We Are Open Now
How photography helps us notice, transforming what we see.
Jon Nicholls
A-level Photography
Thomas Tallis School
2021-22
A-level Photography
Thomas Tallis School
2021-22
What happens when we look at the world through a camera viewfinder or on a smartphone screen? How is this engagement with reality different to looking with our eyes? Now that nearly all of us carry a camera with us in our pockets all of the time, has the type and quality of our looking changed? Do we all now see the world as a set of potential photographs? And is what we ‘see’ conditioned by the images we have seen? In other words, are we looking for familiar pictures of the world, images we’ve seen before and which appeal to us, rather than passively taking in the world as it is?
These are big questions with multiple and complex answers. This personal investigation is an attempt to think about the way I see the world and the way this seeing is translated into photographs. I’m also interested in the way I look at other people’s photographs (and other types of images) and the way that this looking influences the photographs I make (Fig. 1). When I make a photograph, am I responding directly to the world or am I recognising (in the world) an image that I’ve already seen? Do I make photographs like the images I enjoy looking at, or do I like particular kinds of images because of the way I see the world and make photographs of it?
These are big questions with multiple and complex answers. This personal investigation is an attempt to think about the way I see the world and the way this seeing is translated into photographs. I’m also interested in the way I look at other people’s photographs (and other types of images) and the way that this looking influences the photographs I make (Fig. 1). When I make a photograph, am I responding directly to the world or am I recognising (in the world) an image that I’ve already seen? Do I make photographs like the images I enjoy looking at, or do I like particular kinds of images because of the way I see the world and make photographs of it?
I’m interested in the way that photographs contain more than we initially see at the moment they are made. The camera eye is indiscriminate. It sucks in all of the light bouncing off things in the world regardless of their size or significance. Human eyes are much more discriminating. We can’t possibly see everything in the fraction of a second in which most photographs are made. A photograph of the world contains information that we could not have seen when we looked at it with our eyes. When it is printed and/or displayed we might therefore see the scene afresh, notice things we had not previously seen. The photograph is its own world, different to the ‘real’ world and yet also part of it.
I am drawn to the kinds of photographs that attempt to describe the everyday, the mundane or what the French refer to as the quotidien. The writer George Perec urged people to pay attention to this reality (what he referred to as the ‘infra-ordinary’) in contrast to the “spectacular”:
I am drawn to the kinds of photographs that attempt to describe the everyday, the mundane or what the French refer to as the quotidien. The writer George Perec urged people to pay attention to this reality (what he referred to as the ‘infra-ordinary’) in contrast to the “spectacular”:
What we need to question is bricks, concrete, glass, our table manners, our utensils, our tools, the way we spend our time, our rhythms. To question that which seems to have ceased forever to astonish us [...] Describe your street. Describe another street. Compare. |
But does the ordinary become extraordinary when it has been noticed, and what happens to it when it has been photographed? Perhaps it’s best to begin by looking carefully at a favourite photograph.
This image, by the Italian photographer Guido Guidi, was taken with a cumbersome large format camera, the kind used by 19th century photographers to document sublime landscapes. It creates very detailed images. This is not a sublime landscape. Guidi has chosen to point the camera at an unremarkable corner of the world - a rendered wall, a patch of grass, two boarded up windows, a drainpipe, part of a leafless tree, a fence and a red oil drum. The word “FOTO” has been painted on the wall. Perhaps this is no ordinary house but the side of a suburban photography shop or studio. Is this a photography joke? A photo of a foto?
What at first appears to be a casually organised picture is, in fact, very tightly composed (Fig. 3):
What at first appears to be a casually organised picture is, in fact, very tightly composed (Fig. 3):
This suggests that Guidi spent a considerable amount of time choosing the precise arrangement of forms as they appeared to him (upside down) in the ground glass of his camera.
This picture reminds me of the famous extract from William Carlos Williams’ poem Paterson :
This picture reminds me of the famous extract from William Carlos Williams’ poem Paterson :
Before the grass is out the people are out
and bare twigs still whip the wind-- when there is nothing, in the pause between snow and grass in the parks and at the street ends —Say it, no ideas but in things-- nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained secret—into the body of the light-- |
Guidi is paying homage in this photograph to ordinary things, trusting them (like Williams) to contain ideas. But what ideas?
The house does seem to have a “blank face”. It’s eyes are closed behind grey shutters, sleeping perhaps. Its nose is red - too much red wine the night before or too cold in the leafless winter? The gentle humour of this image is made poignant by the wall, “creased, mottled, stained” and the stillness “when there is nothing”. This photograph describes a liminal space, an empty garden, a closed building, a dormant tree. And yet the picture also crackles with surface detail and everything is ‘seen’ in minute detail. The photographer has paid very close attention to something most of us would have ignored. We can imagine the time it would have taken him to stop the car, take out and set up the bulky camera and tripod, adjust the framing, assess the scene, check focus (as deep as possible), click the shutter release button, pack away the equipment. The fraction of a second of time that is contained in this single image implies a longer period of time spent arranging for the image to be made and, perhaps, an even longer period of time - a lifetime of looking and picture-making - that created the conditions for Guidi to understand that this unremarkable Italian backyard could become a photograph.
The house does seem to have a “blank face”. It’s eyes are closed behind grey shutters, sleeping perhaps. Its nose is red - too much red wine the night before or too cold in the leafless winter? The gentle humour of this image is made poignant by the wall, “creased, mottled, stained” and the stillness “when there is nothing”. This photograph describes a liminal space, an empty garden, a closed building, a dormant tree. And yet the picture also crackles with surface detail and everything is ‘seen’ in minute detail. The photographer has paid very close attention to something most of us would have ignored. We can imagine the time it would have taken him to stop the car, take out and set up the bulky camera and tripod, adjust the framing, assess the scene, check focus (as deep as possible), click the shutter release button, pack away the equipment. The fraction of a second of time that is contained in this single image implies a longer period of time spent arranging for the image to be made and, perhaps, an even longer period of time - a lifetime of looking and picture-making - that created the conditions for Guidi to understand that this unremarkable Italian backyard could become a photograph.
To remember is, more and more, not to recall a story but to be able to call up a picture. All photographs are monuments. If you photograph this cup on the table, for example, it gives it importance. And over time, photographs become more and more like monuments. |
What I love about photography is the way it helps me to pay attention to my surroundings. When I’m out walking with my camera, I look intently at the world around me, much to the annoyance of anyone who is with me. I am constantly scanning for possible photographs. What am I looking for?
Here is a recent picture of mine (Fig. 4), taken in the liminal space between the COVID-19 lockdown and gradual opening up of shops and schools in July 2021:
I saw this shop window, a local off-licence, on a walk in my neighbourhood. I immediately responded to the symmetry of the hand painted signs and deflated balloons, the limited palette of browns and blues and the message of hope after weeks of closure. A new beginning. My camera deliberately prevents me from easily previewing the pictures I’ve taken so, when I got home, I downloaded the images, did some minimal post-production in Lightroom and uploaded them to Flickr. My usual practice.
Recently, I decided to look again at my pictures taken over the last few weeks and months, trying to work out if there was a consistent theme that could inform my Personal Investigation. Looking again at this picture, I began to see other meanings. The assertive phrase “WE ARE OPEN NOW” is contradicted by the boarded up windows (presumably installed to discourage Lockdown looters). The shutters are raised but, frustratingly, we can’t see inside.
Here is a recent picture of mine (Fig. 4), taken in the liminal space between the COVID-19 lockdown and gradual opening up of shops and schools in July 2021:
I saw this shop window, a local off-licence, on a walk in my neighbourhood. I immediately responded to the symmetry of the hand painted signs and deflated balloons, the limited palette of browns and blues and the message of hope after weeks of closure. A new beginning. My camera deliberately prevents me from easily previewing the pictures I’ve taken so, when I got home, I downloaded the images, did some minimal post-production in Lightroom and uploaded them to Flickr. My usual practice.
Recently, I decided to look again at my pictures taken over the last few weeks and months, trying to work out if there was a consistent theme that could inform my Personal Investigation. Looking again at this picture, I began to see other meanings. The assertive phrase “WE ARE OPEN NOW” is contradicted by the boarded up windows (presumably installed to discourage Lockdown looters). The shutters are raised but, frustratingly, we can’t see inside.
The initial optimism of opening (mirroring the sense that the worst of the pandemic might be over along with the restrictions) may be wearing off, perhaps reflected in the deflated balloons. The shop began to look like a cartoon face with a couple of wide-open, staring eyes. A look of shock or surprise? Finally, the phrase on the two posters could be taken as an instruction to photographers everywhere. Like Guido Guidi, photographers need to be constantly vigilant, sensitive to their surroundings, living in the present moment and open to the possibilities of new pictures. Are we open? Now?
But how has my looking been influenced by the many pictures by other photographers that I have seen and admired? When I’m out with my camera, am I responding directly to the world around me or am I looking for pictures that I (subliminally) recognise?
Here are two examples of my images that I have paired with photographs by others (Figs 5 - 8). In each case, I did not consciously consider these or any other photographs as I was making my own.
This shop front (Fig. 5) had been boarded up with red painted sheets of plywood. Red is always seductive so I deliberately framed the image to include as much of it as possible, although I also enjoyed the vertical disruption of the window frame and spots of white tape and their shadows. It’s only just occurred to me (in writing this study) that an all-red photograph is always going to conjure up this most famous of colour photographs by William Eggleston (Fig. 6) - a kind of manifesto for the power of colour photography and dye transfer printing.
But how has my looking been influenced by the many pictures by other photographers that I have seen and admired? When I’m out with my camera, am I responding directly to the world around me or am I looking for pictures that I (subliminally) recognise?
Here are two examples of my images that I have paired with photographs by others (Figs 5 - 8). In each case, I did not consciously consider these or any other photographs as I was making my own.
This shop front (Fig. 5) had been boarded up with red painted sheets of plywood. Red is always seductive so I deliberately framed the image to include as much of it as possible, although I also enjoyed the vertical disruption of the window frame and spots of white tape and their shadows. It’s only just occurred to me (in writing this study) that an all-red photograph is always going to conjure up this most famous of colour photographs by William Eggleston (Fig. 6) - a kind of manifesto for the power of colour photography and dye transfer printing.
Here’s another example (Fig. 7). I’ve photographed this collection of buildings numerous times, usually from the other side. On this occasion, I was walking in a different direction than normal. It was a bright sunny day and I had a new 60mm lens on my camera. I hadn’t used it much so I was experimenting with the way it represents the world. I saw the painted-over bricks of the building, the steps and the patch of greenery. I could have crossed the road to get a clearer view but decided instead to include the telegraph pole, slightly out of focus at f/5.6. I liked the strong, vertical element cutting across the diagonal of the stairs and handrails.
Was I consciously thinking of Lee Friedlander’s many pictures disrupted by similar vertical elements, like this one (Fig. 8) taken in New Mexico? I don’t think so. At least I wasn’t thinking about a particular Friedlander image. But I can’t help thinking that this particular photographic problem (or opportunity) is so much a feature of his work that I must have had it in the back of my mind.
Was I consciously thinking of Lee Friedlander’s many pictures disrupted by similar vertical elements, like this one (Fig. 8) taken in New Mexico? I don’t think so. At least I wasn’t thinking about a particular Friedlander image. But I can’t help thinking that this particular photographic problem (or opportunity) is so much a feature of his work that I must have had it in the back of my mind.
Threshold Concept #4 (Fig. 8) explores the idea that photographs are the product of decisions about what to include and exclude. A photographer gazes at a world full of things and must choose where to stand, where to place the edge of the frame and when to click the shutter.
However, photographs transform what they record. More than this, they also transform the viewer’s understanding of what has been photographed.
Making a photograph might therefore reveal quite a lot about the visual lives of photographers, their motivations, interests. Memories, feelings and viewing histories. In pointing a camera at the world we are also holding a mirror up to ourselves. But how do photographs also transform the thing photographed?
Matt McCormick’s film The Subconscious Art of Graffiti Removal is a witty exploration of the relationship between a common feature of the urban landscape - the over-painting of graffiti - and modern art. In a spoof of the art documentary format, McCormick argues that those responsible for removing graffiti are creating works of art informed (subconsciously) by well-known artists like Mark Rothko and Kazimir Malevich. There are striking similarities between the different methods of over-painting graffiti and these artists’ work (Fig. 9):
Despite the comical tone of the film, McCormick’s argument suggests an idea developed by other contemporary artists - the ubiquitous, if subconscious, presence of human creativity.
Making a photograph might therefore reveal quite a lot about the visual lives of photographers, their motivations, interests. Memories, feelings and viewing histories. In pointing a camera at the world we are also holding a mirror up to ourselves. But how do photographs also transform the thing photographed?
Matt McCormick’s film The Subconscious Art of Graffiti Removal is a witty exploration of the relationship between a common feature of the urban landscape - the over-painting of graffiti - and modern art. In a spoof of the art documentary format, McCormick argues that those responsible for removing graffiti are creating works of art informed (subconsciously) by well-known artists like Mark Rothko and Kazimir Malevich. There are striking similarities between the different methods of over-painting graffiti and these artists’ work (Fig. 9):
Despite the comical tone of the film, McCormick’s argument suggests an idea developed by other contemporary artists - the ubiquitous, if subconscious, presence of human creativity.
Richard Wentworth’s photobook Making Do and Getting By documents “an excess – a creativity beyond necessary functionality, something transformative that lurks below the surface intention in acts of ordering and repair.” Wentworth uses photography to acknowledge the small acts of creativity and ingenuity practised by non-artists as part of their everyday lives. (Fig.10) These often inspire his more conscious sculptural works. Wentworth identifies a grey area in these images. Perhaps our need to be creative is so deeply ingrained that we simply can’t help expressing it in even the most mundane acts - mending, stacking, abandoning, leaning, organising etc.
There’s a gap between what we recognise as intended and what we dismiss as accidental. It’s an ambiguity I’m particularly drawn to.” |
Other artists, such as Nicky Hirst, Michael Wolf, Seth Lower and Gabriel Orozco, have noticed and photographed similar evidence of subconscious creativity (Figs. 11 to 14).
Nicky Hirst includes the following short text in her book it is something | it is nothing:
Nicky Hirst includes the following short text in her book it is something | it is nothing:
it is something, it is nothing
something about noticing and adapting something about relationships and poetry nothing about telling you stuff nothing for sure |
Photographs don’t tell us what to think. The images I enjoy looking at and making point to aspects of the visible world as if to say, “Here. Look at this. It’s worth your attention.” It’s up to me (or the viewer of my pictures) to respond, to take the time and to look carefully. This implies, of course, the freedom not to look.
Hirst identifies at least two forms of creativity in this text. First, there is the (subconscious) artistic gesture of the anonymous (and often collaborative) artist(s) who intervened in the public landscape. The agglomeration of discarded exhibition stickers on the pillar (Fig. 11) or the careful stack of plastic bins (Fig. 13) are good examples. Orozco’s Waiting Chairs (Fig. 14) is a document of the traces left on the wall of numerous sitters, sitting for hours outside what appears to be a municipal building. These phenomena are transformed from subconscious to conscious art by the noticing artist/photographer. Michael Wolf’s many photographs of Hong Kong (Fig. 12) document the way that people adapt to their environment, making do and getting by with whatever materials are to hand. These structures are not considered to be works of art by their creators but they can be transformed into a work of art by a purposeful artist/photographer who takes the time to document isolated gestures to form a coherent collection. Photography is the perfect method for this kind of visual anthropology.
In reflecting on my practice I have realised that what I choose to photograph is, in part, influenced by the images by other photographers I have seen and admired. These images have sensitised me to certain ways of looking and noticing, to a variety of visual strategies for organising the information that appears in my viewfinder. I’m also drawn to things that appear to be subconscious works of art and which I confirm as such in the act of photographing them (Figs. 15 & 16):
And yet the experience of making photographs is a way for me to engage more vividly with the world around me. Even though I may be subconsciously looking for things I know, or that appeal to me because they fit with a repertoire of objects and scenes that are strangely familiar, I’d like to think that I am also open to new formulations of these elements and to the surprise and delight that brings. The philosopher Henri Bergson thought that, in order to cope with the complexity of existence, most people experienced a kind of perceptual blindness and that the “individuality of things and people escapes us.”
How can our eyes be asked to see more than they see? Our attention may enhance precision, clarify and intensify; but it cannot bring out what was not there in the first place [...] In fact, for hundreds of years there have been people whose function was precisely to see and make us see what we do not naturally perceive. These are the artists. |
The chapter of Michael Foley’s book on Bergson, in which this quotation appears, could be the perfect subtitle for this Personal Investigation:
LEARNING TO KNOW WHAT
WE KNOW BUT DO NOT SEE THAT WE KNOW AND TO SEE WHAT WE SEE BUT DO NOT KNOW THAT WE SEE. |
(2791 words)
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
Dyer, Geoff The Street Philosophy of Garry Winogrand, University of Texas Press, 2018
Foley, Michael Life Lessons From Bergson, Macmillan, 2013
Guidi, Guido Veramente, Mack Books, 2014
Hirst, Nicky it is something | it is nothing, Another Place Press, 2016
Lehr, John The Island Position, Mack Books, 2019
Lower, Seth Units, Mack Books, 2019
McCormick Matt The Subconscious Art of Graffiti Removal, Rodeo Film Company (DVD) 2001
Mirzoeff, Nicholas, How To See The World, Pelican, 2015
Perec, Georges Species of Spaces and Other Pieces, Penguin, 2008
Wentworth, Richard Thinking Aloud, Hayward Gallery Publishing, 1999
Wentworth, Richard Making Do and Getting By, Koenig Books, 2016
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visual_anthropology
https://www.photopedagogy.com/threshold-concept-4.html
https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2018/nov/05/guido-guidi-interview-photographs-suburban-italy
https://philosophynow.org/issues/48/Henri_Bergson_and_the_Perception_of_Time
Foley, Michael Life Lessons From Bergson, Macmillan, 2013
Guidi, Guido Veramente, Mack Books, 2014
Hirst, Nicky it is something | it is nothing, Another Place Press, 2016
Lehr, John The Island Position, Mack Books, 2019
Lower, Seth Units, Mack Books, 2019
McCormick Matt The Subconscious Art of Graffiti Removal, Rodeo Film Company (DVD) 2001
Mirzoeff, Nicholas, How To See The World, Pelican, 2015
Perec, Georges Species of Spaces and Other Pieces, Penguin, 2008
Wentworth, Richard Thinking Aloud, Hayward Gallery Publishing, 1999
Wentworth, Richard Making Do and Getting By, Koenig Books, 2016
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visual_anthropology
https://www.photopedagogy.com/threshold-concept-4.html
https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2018/nov/05/guido-guidi-interview-photographs-suburban-italy
https://philosophynow.org/issues/48/Henri_Bergson_and_the_Perception_of_Time