To say that all the artistic ground that can be covered has already been so may be a bit of an overstatement, but it is fair to say that almost everything has been done before in some way. When it comes to subject matter or themes, especially in photography, there is a precedent that has been set for almost everything. Photography is a relatively young art form but even as such, it is not new, and much of the ground it covers has been covered before.
For every new or inventive method or photograph being made, there is a precedent for it that has been set at some point. It is human nature to repeat ourselves over time, but that does not mean that there is nothing left to be said. The fact that certain things continually emerge in the work of many different artists proves that there are certain themes and ideas/ideals we are drawn to again and again, and that they can be expanded upon. With each new foray into a given subject, theme or concept, the meaning, and our understanding of that, grows, deepens and evolves.
So to simplify things, over simplify perhaps but prove a point nonetheless, lets assume that it has all been done before. In his text, The Ongoing Moment, Geoff Dyer discusses this idea at length, and poses several questions of the reader in regard to it. Writing about disparate photographers separated by half a world, half a century and sometimes even more, often without any knowledge of each other, creating similar work with similar meanings, he suggests that it is all more than mere coincidence. “How long can a coincidence extend before it ceases to be one?” he asks, implying that there may be no coincidences, in a very Jungian way (Dyer, 115).[1]
Wondering if a coincidence only “lasts a moment”, and if this moment then repeats over and over, Dyer asks if this moment in question can then be considered an “ongoing moment” (Dyer, 115). His terminology seems fitting in regard to his subject, saying that the themes that arise over and over do so because they resonate with people. More than just that, however, it seems impossible to deny the way people are drawn again and again to certain subject matter and themes.
Much of this may have to do with how ubiquitous photography has become. Recently, in the last 40 years or so, photography has become a widely practiced hobby for many. This means that the majority of people making photographs are not making them as art, but rather more as a “social right, a defense against anxiety and a tool of power,” (Sontag, 8). The more familiar with the language of photography people become, the more comfortable they will feel when using it.[2]
One theme that many photographers are drawn to time and time again is that of a decrepit subject matter. Photography seems to lend itself well to recording and conveying the feeling of things that are in a state of disrepair. Regardless of whether the photograph is a portrait, a landscape or abstract detail, people are always somehow drawn to images that resonate a sense of the broken-down, the ruined. Damage resonates with all people on some level, and we are drawn to it (Dyer)[3].
This is part of what initially drew me to photographing a particular beach. In many ways in my mind it was the antithesis of what a beautiful, pleasing beach should be. It was all together barren and desolate, with a sense of alienation hanging over it. Photographers including Edward Weston and Diane Arbus, among many others, have all explored this concept, all having their own idea of what “ruin” means.[4] A desire to capture and somehow convey the sense of ruin I found in this particular place put my name on a very long list of photographers who have attempted to do so with any number of subjects.
Abstraction in photography is no new ground to cover either, but I have been exploring it nonetheless lately. [5] “The picture may distort; but there is always a presumption that something exists, or did exist, which is like what’s in the picture,” (Sontag, 5). The belief that people hold on to of the truth in photography is part of what helps abstracted photographs have so much of an impact.
Abstraction does not have to be very on the nose, however. Some of the most effective abstractions can be much more subtle, where the viewer does not fully understand how the scene is being manipulated at first glance. “People have been reading photography as a true document…they are now getting suspicious…I let the camera capture whatever it captures…whether you believe it or not is up to you,” (Sugimoto, 14). With a precedent set by photographers like Hiroshi Sugimoto and Masahisa Fukase, sometimes images that are visually cryptic, but still appear to be relatively straightforward are the most interesting version of abstract.
Taking images of the houses facing the beach instead of the beach itself for example, or having a dark image lit by a single stark bulb that is blocked by an obtrusive pillar changes the meaning that could have been in the photograph. These were certainly influenced by the work of Sugimoto whose images are never quite what they first appear to be. In a way I am exploring the things that obstruct or views, and only indicate what might actually be. I am, however, far from the first to do this.
It is not just about similar photographs being taken over long periods of time however; it is also about how these photographs are different. Time does not ever stop, and a tradition is never completed, but is always being incrementally advanced (Dyer, 23). As these traditions grow and evolve, real developments begin to become apparent.
The fact that it has all been done before is no reason to stop or give up; it is, in fact, the best reason to keep going. The more that is done, the more ideas can grow and evolve and be passed on. Even though it has been done before, each new person picking up the mantle will have their own particular take on whatever it is that they are doing, and help it become more than it was when they started. Sometimes we have no idea what we are doing as we do it, only to find our answers in retrospect. No of us can truly know the impact we will have on what’s to come, and to a certain extent, we cannot fully understand the impact of what already has come to pass has had on us.
The trick is not simply to try to do something that is completely new and unassailably original, but rather to accept the fact that much of what we do now as artists has been, in some form or another, done before. The paths we walk are well worn. To then take that knowledge and use it as a starting point to fuel your own ideas and allow for growth in your own work, as well as evolution in the medium as a whole, is where the really pertinent meaning comes from.
Evolution is inevitable, and change can be cyclical, we’ve seen it all before, so to speak. To say that everything created by artists in any period draws from something that has come before is a truth. Not just in art, but in life in general. Just as those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it, those who do know are destine to borrow from it. It is only human to repeat ourselves, and it is good. Through repetition, we can achieve growth, and allow for ideas to evolve and move into bigger and more complex echelons of understanding.
Bibliography
Dyer, Geoff. The Ongoing Moment. New York: Pantheon Books, 2005.
Sontag, Susan. On Photography. New York: Picador, 1977.
Sugimoto, Hiroshi. Sugimoto. Fundacion “la Caixa” y Centro Cultural de Belem, 1998.
[1] Subscribers to Jungian theory are familiar with the concept of the collective unconscious, wherein all living breathing humans are inexorable linked mentally and emotionally to all others who have lived and will live. Claiming that it is something deep within us, existing since our protoplasmic beginnings, connecting us all on a subconscious level Jung claims that there is no such thing as coincidence. We are all tapped into this well of shared knowledge, and we access it whether we know it or not. Only the most self aware, or “self-actualized”, can do it fluidly and intentionally, but all of us are subject to it in some form or another. Some of the ideas that Dyer is discussing walk a line nearly as fine as this, and very similar in concept.
[2] The more people speaking the same language, regardless of why they are speaking it, the more common phrases will be introduced and re-included over time. So the fact that I have been drawn to a beach, or a run-down basement, or anything else for that matter, has a precedent set by hundreds or even thousands of others. All of us are speaking the same visual language, each with different dialects perhaps, and each using the same words and phrases to form our own statements.
[3] This idea of “the ruined” did not come from just one part of Dyer’s book, but resurfaces again and again. I therefore left out a specific page number, and rather just referenced his book on the whole.
[4] Weston tended to focus more on literal ruins when he was working on images of this type, but others, like Arbus, engage the concept in a less direct way. In a way, all of Arbus’s work had an underlying element of ruin coursing through it.
[5] In some small way, all photography is inherently at least mildly abstract. However true it may seem, it is never quite what it seems. Any given photograph is, at best, just a fraction of a moment in time that is highly manipulated by the image taker to convey what they want it to.
