wish i weren’t here by geoff nicholson the pleasures of postcards march 6th, 2014
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Wish I Weren’t Here by Geoff Nicholson The pleasures of postcards March 6th, 2014TRANSCRIPT
Wish I Weren’t Here by Geoff NicholsonThe pleasures of postcardsMarch 6th, 2014
Image credit: postcards of the Stephen H. Willard Collection, Courtesy Palm Springs Art
Museum
I HAVE IN front of me a postcard of a photograph by Sebastião
Salgado. There are two captions printed on the back, one says simply
“Mali, 1985,” the other tells us it’s from the book In Our Time, The
World As Seen By Magnum Photographers. It shows a woman and half a
dozen children walking across a white expanse that we know must be
a desert, but the sand is so white, and the image so high-contrast that
they seem to be crossing a featureless void. Two of the youngest
children are naked and we see their emaciated arms and legs and their
misshapen bodies. The woman, the mother we assume, looks equally
thin, but strangely elegant and dignified, her bare back exposed, a full-
length train or head dress trailing behind her. We see none of their
faces. The photograph is both beautiful and horrifying, arresting and
shocking, and the most old-school teacher of artistic composition would
think its elements were beautifully arranged.
Salgado has taken plenty of flak for making suffering look good.
Susan Sontag accused him of “globalizing” suffering, inviting viewers
“to feel that the sufferings and misfortunes are too vast, too irrevocable,
too epic to be much changed by any local, political intervention.”
Ingrid Sischy in a New Yorker essay on Salgado complained, “Beauty is
a call to admiration, not to action.”
I bought that postcard a long time ago when I was first trying to
educate myself about both photography, and deserts (I was working
on a book titled Daytrips to the Desert), and it’s true enough that I
didn’t feel motivated to intervene, politically or otherwise. Even at the
time it seemed unlikely that I, or anyone with a grain of sensibility,
a postcard of emaciated children in their mailbox? What message
could you possibly write to accompany it?
Taking and distributing photographs of other people’s suffering is
clearly a morally dubious area. Converting these images into cheap
mass-produced postcard seems even more beset with problems. What
makes my postcard more troubling yet: It’s signed on the back by
Sebastião Salgado. He signed it for me because I asked him to.
The fact is, along with my affection for many other dying forms, I still
have a great fondness for picture postcards, whether reproductions of
great works of art and photography or just vacation souvenirs. I
wouldn’t say I have a postcard collection; I’d say I have a stash. I
sometimes buy them when I see them, but sometimes I see them and I
don’t, which is why I’m not a true collector — or deltiologist, to give it
the fancy name. It must be said however, that a visit to an exhibition
never feels complete unless I acquire a postcard or two.
¤
In Geoff Dyer’s brief, eloquent introduction to Understanding a
Photograph, a collection of essays by John Berger, edited by Dyer, he
refers to Walter Benjamin’s “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction” and says, drolly, that it’s one of the world’s most
mechanically reproduced essays. He also reminds us, if we need
reminding, that many of us were first introduced to Benjamin’s ideas
by Berger’s TV series, and then book,Ways of Seeing. Some of the
earliest shots from the first episode show postcards being printed and
machine-trimmed, the “aura” of the original artwork being thoroughly
banished. The episode is now on YouTube of course, and once you get
past Berger’s questionable hair and clothing choices it stills seems
surprisingly fresh.
Benjamin’s essay asserted that the original work of art has an “aura”
that any reproduction lacks. Benjamin certainly collected postcards as
a young man, and in later life sent them to his friends. It is significant,
though hardly intentional, that (at least by some accounts) the last
words he ever wrote were on a postcard that he handed to Henny
Gurland, who memorized the contents, and then destroyed the card:
In a situation with no way out, I have no choice but to end it.
My life will finish in a little village in the Pyrenees where no
one knows me. Please pass on my thoughts to my friend
Adorno and explain to him the situation in which I find
myself. There is not enough time to write all the letters I had
wanted to write.
actually suspects that Henny Gurland may have made the whole thing
up, still …
In Understanding a Photograph, Berger again writes approvingly of
Benjamin in relation to the work of August Sander, and quotes him as
saying, “Sander’s work is more than a picture book, it is an atlas of
instruction.” He approves of Salgado’s work too. They’re friends. The
book contains a remarkable photograph of the two of them walking
near Berger’s home in France; “an alpinist coming down the local
mountain noticed that Salgado was carrying a camera. ‘Would you
like me to take a picture of you both?’ he asked.”
The image accompanies the transcript of an “unlaundered”
conversation between Berger and Salgado. Berger says, “Part of the
fanaticism of the economic system which we now call globalization
[…] it pretends that no alternative is possible. And it’s simply not true.”
Salgado agrees, but isn’t sure what tactics a photographer should
employ in the face of globalization. “Probably to do a film is a wrong
way,” he says. “Probably to do a show of posters is not correct. But I
sincerely want to know what is correct. Because, if it is correct, I believe
that I must go and do it.”
Salgado famously became ill in the late 1990s and consulted a Parisian
doctor who told him he wasn’t really ill but had simply seen too much
death. And so he began the project, and now a book, titled Genesis, in
which he purports to photograph those parts of the earth untainted by
modern life. It might also have seemed like a way of getting away from
the complaining of the likes of Sontag and Sischy, though critical
response suggests that not everyone feels absolutely comfortable about
being invited to look at indigenous people with penis sheaths, bare
“indigenous” breasts, and bones through their lips. Would it also be
churlish to remark that there’s actually quite a bit of death and
“tainting” in the biblical Book of Genesis?
In any case Salgado’s images of the desert are surely blameless, and in
the case of Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon, they’re
absolutely stunning. My understanding is that Salgado uses a
photographic technique that involves a digital image, then a negative,
then further digitization so that the end results look like traditional,
non-digital prints. I suspect theseGenesis photographs will never be
what Salgado is best known for, but looking at those desert images and
then turning to Ansel Adams, Salgado sure looks like the boss to me.
¤
It’s very hard to take good pictures of the desert, which is to say it’s all
too easy to take very bad pictures of the desert. Increasingly an
doesn’t seem to be enough. We feel the need for intervention or
conceptualization. We need, for instance, a Richard Misrach
whose Desert Cantos are not simply asking us to admire the desert
(though one does) but to consider the military and industrial
desecration of the desert — and he too has been charged with
aestheticizing.
There is currently a photographic exhibition at the Palm Springs Art
Museum titled Secrets of The Sun, of work by Stephen H. Willard, not a
very well known name, though his entire archive is there at the
museum. He was described in a 2007 essay by Christine Giles as “The
Ansel Adams of the Desert,” something of a tautology given the many
desert photographs Adams shot. Certainly a portion of Willard’s work
shares some of Adams’s values — deep tonal range black and white,
flawless clarity, improbably dramatic skies, classic composition, a
general (though not absolute) absence of humanity. There’s a
wonderful photograph titled Upright Joshua Tree, Owens Lake, from
1945, that shows a single Joshua Tree isolated in vast sea of sand,
nothing between it and the distant mountains, with the tree’s shadow
falling at a strict 90 degrees across the earth. The image contains a
stature and a kind of mystery that not all Willard’s work has. His black
and white desert photographs — dunes, palm trees, desert tracks —
are invariably beautiful and noble, but sometimes just a little dull.
Photo credit: Stephen H. Willard, Upright Joshua on Owens Lake, June 3, 1945/2013, archival inkje t from
film negative , (Willard No. 380), Palm Springs Art Museum, gift of Dr. Beatrice Willard © Palm
Springs Art Museum
Rather more intriguing, and sometimes absolutely eye-popping, are his
color pictures, although they’re not strictly speaking color
photographs. Willard made large black and white photographic prints,
paint, creating unique objects, by way of a very elaborate form of hand
tinting. Adams would have fainted away at the idea.
Willard also created hand-tinted postcards. The exhibition contains one
or two images marked up with instructions to the printer, who
sometimes evidently wasn’t very good at following instructions. The
colorization is so extreme in certain cases that it looks like all concerned
are anticipating the spread of major psychedelics in California. These,
of course, do not look much like high art, at times they look simply
kitsch, but the best of them are much more alive, and way more fun,
than some of the solemn black and white studies.
Postcards of the Stephen H. Willard Collection, Courtesy Palm Springs Art Museum
For all Willard’s artistry he was also a jobbing photographer. He had a
studio and gallery in Palm Springs, photographed hotels and country
clubs, was a publisher of postcards made chiefly, though not
exclusively, from his own photographs. And seeing some of these in the
exhibition, I realized with a happy shock of recognition that I have a
few of these Willard postcards in my own stash. One of my favorites is
titled Evening Colors on the Desert, with the saturation turned up to 11,
and a caption that reads “In the golden hour of the sunset, the
atmospheric colors combine with the brilliant hues of the Ranges to
make a scene of almost unbelievable brilliance.” More than almost, I’d
reproduction from Kodachrome” but the printer still managed to give
them a hand-tinted look.
Vintage Willard postcards can be bought easily online, and the lady in
the gift shop told me that there are plans to print some reproductions
for sale in the museum, but right now they’re only selling boxes of
notecards with Willard’s images on them. There’s no catalog of the
exhibition.
¤
Willard’s art photographs tend to show the desert in a pristine
uninhabited state, whereas many of his postcards tend to show, and
even promote, the desert as a place of hotels, swimming pools, country
clubs. Inevitably the two are not mutually exclusive, and once in a
while he will show a single house in the middle of the desert, thereby
becoming an unwitting precursor of John Divola.
Divola seems to be a photographer whose time has come,
demonstrating once again that there’s nothing like four decades of
hard toil for creating overnight success. He recently had three
exhibitions running simultaneously, in Pomona, Santa Barbara, and at
LACMA, under the joint title As Far as I Could Get. The LACMA
segment runs until July.
It would be reductive to regard Divola simply as a desert photographer
but I think his best work, or at any rate all the work I like best, features
the desert one way or another. Isolated Houses is a series of large format
color photographs, also a book, showing single dwellings in the Mojave
desert around Twentynine Palms, some inhabited, some not. The
houses are small, simple, elemental, sometimes just made of
cinderblocks. The light tends to be low and golden, and the desert looks
gorgeous. Inevitably this is not pristine desert. Human presence is
thinly spread but conspicuous and ubiquitous, and it would be possible
for a certain eye to regard these isolated houses as blots on the
landscape, but I don’t feel that’s Divola’s angle. In his pictures they fit
perfectly. It must also be said some of them seem so insubstantial that
they don’t look as though it’d be much of a job to clear them away.
Another series, Dogs Chasing My Car in the Desert, consists of grainy
blurry, black and white photographs, showing exactly what the title
suggests, hounds running through the whiteness of the desert, in futile
but spirited pursuit of the photographer’s vehicle. It’s hard to tell
whether the dogs are crazed or just having fun; maybe both. They
have owners of course, and in some of the photographs, there’s the
litter of human habitation — houses, trucks, fences —looking a good
deal rougher and less attractive than theIsolated Houses.
The series As Far As I Could Get, which became the title of the three
exhibitions, involved Divola setting his camera on a tripod, using a 10-
second delay, and then running directly away from the lens, until the
shutter fired and took his receding self-portrait. The figure is at the
center of the image but you see a lot of desert, and there’s a kind of
oscillation: are you looking at the receding man, who is sometimes just
a blur, or at the desert, which is essentially nondescript, and certainly
not picturesque? All three of these Divola series depict the desert in a
way that feels much more familiar and authentic than anything
depicted by Willard, or Adams or for that matter Salgado.
There is a fine, authoritative catalog to accompany the Divola
exhibitions, but there are no postcards, and it struck me that I’d never
seen anypostcard of Divola’s work. I thought possibly this was some
deliberate decision on his part, that he didn’t wish to have the “aura”
mechanically removed from his work. In a brief email exchange, I
asked him if this was so. He replied:
No, I have never gone about making post cards. A couple of
institutions have produced cards over the years but I don't
think I can recall any produced specifically as post cards.
Even by the time I was young the postcard was already a
nostalgic form. It just never appeared to be central to the
discourse that interested me. I have nothing against it, it
simply was not central.
Another grand theory bites the dust.
I was nevertheless delighted to come across an essay by Elizabeth
Schambelan in Artforum about Divola’s Zuma series, for which he
found an abandoned, and presumably isolated, house in Malibu, and
intervened by spraying various designs on the walls and taking
pictures of the results. The essay’s title is “Postcards From the Edge.”
¤
One of the purposes of the postcard has always been to provoke envy.
The recipient remains homebound, stuck in their daily routine, while
the sender is at leisure or on an adventure in some exotic place. This
function has now been satisfactorily replaced by social media. Hell,
there’s even the ecard. The purpose may be the same but the insult
seems greater. Sending a real paper postcard required at least some
small effort of selection, writing an address and a message, buying a
stamp, and going to the mailbox — all desperately old technology no
doubt, but nevertheless showing a small degree of attention and
consideration that pressing “send” doesn’t quite have. The recipients
also ended up with something they could stick on the wall: postcards
are objects as well as images.
Researching this article, I was amazed to find that the USPS, which is
obliged to keep records of these things, delivered about 4.5 million
postcards last year, not at all bad for a dying form. Even so I remain
pretty skeptical about a figure quoted by Jonathan Meades in a recent
article inThe Guardian, claiming that 100 million postcards are still sent
in Britain each year. The article was plugging Meades’s latest
project Pidgin Snaps, and titled “Why I went postal … and turned my
snaps into postcards.” Meades, an English novelist, maker of TV
programs, an architectural commentator, and at this point in some
danger of becoming a national treasure in his own country, was moved
to publish 100 of his own photographs, not in book form but as
individual postcards that come in what he calls “a boxette.”
Meades confesses to being a deltiologist, and writes:
I have thousands of postcards but seldom send one, seldom
receive one either […] Postcards are for collecting and
scrutinising and delving into the lives of others. As bearers of
greetings, brief messages, thanks and dutiful holiday clichés,
they are ancient technology: pre-telephone, let alone mobile
phone […] Yet they persist in a way that, say, public
telephones do not.
He was, he says, inspired by Martin Parr’s Boring Postcards and Tom
Phillips’The Postcard Century, books featuring collections of postcards
in which there’s been some conceptual intervention.
Meades’s results are fascinating if inevitably mixed. He makes no claim
to be a “real” photographer, and few of these resemble “real”
postcards either in style or subject matter. Few of them provoke much
envy and, per John Divola, there’s nothing nostalgic about them. Put
these in a rack in your gift shop and I suspect there would be few
takers, which is a shame.
There are no deserts here, though there are some British and European
equivalents: a stretch of blasted wasteland which we’re told is the Watt
Tyler Country Park, a lone figure on a bench on a bleak stretch of
sand, a blue van somehow magically dumped in the middle of a
roadless Scottish peat bog. Meades is nothing if not an ironist and often
the captions on the back of the cards seem only obliquely relevant to
the images on the front. That figure on the bench is captioned “Latvian
beach life.” Sometimes I think he simply tells lies. I’m pretty certain,
for example, that the postcard of the faded blue caravan on the Isle of
Lewis does not show where Gunther Minto wrote the last movement
of Der Mesiterfelcher. I’m pretty certain Gunther Minto is Meades’s
own dirty-minded invention. The recipient of a Pidgen Snaps postcard
receives an oblique message from the “artist” as well as from the
sender.
He also says, “There is not a person bias. The world of Pidgin Snaps,
like the world of my films, is largely devoid of people. But people's
interventions — shacks, cars, chimneys, roads, pylons, silos, landfill
sites — are omnipresent.”
¤
As far as I can tell, “postcard theory” is fairly thin on the ground, and
such as it is, often exists in relation to Jacques Derrida’s The Post Card:
From Socrates to Freud and Beyond, 1987. In the section titled “Envois”
he writes about a postcard that shows a medieval image of a seated
Socrates writing down the words of Plato who stands behind him:
The card immediately seemed to me, how to put it, obscene.
[...] For the moment, myself, I tell you that I see Plato getting
an erection in Socrates’ back and see the insane hubris of his
prick, an interminable, disproportionate erection [...] Imagine
the day, when we will be able to send sperm by post card.
Well okay, I’ve imagined that now. Thanks, Jacques.
This stuff in turn moved John Phillips of the University of Singapore to
write, in a paper titled “Reading The Postcard”:
The scene is a kind of cipher, standing in as the privileged
example here for the primal (and thus secondary) scene of
metaphysics itself and its singular deconstruction. The
postcard seems to operate as a simple generator of
extraordinarily complex aporias. The postcard depicts the
aporia of metaphysics no less. But that’s not all. The postcard
itself, its recto-verso, figure-text, and visible-intelligible
doubling, already in its performative function as post card
carries out the same scene, the scene it depicts and reproduces
in iterations in principle ad infinitum.
I’m rather more persuaded by the words of another postcard collector,
and of course photographer, Walker Evans. He collected for over 60
years and lectured on postcards at Yale, preferring that to talking
about his own work. 700 of Evans’s postcards, out of a collection of
some 9,000, were shown at the New York Met in 2009. I saw the
exhibition and like a fool didn’t buy the catalog, which is now
collectible and pricey. In it there’s a reprint of an essay Evans wrote for
Fortune magazine to accompany a picture-spread celebrating the
postcard, titled “Main Street Looking North from Courthouse
Square.”
Evans writes:
In the 1900s, sending and saving picture postcards was a
prevalent and often a deadly boring fad in a million middle
class homes. Yet the plethora of cards printed in that period
forms a sold bank from which we draw some of the most
charming and, on occasion, the most horrid mementos ever
bequeathed one generation to another.
He adds, “postcards are now in an aesthetic slump from which they
may never recover.” He was writing this in 1948. Aesthetic slumps, like
the death of certain forms, can sometimes be much exaggerated.
¤
Geoff Nicholson’s books include the novels Bleeding London and The
Hollywood Dodo, and the nonfiction The Lost Art of Walking. He blogs
about “food, sex, obsession, and the madness of the mouth” at psycho-
gourmet.blogspot.com.
Recommended ReadsPhotography’s Chattering GhostsConfinement, Foregrounded: Portraits from PrisonBuster Keaton and the World of ObjectsAt War with the Obvious, ObviouslyYou Say the Swimming Pool’s Half Empty, I Say theSwimming Pool’s Half FullThe Walk of the Worlds