my son was an incredible thing. When he was born, I knew I wasn’t going to make anything as beautiful as him (cheesiest thing I’ve ever said). My work has changed since having him – I think it’s possibly more grown up, but I won’t know until I start working more.

What does your body of work aim to say in terms of confronting issues about gender and identity politics?

I don’t think it aims to say anything, but perhaps it prompts the viewer to possibly say something.

What was it like transitioning from studying Fine Art to specialising in your printmaking MA?

It was nuts, I probably wasn’t ready for it. Maybe I should have had a year between them rather than going straight in, but at the same time I think I had to be thrown straight in after university. I had to learn the language pretty fast.

Are there any particular figures you draw the most inspiration from?

I think probably Cy Twombly and Lucien Freud. As soon as I open a book my brain goes crazy and thoughts and ideas start flooding in.

Are you working on any projects at the moment?

Yes, I’m working on a few large screen prints mainly dealing with colour and abstract forms leaning heavily on a specific way of printing.

Credits

Images · DANNY AUGUSTINE
www.jealousgallery.com

Virginia Arcaro

Posted on 19 de May de 2021 by nr

NR · WORLD
Online

Feature · Virginia Arcaro
Words · Izzy Bilkus

“I learned to rediscover myself, my body and my mind through photography”

Virginia Arcaro is a visual artist whose work spans the realms of painting, collage and photography and explores personal connections with contemporary culture, art and high fashion. Working with the likes of Dior Homme, Acne Studios, Arcaro’s editorials integrate elements of fashion and art history with her own personal vision. The result is an impressive and authentic body of work that is sleek and carefully considered. Arcaro’s practice draws inspiration from a range of subcultures and the limitless potential of photography as a medium.

NR looks into Arcaro’s influences and creative process across both her personal and editorial work to learn more about their artistic production.

You have a really interesting body of work that ranges from high fashion to more intimate, personal pieces. What have been some of your favourite photography projects to work on?

Definitely the projects in which I had the freedom to express myself and my creative vision without many boundaries and limits. And those in which I tried to simultaneously blur and establish the lines between art and fashion.

How did you start getting into photography?

Since I was very young, I’ve always had my camera with me. I was constantly shooting. It has always been a passion. On a professional level, I started immediately after graduating from the Academy of Fine Arts, collaborating with my boyfriend at that time, shooting the collections of his brand and also curating the creative direction of every photographic project with him. Soon after, I started working as a backstage photographer during fashion shows in Milan, Paris and London, and at the same time I was shooting editorials for magazines and commercial works for various luxury brands.

How much does fashion influence your work and creative process?

Fashion is both a means of expression and a source of inspiration. It definitely affects me a lot, but not so much to overwhelm my creative process. When I started working in fashion, I was quite clueless about how complex the industry was. Working in the field and having had the opportunity to meet and collaborate with so many different people helped me learn a lot. I feel honoured and will forever be grateful to have had the opportunity to document the incredible work of designers I love and admire.

What has impacted your creative vision the most?

My background and cultural experiences, music, my love for rebellious youth cultures and subcultures – when they could still be defined as such. And having studied art history for years, I can’t deny that traditions and classical references also played an important role in impacting my vision.

What people and places do you draw the most inspiration from?

From authentic people, radically different people, confident outsiders. I’m inspired by any place I have a connection with – a connection that is not only physical but also mental. From all the places I’m sentimentally attached to for some reason.

How have you managed to stay present and creative during the past year?

Last year was surreal, but I think it had a positive impact on my life and it helped me a lot on a creative level. My job has always led me to travel continuously, and I’ve always loved traveling in my free time too. I had to learn to stop and be in one place for months, so I had time to recharge, time to reflect and time to develop new creatives projects. I learned to rediscover myself, my body and my mind through photography, immersing myself deeply in the essence of art.

How do you choose your subjects and the people you photograph?

Each person is unique, and I choose them for different reasons. There’s no rule. I understand immediately when I like a subject.

Is there a main message you want to say with your more personal photographs, or do you find it’s more of a relaxed and natural process?

It’s a combination of both. I feel it’s a natural process for me to shoot something with a meaning, or a plurality of meanings. Each image contains messages and symbols that lead to a different dialogue. Interpret as you will.

Virginia Arcaro’s work has been featured in Dazed Digital, AnOther Magazine, Vogue Paris, Vogue Italia, Vogue UK, Harper’s Bazaar UK, Highsnobiety and more.

Arcaro’s work can be found here virginiaarcaro.com

Ekow Eshun

Posted on 11 de May de 2021 by nr

NR · WORLD
Published · Online

Feature · Ekow Eshun
Words · Nicola Barrett

An Infinity of Traces, a selection of work from eleven Black women and non-binary artists

Walking into the airy gallery space from a quiet London side street, one is immediately struck with a powerful sense of joy, exuberance and pride in an exhibition that discusses incredibly serious topics surrounding Black identities in the UK. An Infinity of Traces, which showcases a selection of work from eleven Black women and non-binary artists, was originally planned to open shortly after a summer of intense discourse surrounding the Black Lives Matter movement and subsequent protests but was delayed due to Covid restrictions. The delay is not a bad thing as the exhibition serves as a compelling reminder of the ongoing nature of this discourse. There is always work still to be done.

Immediately Jade Montserrat’s series of work draws the viewer into a discussion of Eurocentric beauty standards and colourism and how Black women are forced to navigate their bodies and thoughts within these structures.

Across from this stretching line of mixed media drawings is Liz Johnson Arthur’s work, Spring… Times, which dominates the space. Three images from Johnson’s archive are blown up in black and white on banners that hang above the viewer. Anyone who took part in the BLM protests in London last summer will be immediately drawn to the image on the left. A Black Muslim woman stands on the seat of a car, holding on to the frame for support with the door flung open behind her, her fist raised in salute.

During the London BLM protests, there was often a buildup of traffic due to the sheer amount of protesters that filled the roads. However, this traffic became a part of the protest as motorists would blast their horns and raise their fists in support. This sense of powerful community and strength was both incredibly touching and a potent motivator, something this particular image encapsulates perfectly.

An Infinity of Traces contains a large number of video works, a medium which is often overlooked by gallery visitors who tend to briefly pause in front of the screen before zipping off to the next artwork, seemingly unwilling to commit to placing earphones over their heads and immersing themselves in the artwork. In the case of this exhibition it would be a mistake to do so as, with the exception of the forty one minute film by Alberta Whittle, it is quite possible to watch the entirety of all the video works in under half an hour.

Alberta Whittle’s work, Between a Whisper and a Cry, is well worth the extra time though, exploring, through the mariner’s rhyme: “June too soon, July stand by, August it must, September remember, October all over,” Britain’s historical, cultural and political relationship with the Caribbean. Whittle’s practice is rooted in the history of the transatlantic slave trade, however, one is reminded of Britain’s treatment of Caribbean immigrants, in cases such as the Windrush Scandal, which is still an ongoing issue.

Ayo Akingbade’s Tower XYZ film is full of bright colours and youthful hopefulness, following three young women around London neighbourhoods and featuring 1970s Brutalist landmark, Trellick Tower. A young female voice raps the words “Let’s get rid of the ghetto. I hope I don’t die for a long time. I still got things I want to do and look at and boys to talk to. I wanna see an African spirit or like sleep on top of a volcano.” The work simultaneously invites you in, as an older Black man, holding a sign saying ‘All is well’, smiles welcomingly at the camera but then pushes you away, as the camera follows three young Black women into a lift and they turn to stare, making the viewer feel like an unwelcome voyeur into their private lives and thoughts.

The last artwork in the exhibition is a film by Rhea Storr titled Here is The Imagination of the Black Radical. Exploring the Bahamian Junkanoo and recontextualising it as contemporary art Storr’s work discusses ideas of Afrofuturism and radical imagination alongside such practicalities as what happens to carnival costumes and floats after the event. Interspersed with these discussions is archival footage of carnival, with performers in elaborate costumes dancing to infectiously upbeat Afro-Caribbean music.

The exhibition will run from the 13th of April to the 5th of June at the Lisson Gallery on Bell Street and visits can be reserved here.

Rick Schatzberg

Posted on 15 de April de 2021 by nr

NR Vol. 13 Growth · Spring Summer 2021
Published · Print Page Unnumbered

Feature · Rick Schatzberg
Words · Ellie Brown

“conversations helped to create the atmosphere I needed to portray vulnerability”

Rick Schatzberg grew up in a suburb of Long Island in the 1950s – a place constructed out of nothing but a post-war optimism for prosperity and abundance. A place that, by Rick’s own admission, was in reality, characterised by its monotony and it’s ‘nowhereness’. Surrounded by the comfort of middle class living, Rick and his friends discovered the world by hanging out in one another’s bedrooms, the local mall or a wooded area not far from their suburban enclave. As teenagers, the boys (as they came to be known amongst themselves) would experiment with alcohol and drugs, and hang out with girls; an upbringing unremarkable to anyone who wasn’t there at the time. As they grew older, the boys took on different careers. Rick moved to New York and became an entrepreneur, the others would become teachers, taxi drivers, salesmen, realtors and healthcare workers But they remained what Rick calls a ‘cohesive entity,’ eternally bound together by their childhood moniker.

The Boys, the second photobook by Rick Schatzberg, is the result of both his pivot into photography and the unexpected death of two of his friends in close succession. Confronted with the fragility of life, Rick began in earnest to take photographs of the remaining boys. Using a large format camera, the images of himself and his friends, now in their mid-60s, are a stark reminder of the passage of time. In and of themselves, Rick’s photographs are tender portraits capturing the toll of time and age on the human body. But in the book, these images are interspersed with snapshots and photographs from the boys’ youth. Aged bodies become youthful, smiling faces – hanging out, experimenting with weed. Though Rick is quick to outline that The Boys isn’t nostalgic, there’s something poignant in flicking through the book’s pages and recognising the quirks and characteristics of each of the boys as time passes by. Addressing the responses he’s had so far about the book, Rick sums this feeling up well in our interview below: ‘anemoia: nostalgia for a time or place you’ve never known’. Many of the old photographs included in the book are snapshots that had been forgotten about – forgotten in the almost immediate aftermath that they were taken. They raise questions of memory; can the boys even recall the time and place that the photograph puts them in?

Alongside the images, old and now, are twelve short texts. One is an email exchange between Rick and two of the boys trying to piece together the facts of a fight that happened at a wedding. Their recollections of what actually occurred differ; evidence of the unreliability of memory. To celebrate the release of the book, Rick spoke in conversation with the photography writer and curator, David Campany in early 2021. As well as discussing the subject matter of The Boys, something that came up as crucial to the book’s release is its design. As part of the book launch, Rick shared a video of himself going through the book to demonstrate that the large format photographs of his friends feature as fold out pages (something, he tells the audience via Zoom, his mentors and peers from his photography course advised against). But something that also stands out in the structure of the book is that the 12 texts Rick includes in The Boys read like snapshots themselves.

An accompanying essay to the book by the writer, Rick Moody, raises this point, writing about the ‘relationship between a still image and the kind of expressive power that we associate with narrative activity.’ In the context of The Boys, as a photobook, this takes on historical significance. Writing about the 1920s, a time of the proliferation of the photobook and the photo essay, the academic Andreas Huyssen describes how a new form of literature appeared.

The “modernist miniature”, popularised by novelists like Franz Kafka and critical thinkers like Walter Benjamin, sought to capture modern life with photographic precision through words. In that way, then, Rick’s book is much more than a selection of photographs of his peers – young and now old – it’s a reckoning with how we navigate time, memory and our existence through the lens of modern life.

How did your experience of studying photography influence The Boys?

My work on The Boys was influenced by my art school education in several ways. To begin with, the photography MFA program I was enrolled in at Hartford University, Connecticut, is heavily focused on photobooks, and I went knowing I’d be making one. I thought I already knew a fair amount about photobooks, but the breadth of what I was exposed to by teachers, guest artists, and student colleagues was eye-opening. I had to examine my motivations to make any work and to think about how I would make a book that wasn’t just a collection of interesting pictures, but something with substance and depth.

In grad school, one of the challenges of making work that you hope to eventually present to the world is interpreting and deciding what to do with the near constant feedback you receive. You go to art school to not be limited by your inclinations. But there’s also the danger of gearing your work for approval of teachers and fellow students. In the end, I had to absorb what was helpful and discard what wasn’t; making that distinction was sometimes a confusing struggle.

At the virtual launch, you emphasised that this book had to be universal, and not nostalgic. What feedback have you had from people about The Boys? Does it differ from the boys themselves, those who come from the same place/time, and those with no real connection to the American suburb?

For me, the work is not really nostalgic; I feel that the almost forensic nature of the large format portraits grounds the work in the present. But I may have overstated my case against nostalgia a bit. The feedback has been consistent in that the work evokes an emotional response, which I find very gratifying. But judging from what people have written or told me, the way into the work has really varied. For some, the immediate connection is nostalgia for their youth or that time or place. For others, typically younger readers and often European, it may be anemoia: nostalgia for a time or place you’ve never known. (Like films and novels, photography is good at evoking this.) I’ve heard from people for whom the portrayal of enduring friendship was the hook, and after reading the book they either felt the urge to reach out to friends they have not been so attentive to or lamented that they didn’t have friendships that lasted into adulthood.

Obviously, this work is radically specific: a very particular group of white guys of a particular generation, raised in a very particular American suburban community.

“From the outset though, my feeling was that if this work isn’t felt to be universal then it’s a failure. Mortality, after all, is the bedrock of our biology.”

You mentioned the importance of collaboration in making the book – did this collaboration extend to your friends? Or did they feature just as subjects? Why did you use a large format camera for the portraits?

I discussed the deeper underlying themes of the project – aging, loss, memory, mortality, friendship – with my friends during our photo sessions. Though my directions for posing were minimal, these conversations helped to create the atmosphere I needed to portray vulnerability. I also explained that I planned to use the work as the basis of my master’s thesis so they understood that there would be a critical audience for the work beyond our circle. Their attitudes went from gracious acceptance to genuine interest. It was as though they became partners with a stake in the outcome.

“It was clear that I would be making unheroic portraits that might not be flattering, and they understood there was good reason for doing so.”

The word that often came to mind in these photo sessions was ceremonial. Using a 4×5 film camera, with all its fussy rituals and storied traditions, felt performative and serious. The slow, cumbersome, and mysterious (to my subjects) process helped amplify the psychological intensity surrounding the project. In the face of our brothers’ deaths, together we were creating a formal certificate of presence (to use Roland Barthe’s expression), using traditional tools.

That said, it is was not a true collaboration because the power to select specific portraits for use in the book was mine alone. My friends did not even see the images I was choosing between, nor did they know how I would ultimately deploy the portraits in the book. They trusted me. It was important to assert my authorial voice, but without entirely drowning out the voices of my friends, which they asserted through the written word, their snapshots, and their gestures in the portraits.

We’re faced with the processes of ageing, time and mortality in The Boys – when returning to your childhood home and neighbourhood for the book, had the nowhere place you came from aged too?

In the winter, with the trees bare, the neighborhood looks very much like it did 50 years ago. In the warmer months the trees, mature and leafy, give the neighborhood a homier, more established feel. The automobiles in front of many of the homes are now more numerous and luxurious, probably more a sign of growing consumer credit and a shift in values than of greater wealth.

The short texts in The Boys read like snapshots, how and why did you choose the texts you include?

I was interested in constructing narratives to loosely link text and images that would stand as discrete memories – not stories as such but fragments that help tell the larger story. I chose to write short texts that could function in different ways: sometimes straight narrative; sometimes like vague, recovered memories; sometimes as meditations; and sometimes more as dream than narrative. The one outlier is the story about my father. I didn’t initially think to include this in the book. I was having a conversation with my editor and I related the story to her.

“She told me to write it down and as soon as I did, I knew it belonged in the book.”

In his essay, Rick Moody refers to a good photograph as one left in a drawer for 30 years. Did the archives of photographs of yourself and the Boys ever come to light in the intervening years leading up to the making of this book? If so, in what circumstances?

Several of the snapshots have been circulating for ten years or so on social media. Others, which I found loosely strewn in boxes stored away for years, may have been passed around shortly after they were taken but were mostly forgotten. Time conferred poignancy as Rick Moody describes, but curating enlarged full-bleed versions astride pictures of old men and stories of death, makes new meaning. Even the more familiar old snapshots felt like new discoveries.

Credits

Images · RICK SCHATZBERG
https://rickschatzberg.com/