Exhibition Catalog Essay:
GET ON THE BUS
Gordon Stettinius’s “Naked Pilgrim”
1708 Gallery
April 2007
To look at the photographs in Gordon Stettinius's exhibition "Naked Pilgrim," is to feel as if you have wandered on the back lot of a movie studio. Too-large or too-small replicas of familiar objects slump, recontextualized and wearily out of place. Beside them are vaguely recognizable figures whose often-beautiful expressions suggest bygone days. What he creates for us with these photographs is another kind of film, a haunting and sometimes humorous road trip documentary that leads us to the invisible intersection between agelessness and exhaustion, beauty and grotesqueness, performance and ritual.
Often, it is ritualism and mythology that make “Naked Pilgrim” so arresting. "Wig Store," for example, shows a plywood cutout of a passé, bouffant hairstyle hovering over the door of a non-descript retail building. Its architecture unconsciously recalls Federico Zuccari’s famous late 16th century Roman palazzo portal, a door that resembles the groaning jaws of a grotesque face. If Zuccari's Dante-esque entryway implies visceral transformation and wild Mannerist embellishment, "Wig Store" suggests its opposite. Instead of being consumed by an insatiable satyr, we await our impending arrival in a stark shopping den -- and our entry into the quasi-drugged, hypnogic state in which it is best savored. We metaphorically prepare to enter the empty thoughts of a cartoon woman, whose face has been replaced by a monitor-like glass door. We feel our minds and eyes begin to shut down; meanwhile, the sound of the Muzak grows more distinct.
The color-drenched "Snake Girl" is similarly allusive. The smiling female face atop a snake body reminds us of other snake-women, most notably the one in Masolino's "Temptation of Adam and Eve.” Both share a sort of collage aesthetic, a "spare parts" construction that does not bother to finish seams or blend edges. Stettinius’s photograph also cannily plays with notions of realism inherent in the photographic medium. At first, "Snake Girl" looks as if it might have been created in Photoshop. We conclude that it was not and chuckle at its unsophisticated, state fair setting, which evokes more than anything else a miniature golf course. But just as we compliment our discernment of what is authentic and what is not, we are stopped short. We remember that what we are looking at is not reality either, but a photograph, an expert illusion of the real.
Stettinius possesses the sensitivity to light and form that characterizes the most gifted of photographers. Foamhenge, the now-defunct Natural Bridge, Virginia attraction where tourists could view industrial-foam replicas of Stonehenge, is a quirky and appealing subject in and of itself. In photographing it against a cinematically moody, cloud-washed sky and sparsely sweeping grasses, however, Stettinius adds notes of beauty, sadness, and complexity. In so doing, he takes something that could be all-too-easily interpreted simply as American roadside kitsch and reimagines it as a series of multi-layered, nesting, archetypal landscapes. With similar artistry, "Roma," photographed in the courtyard of a Roman museum, uses an assertive shaft of light to emphasize the mix of textures on a variety of fragmented stone forms, old and new. The colossal, disembodied hand in the center dominates the composition as it appears both to bask in - and be created by - a light that, like the hand itself, seems at once holy and artificial.
Down-at-the-heels roadside attractions are a captivating subject, and one that is very easy to do badly. Their unstylish innocence is too often met with smirking belittlement or superficial discussion. Gordon Stettinius, by contrast, approaches his subjects with compassion and a sharp eye for formal aesthetics. The close proximity and upward-angle of "Reindeer" allows us to see stock holiday figures in a new way, and we are surprised to discover classical equestrian overtones in their erect posture and stoic faces. The poetic juxtaposition of a natural hedge and the stenciled purple palm that adorns an exterior wall of a dingy motel in "Purple Palms" is presented as if the painted frond has sprung surrealistically from the live bushes. The effect is enchanted and visually stirring, as if we have happened upon a gargantuan orchid or Night-blooming Cereus.
In the end, these images offer the search for the sublime in the vernacular as a sort of contemporary pilgrimage, one that requires us to strip ourselves of jaded sophistication and cynicism. Thus, it is a naked pilgrimage, and one of the few we have left. It seems therefore fitting that one of the iconic pictures in "Naked Pilgrim" is "Holy Land USA." In this silvery black-and-white photograph, a broken-looking white bus proclaims its destination in black letters, even as a handmade sign in the windshield reads, "Do not enter." But Gordon Stettinius’s evocative, disquieting, and brutally sincere vistas insistently whisper, "Get on the bus." We do, and our pilgrimage begins. When it ends, we are back where we started, only different: naked, watchful, and reverent.
Rebecca E. Jones
February 2007
20070620
It May Not Be a Soprano, but this Tony Hits the High Notes
The 2007 Tony Awards
For that scant handful of us who watched the Tony Awards instead of Tony Soprano last Sunday, there was much to celebrate.
Could Broadway be recovering from its all-time low in 2006 with "Jersey Boys," a show without ONE original song, taking top prize? Perhaps. This year, by contrast, two edgy and experimental musicals, plus one return to Broadway's Golden Age, took the big honors.
The big winner, "Spring Awakening" is a rock musical, an inferior genre that people keep trying to legitimize. Come on - everyone loves the Who, but please! Who in their right mind puts "Pinball Wizard" in the same category as melodies by Richard Rogers or Stephen Sondheim? Still, "Spring Awakening" is dark, psychological and complex with a tough, 1890's Germany setting and wildly innovative choreography. It is a far cry from the jukebox schlock and musicalizations of mediocre movies that have dominated the Great White Way for the last few years. A spring awakening for Broadway? Let's hope.
"Grey Gardens" was my favorite. It received several big awards, including best actress in a musical for Christina Ebersole (perfect casting for Rachael in you-know-what). When I heard months ago that the haunting 1971 documentary about Jackie O's shrieking, reclusive cousins languishing in squalor in a formerly grand East Hampton mansion was the basis of a new musical, I was elated. "Mamma Mia," it's not. Christine Ebersole's Tony number was quirky, hilarious, disturbing, and - unlike anything I have heard from "Spring Awakening" - musically memorable.
"Curtains," by Kandor and Ebb (who gave us "Cabaret," "Chicago," and"All that Jazz"), represented a return to the classic, mid-century book musical (at last) and received very favorable notice, including best actor in a musical for David Hyde Pierce (Niles from Frazier).
"Legally Blonde, The Musical" and "Mary Poppins" were mostly ignored. I understand that there were excellent individual break-out performances in both shows, and I am genuinely sorry for the troopers who were overlooked last Sunday. I take their lack of awards as an overdue rejection of a tired musical theatre sub-genre, not an indictment of the performances.
The return of standards to the Tony's marks a turning point, I believe, and one that may be butressed by John Travolta's coming star-turn this summer in the movie version of "Hairspray, The Musical." So - this means good times ahead for my shows. But far more importantly, good times may be ahead for a unique American artform that has suffered greatly for the last few years -- AND for the legions of ultra-talented people who make less money than they could and work harder than have to in order to keep it alive. Bravissimi! Encore!!
As to the Tony's telecast itself, when will they ever learn? The broadcast needs a charismatic, dynamic host with Broadway cred. The rotating hosts of the last two years did not give a single voice or coherent style to the proceedings. Hugh Jackman, while handsome and talented, cannot sustain the ceremony in terms of humor and verve. Nathan Lane, Jason Alexander, and Christine Baransky would be better choices. Each has a respectable level of Broadway experience AND enough cross-over (read "television") appeal to reel in a larger audience.
And how could CBS have been in the business this long without realizing that the West Coast awards shows bring in numbers by broadcasting fashion moments on the red-carpet? Unlike other major awards shows, the Tony's are presented in one of the fashion capitals of the universe. Please bring Isaac Mizrahi in to schmooze with the arrivals and ask them, "Who are you wearing?" Isaac has done costumes for a number of shows and has a big enough personality to make this a real event. The de rigeur post-broadcast debriefing of fashions would make the show pay off again by showing people what they missed while they were watching that other, lesser Tony. More to the point, the post-mortem would prompt viewers to watch next year - and maybe even go to a show.
For that scant handful of us who watched the Tony Awards instead of Tony Soprano last Sunday, there was much to celebrate.
Could Broadway be recovering from its all-time low in 2006 with "Jersey Boys," a show without ONE original song, taking top prize? Perhaps. This year, by contrast, two edgy and experimental musicals, plus one return to Broadway's Golden Age, took the big honors.
The big winner, "Spring Awakening" is a rock musical, an inferior genre that people keep trying to legitimize. Come on - everyone loves the Who, but please! Who in their right mind puts "Pinball Wizard" in the same category as melodies by Richard Rogers or Stephen Sondheim? Still, "Spring Awakening" is dark, psychological and complex with a tough, 1890's Germany setting and wildly innovative choreography. It is a far cry from the jukebox schlock and musicalizations of mediocre movies that have dominated the Great White Way for the last few years. A spring awakening for Broadway? Let's hope.
"Grey Gardens" was my favorite. It received several big awards, including best actress in a musical for Christina Ebersole (perfect casting for Rachael in you-know-what). When I heard months ago that the haunting 1971 documentary about Jackie O's shrieking, reclusive cousins languishing in squalor in a formerly grand East Hampton mansion was the basis of a new musical, I was elated. "Mamma Mia," it's not. Christine Ebersole's Tony number was quirky, hilarious, disturbing, and - unlike anything I have heard from "Spring Awakening" - musically memorable.
"Curtains," by Kandor and Ebb (who gave us "Cabaret," "Chicago," and"All that Jazz"), represented a return to the classic, mid-century book musical (at last) and received very favorable notice, including best actor in a musical for David Hyde Pierce (Niles from Frazier).
"Legally Blonde, The Musical" and "Mary Poppins" were mostly ignored. I understand that there were excellent individual break-out performances in both shows, and I am genuinely sorry for the troopers who were overlooked last Sunday. I take their lack of awards as an overdue rejection of a tired musical theatre sub-genre, not an indictment of the performances.
The return of standards to the Tony's marks a turning point, I believe, and one that may be butressed by John Travolta's coming star-turn this summer in the movie version of "Hairspray, The Musical." So - this means good times ahead for my shows. But far more importantly, good times may be ahead for a unique American artform that has suffered greatly for the last few years -- AND for the legions of ultra-talented people who make less money than they could and work harder than have to in order to keep it alive. Bravissimi! Encore!!
As to the Tony's telecast itself, when will they ever learn? The broadcast needs a charismatic, dynamic host with Broadway cred. The rotating hosts of the last two years did not give a single voice or coherent style to the proceedings. Hugh Jackman, while handsome and talented, cannot sustain the ceremony in terms of humor and verve. Nathan Lane, Jason Alexander, and Christine Baransky would be better choices. Each has a respectable level of Broadway experience AND enough cross-over (read "television") appeal to reel in a larger audience.
And how could CBS have been in the business this long without realizing that the West Coast awards shows bring in numbers by broadcasting fashion moments on the red-carpet? Unlike other major awards shows, the Tony's are presented in one of the fashion capitals of the universe. Please bring Isaac Mizrahi in to schmooze with the arrivals and ask them, "Who are you wearing?" Isaac has done costumes for a number of shows and has a big enough personality to make this a real event. The de rigeur post-broadcast debriefing of fashions would make the show pay off again by showing people what they missed while they were watching that other, lesser Tony. More to the point, the post-mortem would prompt viewers to watch next year - and maybe even go to a show.
"Love, Love, Love, and Fields of Red-Poppy Kisses"
In the eighties, I was wild about Paloma Picasso perfume and wore it all the time. My best friend Sam loved it, too, and told me that he wanted a bottle for the 24th birthday that he would not live to see.
Years later, I drove to Arlington on the May 13 that would have been his 31st his birthday. It was a Saturday. I had not thought of the fact that, because it was a Jewish cemetery, it would be closed. I convinced a groundskeeper to let me in. He drove me in on some sort of tractor, chatting blandly all the while to someone on a walkie-talkie. I sat under the tree and talked to Sam. Before I left, I poured a huge bottle of Paloma next to the grave. I watched it pool into the enormous tree roots before disappearing into the muddy ground.
Surrealistically, I received a letter from Sam about six months later, thanks to the Italian postal system in the mid-80's. The letter had been written in Venice. What has always stayed with me was the ending:
"I don't know what my destiny is or where I will go next. I miss you and your happiness so much and I hope to see you soon. Right now, I feel like Uncle Wiggly, Gentleman Rabbit, lost in the beautiful woods where he lives. Love, love, love, and fields of red poppy kisses. Sam"
Ever since, that image has been my picture of the afterlife: gentle people wandering aimlessly in a beautiful wood, missing the people who aren't there.
And I suppose the red poppy kisses are the opium of memory: standing beside you in the silence or quietly circling the heart -dreamlike, alive and well, traveling freely from this realm to the next.
Years later, I drove to Arlington on the May 13 that would have been his 31st his birthday. It was a Saturday. I had not thought of the fact that, because it was a Jewish cemetery, it would be closed. I convinced a groundskeeper to let me in. He drove me in on some sort of tractor, chatting blandly all the while to someone on a walkie-talkie. I sat under the tree and talked to Sam. Before I left, I poured a huge bottle of Paloma next to the grave. I watched it pool into the enormous tree roots before disappearing into the muddy ground.
Surrealistically, I received a letter from Sam about six months later, thanks to the Italian postal system in the mid-80's. The letter had been written in Venice. What has always stayed with me was the ending:
"I don't know what my destiny is or where I will go next. I miss you and your happiness so much and I hope to see you soon. Right now, I feel like Uncle Wiggly, Gentleman Rabbit, lost in the beautiful woods where he lives. Love, love, love, and fields of red poppy kisses. Sam"
Ever since, that image has been my picture of the afterlife: gentle people wandering aimlessly in a beautiful wood, missing the people who aren't there.
And I suppose the red poppy kisses are the opium of memory: standing beside you in the silence or quietly circling the heart -dreamlike, alive and well, traveling freely from this realm to the next.
Washington Exhibition Round-Up, Spring 2006
Cezanne at NGA: stupendous range of works from the middle period, so you see his anticipation of Expressionism and even Cubism. You have to admire Cezanne. It is hard to love him. Also, so many works are on loan, so the framing is terribly uneven: some are beautifully framed; others are taken straight from Mumsy's wall and feature Michael's Craft Store pink and green mats with goopy filigree molding.
Hokusai at the Freer: the animals have tons of personality, while his human figures are flat and seem to predict the generic Japanamation/manga look; also, their installation was very self-consciously glitzy - a little too "Bloomingdale's circa 1979" for my taste
Dada at the NGA East Wing: a tough and unpleasant show, but an important movement that - I now see - set the tone for so many late twentieth century art world shenanigans: the chic nihilism; the "indy-art-world" sensibility, refusal to self-define, artist as stager-of-events rather than maker-of-objects.
And the Winner Is. . .
Grant Wood at the Renwick! Prior to this show, almost everything I knew about Grant Wood and American Gothic I learned from The Rocky Horror Picture Show [read "didn't know much"]. This show is gorgeous and shows a master regionalist/realist with a sly sense of humor who, although he lived in the country and taught middle school (!), inhabited a big world and absorbed influences of the School of Paris, Milton Avery, the American Muralist Movement, and even American decorative arts. It is really a must-see for anyone in D.C.
Hokusai at the Freer: the animals have tons of personality, while his human figures are flat and seem to predict the generic Japanamation/manga look; also, their installation was very self-consciously glitzy - a little too "Bloomingdale's circa 1979" for my taste
Dada at the NGA East Wing: a tough and unpleasant show, but an important movement that - I now see - set the tone for so many late twentieth century art world shenanigans: the chic nihilism; the "indy-art-world" sensibility, refusal to self-define, artist as stager-of-events rather than maker-of-objects.
And the Winner Is. . .
Grant Wood at the Renwick! Prior to this show, almost everything I knew about Grant Wood and American Gothic I learned from The Rocky Horror Picture Show [read "didn't know much"]. This show is gorgeous and shows a master regionalist/realist with a sly sense of humor who, although he lived in the country and taught middle school (!), inhabited a big world and absorbed influences of the School of Paris, Milton Avery, the American Muralist Movement, and even American decorative arts. It is really a must-see for anyone in D.C.
In Defense of Cities: A Grumpy Letter to the Editor of the Newspaper
Editor, Times-Dispatch:
As a longtime city resident, I would like to respond to David Perel's letter that attempts to explain the absence of suburban visitors to downtown Richmond. Perel outlines the city's flaws, chief among which are its lack of attractions comparable to the new shopping centers in Stony Point and Short Pump.
The letter suggests that if Richmond were a first-tier city, downtown would be home to national, upscale retailers such as those that have transformed the shopping landscapes of Chesterfield and Henrico. I agree.
In the 1970s shopping malls exploded in large part to simulate an urban shopping experience in suburbs. The trend has now ironically reversed itself; the suburban shopping mall slowly consumes city shopping districts.
Manhattan's SoHo and Washington's Georgetown exemplify the trend toward the suburbanization of urban spaces. Thirty years ago, both neighborhoods were home to many one-of-a-kind shops and restaurants. Today, walking down Wisconsin Avenue or Spring Street is like walking through a roofless shopping mall. The Georgetown and SoHo Eddie Bauer, Banana Republic, and Starbucks may be situated inside warehouses and brownstones, but the interior effect is the same: a blandly neutral aesthetic experience that is unchanged from city to city. Should this trend go on unchecked, in time, a patron will be sitting in a Panera Bakery and have the surreal experience of not knowing for a moment whether he is in Chicago, San Francisco, or New York, so homogenized will those formerly distinct cities have become.
As residents of a smaller city, Richmonders routinely enjoy attractions that are unique to the city and which, indeed, define its character: brunch at Millie's or Cafe 821, coffee at Cafe Gutenberg, antiquing at the Farmer's Market, browsing for old books and ephemera at the Richmond Book Company, seeing exhibitions at 1708 or Art6; the list goes on, and each Richmonder has a slightly different roster of favorites.
I hope Perel and his neighbors will visit some of the gems in downtown Richmond that stubbornly remain "terra incognita" to so many in the counties.
Rebecca E. Jones
As a longtime city resident, I would like to respond to David Perel's letter that attempts to explain the absence of suburban visitors to downtown Richmond. Perel outlines the city's flaws, chief among which are its lack of attractions comparable to the new shopping centers in Stony Point and Short Pump.
The letter suggests that if Richmond were a first-tier city, downtown would be home to national, upscale retailers such as those that have transformed the shopping landscapes of Chesterfield and Henrico. I agree.
In the 1970s shopping malls exploded in large part to simulate an urban shopping experience in suburbs. The trend has now ironically reversed itself; the suburban shopping mall slowly consumes city shopping districts.
Manhattan's SoHo and Washington's Georgetown exemplify the trend toward the suburbanization of urban spaces. Thirty years ago, both neighborhoods were home to many one-of-a-kind shops and restaurants. Today, walking down Wisconsin Avenue or Spring Street is like walking through a roofless shopping mall. The Georgetown and SoHo Eddie Bauer, Banana Republic, and Starbucks may be situated inside warehouses and brownstones, but the interior effect is the same: a blandly neutral aesthetic experience that is unchanged from city to city. Should this trend go on unchecked, in time, a patron will be sitting in a Panera Bakery and have the surreal experience of not knowing for a moment whether he is in Chicago, San Francisco, or New York, so homogenized will those formerly distinct cities have become.
As residents of a smaller city, Richmonders routinely enjoy attractions that are unique to the city and which, indeed, define its character: brunch at Millie's or Cafe 821, coffee at Cafe Gutenberg, antiquing at the Farmer's Market, browsing for old books and ephemera at the Richmond Book Company, seeing exhibitions at 1708 or Art6; the list goes on, and each Richmonder has a slightly different roster of favorites.
I hope Perel and his neighbors will visit some of the gems in downtown Richmond that stubbornly remain "terra incognita" to so many in the counties.
Rebecca E. Jones
My Letter to Dress Shops (No Reply)
The newspaper in my city has an annual luncheon for the cranky letter-writers identified as "Correspondent of the Day" on the editorial page. The luncheon is a low-key, casual affair: barbeque chicken and cole slaw at the newspaper plant, plus a speech from the editorial page editor.
I was once named a Correspondent of the Day and thought of a way to make it pay off. I decided to "offer" the high-end dress shops in town the chance to "dress" me for the awards ceremony. After all, Nicole Kidman doesn't write a check for her frock when she goes to the Oscar's.
It was an idea ahead of its time. No one ponied up, but here is the letter I sent out that went unanswered by the unimaginative managers of several Richmond dress shops. My ex-husband told me that I had done one very good thing: given the poor, beleagered shopgirls a much-needed laugh. At my expense, it is needless to add. Is there any other kind in my life?
My Letter (No Reply)
Manager
Coplon's
6235 River Road
Richmond, Virginia 23229
14 February 2005
Dear Madam:
The exquisite dresses on view on the red carpets of awards events have become the stuff of legend. Who can forget Nicole Kidmans iconic lotion-pink Chanel Couture dress at the 2001 Academy Awards or Sharon Stones lavender silk shantung Vera Wang sarong, paired rakishly with her husband's Brooks Brothers shirt in 1997?
Awards ceremonies present a splendid opportunity for savvy dressmakers to promote their wares. On Saturday, February 26, I will attend the Richmond Times-Dispatch awards luncheon honoring 2004s Correspondents of the Day. As I am currently reviewing samples from area dress shops, I am writing to offer you the chance to promote one of Coplons elegant designs at the awards event.
The Correspondents luncheon features an open-mike question and answer session with Ross McKenzie, editor of the Times-Dispatchs editorial page and concludes with the much-anticipated announcement of the Correspondent of the Year. It always receives coverage in the local print and broadcast media. Should you be selected to dress me for this event, I will be certain to mention you as I preface my question during the open-mike forum. I will most certainly include you in my thank-you remarks should I be named Correspondent of the Year.
My October 31 letter to the newspaper was on the topic of unique and appealing locally owned stores and restaurants in Richmond, of which Coplons is certainly a celebrated example. I am enclosing a copy of my editorial letter as well as a copy of my invitation to the luncheon.
I am 42 years old, 5 7, blonde, and wear a size 6 - 8. I look good in everything except the inferior clothes that I can afford on my meager state-supported art museum salary; thus, I am writing to you. I urge you not miss this unique opportunity to capitalize on a most fashionable win-win proposition.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours very truly,
Rebecca E. Jones
I was once named a Correspondent of the Day and thought of a way to make it pay off. I decided to "offer" the high-end dress shops in town the chance to "dress" me for the awards ceremony. After all, Nicole Kidman doesn't write a check for her frock when she goes to the Oscar's.
It was an idea ahead of its time. No one ponied up, but here is the letter I sent out that went unanswered by the unimaginative managers of several Richmond dress shops. My ex-husband told me that I had done one very good thing: given the poor, beleagered shopgirls a much-needed laugh. At my expense, it is needless to add. Is there any other kind in my life?
My Letter (No Reply)
Manager
Coplon's
6235 River Road
Richmond, Virginia 23229
14 February 2005
Dear Madam:
The exquisite dresses on view on the red carpets of awards events have become the stuff of legend. Who can forget Nicole Kidmans iconic lotion-pink Chanel Couture dress at the 2001 Academy Awards or Sharon Stones lavender silk shantung Vera Wang sarong, paired rakishly with her husband's Brooks Brothers shirt in 1997?
Awards ceremonies present a splendid opportunity for savvy dressmakers to promote their wares. On Saturday, February 26, I will attend the Richmond Times-Dispatch awards luncheon honoring 2004s Correspondents of the Day. As I am currently reviewing samples from area dress shops, I am writing to offer you the chance to promote one of Coplons elegant designs at the awards event.
The Correspondents luncheon features an open-mike question and answer session with Ross McKenzie, editor of the Times-Dispatchs editorial page and concludes with the much-anticipated announcement of the Correspondent of the Year. It always receives coverage in the local print and broadcast media. Should you be selected to dress me for this event, I will be certain to mention you as I preface my question during the open-mike forum. I will most certainly include you in my thank-you remarks should I be named Correspondent of the Year.
My October 31 letter to the newspaper was on the topic of unique and appealing locally owned stores and restaurants in Richmond, of which Coplons is certainly a celebrated example. I am enclosing a copy of my editorial letter as well as a copy of my invitation to the luncheon.
I am 42 years old, 5 7, blonde, and wear a size 6 - 8. I look good in everything except the inferior clothes that I can afford on my meager state-supported art museum salary; thus, I am writing to you. I urge you not miss this unique opportunity to capitalize on a most fashionable win-win proposition.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours very truly,
Rebecca E. Jones
Beauty, Out of the Ordinary: Photography Review
The immediacy and visual richness of Angela Orrell's photographs give them the power to serve as portals to other places. Often those places hover in that poetic space between past and present. Training her lens on communities whose ways of life were once commonplace, Orrell's images beguile the viewer's sense of time. Silvery images of a venerable local diner, a final tobacco auction, a family-owned barbershop, or fishermen returning with the days catch feel archaic and distinctly American. In their details we discover a bygone era and are surprised to learn that they are, in fact, contemporary documentations of a vanishing present.
Her pictures grow out of deep and carefully tended relationships with the communities that she photographs and are often presented in conjunction with oral histories, objects, and video footage that she collects. In this way, her images form part of a complex portrait that preserves and pays tribute to old ways of life and the people who allow them to live on. Although the subjects of her photographs are often plain and careworn, their beauty is revealed at every turn: the dance of light across a chrome surface in a diner, the mix of textures on aging faces and hands, the furrows left behind in busy fields all demand our notice and our awe.
In a world that assaults us daily with literally thousands of retouched, enhanced, and cleaned up images, we are reminded of the uniqueness of the natural and the honest. Invited to look at old ways of life with fresh eyes, we are reminded of the words of an even older poem:
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
- John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn 1819
Her pictures grow out of deep and carefully tended relationships with the communities that she photographs and are often presented in conjunction with oral histories, objects, and video footage that she collects. In this way, her images form part of a complex portrait that preserves and pays tribute to old ways of life and the people who allow them to live on. Although the subjects of her photographs are often plain and careworn, their beauty is revealed at every turn: the dance of light across a chrome surface in a diner, the mix of textures on aging faces and hands, the furrows left behind in busy fields all demand our notice and our awe.
In a world that assaults us daily with literally thousands of retouched, enhanced, and cleaned up images, we are reminded of the uniqueness of the natural and the honest. Invited to look at old ways of life with fresh eyes, we are reminded of the words of an even older poem:
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
- John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn 1819
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
