Untitled (Single Man) © Frank Yamrus

At Length: You’ve been a producing artist for some 20 years, but it’s been 6 years since your last solo exhibition in New York. Why has it been so long?

Frank Yamrus: Yes, you are absolutely correct. My last one-person exhibition in New York, Bared & Bended, was a collection of 42 images—landscapes documenting my first and only winter in Provincetown on Cape Cod. These images were made in 2004 and at that time I was struggling with a personal relationship and starting to feel burnt out by my photography career. It seemed quite natural for me to seek refuge, in this place that I call my spiritual home, for contemplation.

Over the course of my winter on the Cape, I found great solace in this landscape, seemingly familiar but now blanketed by winter’s elements and surrounded by thick wintry light. After making this work, I put my camera down to reevaluate my career in photography. It was not until a couple years later that I felt the creative juices flowing, and again, it was a personal crisis—of sorts—and while in Provincetown, that inspired me to reach for my camera.

This six-year lapse reflects the time it took me to make this work and, to be quite honest, to feel comfortable with releasing this highly personal body of work to the public. Early in the process I showed some images to get feedback, but then went back to work very privately and quietly. I rarely shared any of these new images made after 2008. Last year, when Brian (Clamp) and I sat down to look at the work, he was surprised at the depth of the portfolio.

Untitled (Smoke) © Frank Yamrus

AL: It’s no secret that your newest body of work, I Feel Lucky, really results from—or at least was sparked by—a mid-life crisis. What role have the photographs performed, in the journey that you’ve made as you approached and passed the age of 50?

FY: As a photographer I don’t think I knew of another way to process this landmark event, so it was quite natural for me to reach for my camera and make these photographs. That very first impulse to take a picture felt unsurprisingly familiar and yet awkward, as I was not convinced I was ready to make work. However, once I made the first image, I was seduced, and the project began to slowly, but consistently, reveal itself. As I documented this journey, it gave me the opportunity to take another look at my life’s decisions and retrace my path to 50 as well as look beyond.

Initially, I made photographs about the “big” decisions, and some of those images feel appropriately iconic. As the project expanded, the “smaller” moments gave life to the narrative and helped me to see a more congruous life. Most of all, this process was empowering, as the images became cornerstones of my understanding, each image leading to another, creating dialogue to address the complexities of identity and life. Ultimately, I felt confidence and inspiration from these pictures and the response to this work has reinforced those emotions.

AL: Throughout the series, we witness the whole gamut of dispositions and emotions that you’ve experienced—humor, introspection, loss, joy, frustration, uncertainty, self-gratification, confidence—and yet, together, I Feel Lucky appears to be just a small glimpse of Frank Yamrus.

FR: Life is full and very complex. I agree this is but a glimpse of Frank Yamrus. Diane Arbus once said, “[a] photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.” I subscribe to this sentiment and my imagery is, and has always been, about process and not about resolution.

The I Feel Lucky images, individually and collectively, inform. They are the evidence of life’s full spectrum of offerings: my hopes and dreams, my joy and sorrows, my happiness and pain, etc. And in spite of the filters of time and memory, the human desire to fabricate and stretch reality, these images feel authentic, and provide clarity and insight. Surely they capture the essence of my identity but, by no means, reveal all my secrets or truths.

Untitled (Boo Boo) © Frank Yamrus

AL: Does this survey of feelings, then, suggest a lack of answers, a lack of catharsis in facing up to and surviving a questioning of identity? Or would you say they represent an acceptance or acknowledgment of who and where you are?

FR: This survey of feelings is the very foundation of self-identity, and does not represent a lack of answers at all. As my personal history played out before the camera, these were the very elements that were the most closely scrutinized. I found this process to be emotionally rigorous and intellectually challenging, but in the end, oddly comforting and extremely rewarding. One of the many beautiful things about age is wisdom, and this investigation certainly uncovered the wisdom I acquired over my life’s journey. I was not looking for “answers,” although that in itself may be “the” answer. Fundamentally, I was interested in the evolution of identity. For example, two of the images I made for this series, Untitled (Lucky) and Untitled (Fountain), explore my relationship with my history and, ultimately, my identity in Provincetown.

In Untitled (Lucky) I’m disguised behind my shirt—not wanting to be recognized and not wanting to tempt fate—in this land that I once called sacred, that was my altar as I processed the loss of many friends. Sometimes I do not recognize myself in this reverent landscape under any other circumstances. Other times, when the stars are properly aligned, I embrace the entirety of that history confidently. My face is unmasked in Untitled (Fountain), as I mischievously glance at the camera and brashly spit a fountain of salt water. Fully exposed to the summery sunshine and brilliant blue water, I playfully seize the spirit of Provincetown and stake out my future in this land that holds my past.

AL: Provincetown is clearly of pivotal importance in your life. Why?

FR: When I made those landscape photographs on the Cape in 2004 that I referred to earlier, I wrote an essay about Provincetown that feels true to this day. “Provincetown is my home—it is comfort food and my favorite reading chair. It is the smell of a newborn’s hair or that moment when you first wake up in the morning snuggled against your lover. It is the place that offers me the intangibles: security and happiness, as well as the place for discovery, development, and ultimately a source of inspiration. I have spent endless summers in Provincetown but it is not where I reside. It is home, the place I visit, physically or emotionally, when I need a fix.”

Untitled (Sunset) © Frank Yamrus

AL: You published the series as a book. Do you see this as the ideal way for an audience to engage with the photographs?

FR: There a few things that I love about the book format for this project. First and foremost, the privacy and intimacy the book offers for these portraits is undeniable.

AL: One aspect of the book which works really well is that the photographs don’t appear to be arranged chronologically. It’s difficult to tell which image was made first and which last!

FR: Generally speaking, books tend to lend themselves to a linear read, which was not appropriate for this collection of photographs. With the I Feel Lucky book, I purposely avoided employing a chronological sequence. I was interested in creating an experience that reflected my non-linear process of examining, or perhaps more accurately, re-examining, these pivotal decisions and moments in my life. The dialogue created by the placement of the images was rooted in visual elements rather than related issues, feelings or chronology. This telling of my story had no beginning, middle or end.

AL: And as photographs, they’re printed at what, these days, is considered small-scale—measuring 20 x 28 inches. What determined the scale?

FR: As we all know, size matters, and for this work, this issue of scale was a delicate balance. My gut reaction was to make small prints to keep with the notion of private moments. I’m a fan of small images, and love the physical act of walking up to an image in order to digest it. However, I usually experiment with image size, and as I scaled-up the images from 5 x 7 to 10 x 14 and then finally to 20 x 28, these images came alive: facial details, gestures and background information commanded attention.

Another consideration, of course, was how the photographs would work in a gallery. My goal was to create a group conversation with the images, and as visitors walk into ClampArt they can hear the internal dialogue. At least I can. Image size and the density of the installation contributed to this success. When I took the 20 x 28 prints to the gallery, I felt this size met this goal and was happy that I was not printing on a larger scale, which oftentimes demands more visual space between the images.

Untitled (Disappear) © Frank Yamrus

AL: It’s interesting, too, that in a number of the photographs you’re not alone. Different people come into the frame and you provide little indication of their place in your world.

FR: The importance of my relationships was integral in my understanding of self. Although I don’t identify the people in my pictures, they are truly part of my life—sometimes playing themselves and at times playing others.

Untitled (Disappear) was constructed around the notion of anticipatory loss. As Sunil Gupta writes in his essay Everyman: Frank Yamrus, “Untitled (Disappear) is chilling. It evokes an insoluble mystery, a doubt that will linger forever. The nocturnal blue and the closed eyes remind us of impending gloom. This is a moment of recognition that a shared intimacy is no more. The image is more a requiem of a relationship than an image of the relationship itself.”

I don’t believe you need to know that the model in bed with me is Larry—my long-term partner of more than thirty years—to understand the significance of this photograph. In Untitled (Red), Lucas, a new love, serves as my model, but the image is more about a disconnect—anonymous sex and fetishism—than about our relationship.

In Untitled (Brooke) and Untitled (Stone), my models allowed me to explore the notion of fatherhood and visualize myself in a role that feels so completely foreign to me. The comfort I needed to make these pictures feel real was dependent on my close relationships with these models.

Lastly, in his essay The Borrowed Mirror, Bill Hunt addresses an image of me and my dad and insightfully captures my use of others in these photographs. He says: “Untitled (Dad) combines the dimensions of reality and fantasy effectively. The figure in the snapshot is less important than our sense that Yamrus’ search for meaning is entirely framed in this mirror. It is an image of reflection, handsomely and thoughtfully composed.”

Untitled (Dad) © Frank Yamrus

AL: Those who have followed your career for some time will recognize in this body of work, references to earlier photographs. Was this something that you consciously sought out?

FR: Yes, one of the underlying relationships that exist throughout this series is my relationship to photography, and my own work became fodder for this series. Being a photographer is a crucial part of my identity, and quite naturally referencing my own images became part of this process.

For example, I spent eight years in the moors of Provincetown making work about the loss of many friends to HIV/AIDS. I played off those images, that time, and my relationship to Provincetown throughout this series. Untitled (Sandman) and Untitled (Cemetery) are two examples. This tribute not only reflects my deep fondness for this place but also the importance of that time in my life and its impact on my career.

Untitled (Sandman) © Frank Yamrus

AL: Some will argue that self-portraiture is generally understood as the domain of the female artist. As a male, do you bring something different and new to this genre? If so, what is it that?

FR: I believe this argument has strength if we look at the genre in more contemporary terms; however, now we must consider the recent proliferation of self-portraits created for social media and how these pictures are shaping the complexion of this debate. Who hasn’t taken one or a hundred pictures of themselves to post on Facebook? However, my intention was to jump into this conversation with the same brutal honestly and raw vulnerability that I’ve noted in self-portraits made by women photographers. Even though my series is a blend of documentary and fiction, reality and fantasy, there is no denying its candor, humor and honesty. For me, that is what feels fresh about this work.

AL: From the point of view of commerce, do you feel there’s a place in public/private collections for these images? What transition, as an artist, have you made by placing highly personal images into the public domain—by way of the book and an exhibition?

FR: A number of these images have found their way into public and private collections, so my answer is a resounding “yes.” Although these images represent personal moments, I believe they also have a universal appeal as evidenced by these acquisitions. I generally don’t think about commerce while I am making work. But once it’s done, the work needs to find an audience. Sometimes this task is more challenging than making the work itself!

With respect to transition, I’m not quite sure enough time has transpired for me to answer this question. Initially, as I stated earlier, I was a bit skeptical about putting these images on public view, but thus far, I’ve received tremendous support. For the most part, I’m objective about the images as single pieces, however, collectively, as a body of work, I’m still attached. Interestingly, this attachment does not feel any differently than it did with other bodies of work I’ve created. Perhaps in years to come, I may feel differently about putting my face, my body, my being on public view but it’s much too early to tell. Although this work feels complete, I’m certain I will add pieces here and there. Who knows, I may go through this process as I approach 60. Right now, I’m ready to move on.

Untitled (Chapstick) © Frank Yamrus

AL: You seem to have survived 50! Do you really feel lucky and what are you moving on to?

FR: I do feel lucky, grateful and at the moment tired. The exhibition preparation and book were very consuming over these past 18 months. Next, I Feel Lucky moves to the Albert Merola Gallery for an exhibition, which will feature the images made in Provincetown, to kick off their summer season on May 18th. After that, a well-deserved vacation, perhaps some romantic walks on the beach taking corny pictures of sunsets and if my luck holds out Penelope Umbrico will find these pics on Google and incorporate them into one of her typologies! As far as new work, I’m interested in exploring my new hometown, New York, and its people.

Frank Yamrus lives and works in New York. In February 2012, I Feel Lucky was a solo exhibition at ClampArt in New York City coinciding with the publication of the accompanying book. I Feel Lucky will next be exhibited at the Albert Merola Gallery in Provincetown, May 18–June 7, 2012.

Ethan Hill‘s portrait of W.M. Hunt © Ethan Hill

At Length: You’ve been collecting photographs for a long time. When did you realize you were a collector?

W.M. Hunt: It sneaks up on you. I didn’t set out to collect photographs. I bought one and found that to be a very intense experience because I didn’t really have any money. The whole thing seemed unreal. Why had I bought a photograph? It was an impetuous, daring action.

AL: It must be quite a thrill to have the exhibit for the Unseen Eye collection opening at the George Eastman House this month, as well as the book being released by three different publishers. Do you see it as a form of recognition, an endorsement of some kind?

WH: It is thrilling, and at the same time very dense, lush yet strained. There is a great deal of work, by me striving to place the work, of thinking in front of people and trying to keep that smart and varied. The notion of three different publishers is incredibly cool, and kind of slippery I think. As for it being a form of recognition, I will offer up the correspondence that Thomas Neurath—who runs Thames & Hudson, my primary publisher—sent to me, initiating the collaboration.

15 July 2005

Dear Mr. Hunt,
I was in Arles for a couple of days and of everything I saw there it was the presentation of your collection which impressed me most. I found it spell-binding and thought-provoking and on my return made enquiries about how I could contact you via my friend, Bill Ewing, who was kind enough to give me your email address. To come to the point immediately: would you ever contemplate working with us to fashion a book very much in the spirit of the Arles exhibition? I would be enormously pleased if your first response were positive and I am sure we could then figure out a way of exploring the notion even though you are in New York and we are here in London. You may not know a great deal about Thames & Hudson, but photography has been a mainstay of our list these last thirty years, and Bill Ewing and quite a few other people in your and his world would vouch for us, though quite often the books we undertake appear under imprints other than T&H in their American edition. Very much hoping to hear from you, I remain with kind regards and much admiration for the genial way you have fashioned something that goes far beyond the mere sum of its parts.

Sincerely yours,
Thomas Neurath, Chairman

That was so astonishing really–how many people get a solicitation like that? Plus, it was a validation (and vindication of sorts) for four decades of obsession. I have always had huge issues with my own sense of self esteem, and those have been resolved in many ways by my life in photographs. In my heart of hearts, I feel that I am modest and intimidated, although it seems that much of my life in photography is characterized by single-mindedness and forthrightness. Ironies abound!

The three covers for The Unseen Eye: Photographs from the Unconscious. From left to right: Thames and Hudson photograph by Lee Friedlander; Aperture photograph by Carrie Levy; Actes Sud photograph by Erwin Blumenfeld.

AL: You’ve mentioned in the book’s preface that the photographs in the collection are “all portraits of me.” Could you elaborate on that?

WH: I make the point that early on I had an epiphany one night when I was looking at the dozen or so pictures in my apartment. I was in analysis, I did the dream thing in which you are all the characters, and, hey, the pictures were all me. At first I was mortified, because I thought that anyone walking into my apartment would know everything about me. Of course, the reality of that is that people would ask if I was a photographer. People don’t want to see.

AL: What comes to mind is that the book is akin to the cabinet of curiosities that aristocrats would display in their homes after their grand tours.

WH: I think of it more as bringing home magical things to insulate myself from the world. My early talks about collecting were called The Walls of the Dancing Bear or $#*! I Dragged Home. There is a lot of voodoo and juju connected to collecting. Two of my favorite museum rooms are the André Breton library wall installed in the Pompidou in Paris and the extraordinary surrealist Kunstkammer or Wunderkammer at The Menil in Houston. That whole place is like an oasis for your soul.

AL: What sort of “voodoo and juju” have you encountered through your collecting?

WH: I mean that I have encountered crazy stuff that seems to have miraculously presented itself to me. An image like the Alinari [Hooded performer on wire, 19th c.] is a unique jewel, and I swear it was as if it was shining in my eye across a room—it was meant to be. That has happened many, many times.

Elinor Carucci, Sleep (Eran’s Back), 1998 © Elinor Carucci

AL: When considering the proverb “the eyes are the windows to the soul,” it’s quite haunting not being able to see through the window.

WH: This doesn’t respond to that directly, but a part of collecting is like listening for the Geiger counter to go off. I have stood in stands at art fairs sensing that something was there to see. It isn’t that uncanny when it most often reflects that a dealer has taste and eye that resonates with mine. Think of the windows of the soul as doorways or entrances, invitations to use your mind’s eye to see. It is the power of your imagination taking you to a personal place and making the piece specific for you.

AL: “Delight in photography for me is the unique sensation of encountering a great image for the first time. My eye fills and my heart sings, and with the best ones, it happens over and over.” Is this experience becoming rarer?

WH: It was always rare. Greatness is special. There is a sea of good work out there, but the great stuff is hard to find. But when it happens, Zowie! I make my students locate and write about 25 great yet unknown photographs, at the end of their first semester. Last year two kids picked the same Roger Ballen image, and I just danced around with it because it was soooooo good. It was good because it broke lots of rules for me in its structure. Talent is amazing. I accept that most everything in museums and galleries is OK, and that I shouldn’t burden myself with imagining that everything is great, because it’s not—it isn’t. Don’t kid yourself. But then every so often …. I describe collecting as running around in a thunderstorm praying that you’ll be hit by lightning.

AL: Currently there are so many ways to acquire works—via galleries, auctions, online and directly from artists. What advice do you give to the novice collector in navigating the marketplace?

WH: Commit! Buy the fucking thing and keep moving. Look, react, COMMIT! Keep breathing.

Frank Yamrus, Untitled (Paul), from Rapture, 1999 © Frank Yamrus

AL: Most of the images that represent your collection in the book are black and white. Is this because you seek black and white photographs, or are they the ones that usually make your heart sing.

WH: There is no good reason. Part of it is that my taste is very formal and restrained, at least graphically. Color work gets bogged down by its informational component. I like Alex Webb because he works and sees beyond that. It is harder for me to respond to Martin Parr, for instance—it doesn’t transcend its report. I get that work, but I never needed to own it. I was looking at a National Geographic book of so-called beautiful pictures at a friend’s house, someone who has fallen in love with photography and who imagines that I think his taste is crap. Everyone is entitled to their own way of seeing, but I do not subscribe to the notion that most stuff is good—it’s average. As a mean ol’ crack ‘ho, “I want good shit.” All those color pictures of sharks in a frenzy make for a dramatic tale—full of energy, color and INFORMATION—but my boat may remain unfloated, safe from their snapping jaws. Treasure the experience of that image that sends you reeling.

AL: One of the things we enjoyed most about your book is the journey that you take us on through the photographs. The magic is infectious and the ride wonderful.

WH: “Thank you,” says the crack ‘ho. “Just leave the money on the bureau.”

Frederic Weber, Untitled No. 77, 1995 © Frederic Weber

AL: Then, every now and again, an image is revealed that is rather more confrontational or difficult. Did you organize the book to keep readers on their toes?

WH: I will give credit to Mark Holborn, a well established book designer in London, who did the initial edit. He suggested that there was an operatic arc to the material, birth to death basically to infinity. That said, I found his actual layout to be deadly, with everything treated like a heavy-weight jewel—leaden. It had no music, no jazz. Ironically his son, Jesse—whom I have yet to meet—ended up doing the design. But the final edit, sequencing and flow are completely the work of Connie Kaine, longtime art director at Thames & Hudson, and me. We took Mark’s stolid edit and literally tore it apart but worked with that arc. He found the end note of transcendence, and that is where the book is headed all along. I am proudest of the sequencing, because I think the viewer moves through it trusting the journey. As an editor, I behaved as a spirit guide. I say in the preface to the book that it is like a dream, and I believe we found that. The liberating quality of a dream is that it doesn’t have to make literal sense. It’s an invitation into my head, so go with it. Also, you know that I am a very provocative individual. I want people to react! To the book, to the exhibition, to me! Étonne-moi!

AL: You have said that the decisive moment is as much for the viewer of photographs as it is for the photographer. What is that moment for you?

WH: John Szarkowski maintains that the only element of time to consider in photography is the moment the shutter clicks. That is the big moment. I think this disregards the equally unique and powerful instant when the viewer meets the image for the first time. Wham! I am interested in audiences. So much of art consideration seems to step past the notion of how something plays on the viewer. The part of me that loves the theater insists on that in visual art. Otherwise it is masturbation, which is great, but not the only or best game in town.

Debbie Fleming Caffrey, Untitled (Pattonville, LA, Child Covered with Blanket), 1970s © Debbie Fleming Caffrey

AL: Do you have to experience that moment to purchase a photograph or are there images that take a little longer for you to appreciate them?

WH: Overwhelmingly, I want that moment. The times I have talked myself into something have proved unsatisfactory. The moment can be drawn out over time, when you fall in love with a talent but don’t see the photograph yet. Sometimes you have to stay tuned. Look at F.A. Rinehart’s Shot in the Eye. I had seen platinum portraits of Native Americans, by an artist who was not Edward Curtis—that alone was news. I thought the work was splendid and overlooked in the marketplace, but because they were conventional open eyed portraits—not going to happen. Then one day…. Fabulous.

Also, I encourage collectors to recognize their taste so that they can communicate it to others, but to always challenge it. At some point, I consciously sat down and looked at landscape photography, because I never paid attention to it. I had seen work by Mark Klett and thought that he was really smart, that he had some sort of existential take on seeing. If you keep looking, one day you find that your instincts were totally on the money. Imagine finding a gem like A portrait of the Artist atop a small hill on his 30th Birthday, a self portrait of an individual—an artist(!)—silhouetted on a perfect hill. Great photograph.

AL: We love the Neil Winokur portraits of yourself and Chip that are included in the collection. Tell us a little more about them. Did you have them specially commissioned for your collection? The image of you is quite mischievous and fun!

WM: I always liked Neil’s work. Also, part of it is that I love Janet Borden. She is so, so smart and alive. I pay attention to her. She has been so committed to her artists, and I find that vision to be galvanizing. So, the commission actually includes three portraits: me, my partner Chip, and our-then neighbor, Mary Anne—whom we called our wife-in-law, because it was one of those perfect next door situations. We did the three and put them by the elevator. I put Chip and Mary Anne’s portraits in the absolute center of the exhibition in Rochester. They will completely freak out because they are both very modest. Again, that is me being a noodge.

In the portrait of me, there is the red background—my choice—and a bubble of spit on my lips from licking them. Also, the print has a halo over my head. It is very special to me. But you notice in the book that I am vague about who it is. There is another completely transgressive portrait of me by Gerald Slota in the book, but since no one recognizes it as me, no one comments. Gerald and I have collaborated on a new image, riding on Carrie Levy’s cover image on the book. I wanted something to brand the performance piece I am doing at Aperture on October 28th and this is just right. It is rude, funny, and a little naked.

Gerald Slota and W.M. Hunt’s collaborative riff on Carrie Levy‘s cover photograph © Gerald Slota

AL: What is the pattern of your acquisitions? Do you purchase works as a result of encountering them unexpectedly, or do you consciously seek them out?

WH: Hmmm. One thing to bear in mind is that I am not really collecting anymore, as I indicate in the book. I worked out something for myself psychologically—over 40 years of collecting—and I am no longer driven to collect as I did. That said, I always made myself available as a collector. I was always open to seeing, reacting. I am still that guy, although now I don’t need to OWN them. The covetous part is resolved. I like the Joel-Peter Witkin line that I cite in the book, “The photograph is out there, you just have to find it!” Collecting is like walking around with your antenna wired for action.

AL: Your collecting interest is well known. Do you find that photographers/dealers are increasingly contacting you with suggestions of work you should look at?

WH: I get approached much less often than you would imagine. Approaching a potential client is an act of seduction I believe, and most people give up right away. Like in life, that’s not the way to be successful. People don’t listen to how others respond. Think romance, not seven minutes of carnal takedown. When I talk about portfolio reviews with artists, I encourage them to consider those 20 minutes as the meeting, the flirtation, and the taste of more to come—not the marriage.

AL: For 15 years you worked as a dealer—first with Ricco/Maresca and then Hasted Hunt (more recently Hasted Hunt Kraeutler). Has this experience influenced your collecting habits at all or how you relate to photographs more generally?

WH: One big difference was liking and respecting talent that I did not need to collect, but whom I felt I could talk about and present. You really do want to LOVE what you have in your inventory—at least I felt this way—so you could talk about it with conviction. As you know, dealing is a lot of work.

AL: Do you think upcoming dealers benefit from building their own collections? Would you advise them to do so?

WH: Sure. Many dealers were collectors before they became dealers, so they have feelings about and insights into collecting. Collecting is so personal—or at least what I consider to be good collecting is—that I can’t imagine another way into it. I am sure it happens, but it isn’t my experience so I can’t relate to it.

Gerald Slota, Untitled (Head No. 1, Freckled Boy), 1996 © Gerald Slota

AL: We’re often asked how to start a collection. Do you think it’s important to consciously purchase images that fit into some kind of parameter? Or do you think it’s a more organic process?

WH: I don’t know. It is hard to persuade someone to collect. A couple of acquisitions, sure, that is not so hard, that’s just advice. “I think this is a good one.” I will say that, as a dealer, I always offered my own opinion. “For ME, this is the best one and here’s why.… Now what do YOU think?” Talking someone into something is a waste of everyone’s time and energy. Also, I always found it hysterical when a client would say that they had to talk to their husband. I always wanted to pull out my phone and get them on the line. As a dealer, I was not blessed with patience.

AL: There are some very difficult images in your collection, which include Richard Drew’s image of the falling man from 9/11 and Thomas Howard’s infamous and historically important photograph of the execution of Ruth Snyder. What’s the importance of such imagery to you as a collector?

WH: I try to downplay their importance and to place the images in the larger context of the whole collection. The reasons why the images are iconic have to do with many things like timing, framing, seeing. They are not more important than other works in the collection, although presenting them involves some extra considerations, because they violate the sensibilities of many people and I don’t want to brutalize visitors to the book or to a show. Actually, I wouldn’t hang them in my home. As a collector, I want to have them, but I don’t need to see them—I know where they are.

AL: The range of photography in The Unseen Eye is quite remarkable. There are images from luminaries such as Henri Cartier-Bresson, Harry Callahan and Diane Arbus to contemporary practitioners like Bill Armstrong and Amanda Means—as well as works by unknown photographers and vernacular works. What are your thoughts on the collecting of works by unknown photographers and vernacular works? Ultimately, does it make a difference to you?

WH: Absolutely. What distinguishes this collection is its inclusiveness. It is the history of photography considered through a very specific sensibility—mine. The urgency of collecting most often outpaces the availability to pay for it, so there was relief in finding inexpensive and amazing stuff. I even bought frames when I was out of money, in the hopes that the elves of photography would break in and fill the frames with beauties. It never happened…. Also, there are probably a dozen photographs in the collection that I have NO IDEA of where they came from.

Phyllis Galembo, Omolu, Brazil, 1987 © Phyllis Galembo

AL: Are you planning on bringing some of your other collections to the public eye?

WH: There is another collection of images of American Groups before 1950 that those elves I just mentioned really did hide under my bed. As you know, the Houston Center for Photography hosted an exhibition last year. I will do something more with that in time. Also, the vernacular work in the no eyes collection will find a separate life.

AL: The images of American Groups are often really quite amusing to look at. We have a few cherished group photos from our past—swim team, high school graduation—that never see the light of day. The images in that collection are anonymous, formal and displaying pomp and circumstance. What’s your connection to the imagery?

WH: There are also many groups that are chaotic. I like the opposite end of the spectrum just as much, those images are, in fact, harder to find. There are a couple of elements which interest me: how the crowd itself behaves—orderly or a mob—and then how the photographer chose to see it, to frame it, to capture the crowd within the shot. These images don’t suggest much of a personal reading in the way they do in the collection featured in the book. Right brain versus left brain maybe.

AL: What’s next for you? Is your collection complete?

WH: James Bond, “Never say never.” It has been very, very difficult for me since I left my gallery situation. I have projects that I am not so public about, but they are photographic and collaborative. My success as a collector, and as a dealer and strategist, is based on showing up as much as anything else, and that continues to lead me into a very full and exciting life.

W.M. Hunt (Bill Hunt) is a New York-based collector, curator and consultant, a champion of photography. He is responsible for introducing many major contemporary artists in the US, including Luc Delahaye, Julian Faulhaber, Andreas Gefeller, Erwin Olaf, Martin Schoeller, and Paolo Ventura, among others. His Collection Dancing Bear is the subject of a new book, to be published this fall as The Unseen Eye: Photographs from the Unconscious by Thames & Hudson (UK) and Aperture (US) and as L’Oeil Invisible by Actes Sud (France). Highlights of the collection have been exhibited in Arles, Lausanne and Amsterdam and will go on view at the George Eastman House in October, 2011. He was one of the principles in Hasted Hunt (more recently Hasted Hunt Kraeutler) and Ricco/Maresca Gallery.

Wish, 2005 from the Snowbound series. © Lisa M. Robinson

At Length: Your first major body of work Snowbound, was a huge success!

Lisa M. Robinson: I imagine that it’s every artist’s dream to commit themselves fully to a body of work that is then received with great enthusiasm. Snowbound was a series that I worked on for five years and came to fruition as my first published book. The process of making the images, listening to them, and manifesting them in meaningful ways offered up so many gifts. I tried to remain committed to the work, above all else, and found that It has been so gratifying to see this body of work resonate for others. I never could have anticipated the breadth of the audience it has found.

Solstice, 2007, from the Snowbound series. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: How difficult was it to follow on from that and begin a new series of photographs?

LMR: I knew that Snowbound was complete when I made the last image in the book—”Solstice” is this wonderful counterpoint to “Wish,” the cover image. There is a space that I was able to get into, a space in my head, in the world, and in my photographs, that seemed to exist of connections between these realms. My ideas and my experiences were revealing themselves in the images. This kind of awareness is a wonderful thing, when you are simultaneously aware and open, but it develops after one has been at it for a while.

For me, the hardest part about starting a new series was going back to the beginning stage of uncertainty and doubt and naïveté. Experience can tarnish one’s innocence, compelling one to know something before it is knowable. I had thought that my next series would explore the desert, because I was relocating to Arizona, and it simply made sense. I became quickly frustrated, though, because all of the images I made were head images. I didn’t have a connection to this new landscape, so my images seemed to skim a surface.

I decided to put my camera aside for awhile and began to draw and paint for the first time in years. But the camera still beckoned. Finally, I gave in to my instinct, which was to return to the water. I fought it for a while, because traveling to make work can be quite exhausting. Ultimately, I simply had to accept that I can’t control what moves me.

Ascension, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: In many ways, Oceana might be seen as a sequel to Snowbound. What would you say are the conceptual connections?

LMR: Somewhere in the middle of making Snowbound, I realized that I was drawn to ideas of transition and evolution. I think this concept of life as a constantly evolving force continues in Oceana, but on a more essential level. As Snowbound progressed, the human element began to be subtly embedded in the natural world.

In Oceana, I am the human presence, observing the elemental world around me. I am fascinated by the ebb and flow of the tides, and the shifting accumulations of ice at the edges of a frozen lake. Witness to minute evolutionary change, I am easily mesmerized by these rhythms of natural time.

AL: How does your work visualize those connections?

LMR: Just as the ideas themselves seem more elemental, so too are the images more distilled. I’ve reduced the subject matter to the basic elements—water, air, and in some cases, bits of land. I’ve tried to show the state of changes that occur in the natural world through the image-making process, suggesting the passage of time or the transition from water to air.

Etching, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: So, your working method has altered in some way and you seem to have re-positioned yourself in terms of a personal authorship?

LMR: With the Snowbound images, I relied heavily on the convergence of multiple elements that then defined a sort of “decisive moment,” despite the seeming absence of activity—flat, diffuse light, freshly fallen snow, physical structures or remains that commented on human activity within the winter landscape. The images themselves were constructed as a drawing or painting might be; the snow acting as a blank canvas upon which the world left its mark.

With Oceana, I am again exploring the fundamental elements of the photograph while embracing a painterly aesthetic, but the very components of light and time are integrated into the making of the image. Of course, that is the case with any photograph. But in many of these images, especially the ones with moving water, I am less interested in stopping time than in evoking its very erratic nature. To do so, I build the image slowly by utilizing time and exposure to capture the movement of water over time and space. There is an ephemeral quality to the resulting images. They seem to come into greater focus the further back you stand, like a pointillist painting or a panoramic vista.

Flow, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: Would you say this has been a turning point or, in other words, a development in your creative practice as an artist? The photographs that make up Oceana convey a different kind of confidence and maturity. Do you feel more confident as an artist than, say, when you completed Snowbound?

LMR: I think the very process of making work allows one to go deeper and deeper into a creative space. Part of that world is in one’s own head. The Snowbound work allowed me to navigate unfamiliar territory as an artist, as I challenged myself to distill ideas into images as the work progressed. It taught me the importance of using my intuition as a guide while still remaining highly engaged intellectually.

With Oceana, I trust that what I see or feel is in the image, and that reduction is the passageway to the universal. There is less of an externalized search going on, and a much more internal inquiry.

Apparition, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: One of the constants in your work is the use of 5“ x 4“ sheet film.

LMR: It’s important to me that these images are still recognizable as photographs, that they are interpretive expressions rooted in the real world. I work with film and a large format camera as a way of embracing the full photographic process; from the methodical ritual of exposing film to the mystery of the latent image. There is a quality of light on film that I haven’t found digitally. I’m not opposed to digital images, not at all. But right now, I’m more interested in exploring new expressions with familiar tools rather than entering unknown territory. If I wanted to do that, I would probably go back to painting.

AL: It’s interesting that the new work, although slightly larger, is similar in scale to your previous work. You haven’t taken the route of many artists by making the photographs available in different sizes and editions. How important is this to you?

LMR: I certainly toyed with the idea of different sizes of prints when I began Snowbound and even made some. But I soon realized that I want the viewer to enter the space of the photograph and make an internal connection with the physical world. With Oceana, this realm is immediately recognizable—we have all stood at the edge of the ocean. But something else happens here, and the larger scaled image allows one to teeter at that edge. When making prints, I think about this kind of experience the viewer may have. I want to find that balance between an intimate encounter and an epic kind of awe.

Surge, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: When you’re determining the scale of your photographs, do you think of the photograph as more than an image. For example, as an artifact—an object?

LMR: Absolutely. Perhaps it is most accurate to say that I think of my photographs akin to painting or sculpture. I remember once referring to my photographs as “pieces,” and a friend (another photographer) asked me why I didn’t call them photographs. Yes, they are photographs, I replied. But they are MORE than photographs, as well. That is not to say that the photograph is not sufficient. Rather, it is to say that the photograph is, at its best, a form of art.

AL: Oceana was three years in the making.

LMR: It took quite a while for the ideas and images for Oceana to emerge. While hindsight allows for a linear perspective, the reality of making new work is anything but that. It is a bit like feeling the ground with the tip of a cane—navigating without clarity. I have learned over time that images don’t lie, and that I work best from an internal place. Let’s just say that I made a lot of images that didn’t resonate for me and that I thought were about something else entirely.

Mesmory, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: You recently relocated to Arizona, and yet Oceana is coastal. Do you think the immediate surroundings of where you live have an impact on your arts practice?

LMR: Before I officially relocated to Arizona, I entertained the romantic notion that the desert would be my muse. Then reality struck and I simply couldn’t access this strange and relentless land. The water kept pulling me back, so I finally acquiesced. In doing so, I thought that I was giving up the challenge of the desert. I have since learned, however, that Oceana is leading me back here, to a better understanding and appreciation of the surrounding landscape.

AL: And yet, you continue to work with the same printer, who is based in New York?

LMR: I miss many things about New York. Next to food delivery, I am most nostalgic about making my own digital c-prints. My printer is a gift, allowing me to manifest my images from a distance.

AL: How would you describe your creative relationship with your printer?

LMR: I think of my printer as an enabler, in the best sense of the word. He is so sensitive to the subtleties of my work and is extremely patient with me as I guide images through various stages of being. He brings a level of expertise to the table that I constantly learn from, as well.

AL: How do you manage this and does it work?

Climax, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

LMR: Two words—Federal Express. It works as well as it can, given the circumstances. I would still prefer to be in New York to streamline the process, but I feel fortunate to have this long distance relationship.

AL: When you were completing the Snowbound series, the two additional challenges at that time were gaining gallery representation—at least an exhibition—and a book deal with a publisher, both of which you achieved with what seems now like perfect timing.

LMR: For a long time, I thought of it as this elusive dance. Every publisher I approached wanted to know which gallery represented me, and galleries I approached wanted to know if I had a book. While frustrating, it made me more determined to make the right choices for Snowbound when opportunities did begin to present themselves. I made certain that I was fully prepared for what I wanted and trusted my gut when entering relationships with gallerists and publishers. Throughout the process of making the work, I shared it with many people. By the time it was fully resolved, the appropriate doors opened.

Elegy, 2010, from Oceana. © Lisa M. Robinson

AL: There’s a good level of anticipation from fans and collectors of your work. Are you nervous or excited about your upcoming exhibition?

LMR: I’m extremely excited about the upcoming exhibition. So many of these images struck a chord with me when I first saw them on film and are breathtaking as prints. I hope that others see what I see.

AL: What’s next?

LMR: That darned desert.

Lisa M. Robinson lives and works in Tucson, Arizona. Oceana is premiered at the Klompching Gallery in New York, the exhibit is on view April 27—June 10, 2011 and will then go on to be shown in Hong Kong.

At Length: In the Introduction of Auto Focus: The Self Portrait in Contemporary Photography, you have charted a historical overview of photographic self-portraiture. You make connections to social/political contexts, as well as those of art movements more generally. How does this ‘setting the scene’ relate to the choices of images that appear in the book later on?

Susan Bright: Putting together a book is a rather weird and wonderful experience. You have to keep in mind your readers at all times. If I want to introduce some artists that might be challenging in some ways, then the groundwork and the history has to be laid out. I feel quite passionately about this. You, I and the readers of this interview are probably all quite sophisticated visual people, who are aware of the history of self-portraiture, but I want my books to be read by a wide audience, and that includes people who may not be. I want to be accessible. Also, when you are presenting contemporary work it has fascinating connections with older work and those are always worth highlighting.

AL: The book is broken up into five chapters—“Autobiography,” “Body,” “Masquerade,” “Studio & Album” and “Performance.” How did you determine which photographs slotted into which chapter, considering that by its very nature, self-portraiture crosses boundaries? Are you identifying these as areas of creative demarcation or are they more of a device for organizing the book into some form of logic?

SB: I was given complete free reign in how to structure the book and the chapters happened by looking at A LOT of work. I began to edit photographs into groups where I saw similar things happening or approaches that related to one another. Many of them are not a million miles away from what we have traditionally thought of as ‘typical’ self-portraits. I am thinking of the “Autobiography” chapter here, for example. However, I did want to show that autobiography does not just mean diaristic and that terms like memoir and fiction can play an important role in it. So, I guess in that respect I am updating how that specific type of portraiture is thought of.

What I found interesting was the amount of work made around the family album and in the studio. This is not surprising I guess—as the family album is in such a state of flux, so people are turning to it more than ever to examine their place in it before it disappears forever onto a Facebook (or similar) page. My parents always kept a family album but I don’t…. I guess many of the artists are grappling with that and are turning to their family albums as revered and nostalgic objects. The work made in the studio seemed to be a nice counterpoint to that.

I also wanted to highlight Performed Photography and not just Performance. There isn’t a huge amount written about Performed Photography, and British artists like Paul+A are doing really interesting things. They are not simply documentations of performances but something more intricate and interesting, where the act of taking a photograph during the performance is essential to the outcome.

So to answer your question, I guess the chapters were a way of organizing the book into some kind of logic, but they came about through creative demarcation.

Christian Thompson, Blackgum-2, 2007. Courtesy Christian Thompson and Gallery Gabrielle Pizzi, Melbourne, Australia.

AL: In the book, you feature “seventy-five of the world’s foremost contemporary photographers.” It’s refreshing to see that you haven’t selected the ‘usual suspects.’ How did you choose the photographers and what makes them the “world’s foremost”

SB: The “world’s foremost” is marketing speak! I didn’t write it. I would not describe the artists and photographers I have chosen like that, but do see the importance of doing so. Book publishing is a commercial business and it’s back to audiences. If somebody who is not familiar with art photography but was intrigued by the cover and the subject matter picked up the book and it didn’t have such a hyperbolic statement would they be less tempted to buy it? Probably.

Choosing the photographers was the most thrilling part of the process—and the most time consuming. From the start I absolutely did not want to make a book with the ‘usual suspects.’  I had seen a lot of work by photographers who were not well known and I wanted to include them as I genuinely felt they had something interesting to say. Whether they were famous or not was irrelevant to me.  If the work was good it would make the cut. I also wanted to make the book as international as possible, so I put out calls to curators, editors, photographers, artists, gallerists and anyone I knew who worked in the creative industries around the world. I also contacted people I didn’t know to ask them if they could suggest people. It’s impossible to know what is happening everywhere in the world and I am so enormously grateful to those who got back to me and helped me. I learned a lot and became aware of many photographers that I didn’t know about before. From this initial gathering I edited and re-edited until it made sense as a book.

It’s worth mentioning here that the editing process for a book can be quite brutal and an artist can come to stand for a style. For example, in a book you don’t want too many artists working in a particular way as that would not make for at the most interesting book, so some photographers didn’t make it in because of the constrictions of making a book. That does not mean to say that I don’t think their work is good enough. Like I said… it’s brutal.

AL: Out of the seventy-five photographers you’ve profiled, who would you identify as being particularly important within fine art photography?

SB: Many of them are for very different reasons. The more established artists like Erwin Wurm, Nan Goldin, Martin Parr, Boris Mikhailov, Gillian Wearing and Joan Fontcuerta not only continue to make interesting work but are inspirational to younger photographers and artists and are therefore very important within fine art photography.

It was really interesting asking the photographers who they found inspiring and influential. The people they came up with varied enormously and included Elina Brotherus, Collier Schorr, Roni Horn, Sam Taylor-Wood, Duane Michaels. I found that perhaps two of the most well known self-portraitists—Cindy Sherman and John Coplans—were not mentioned so readily. I think their influence probably goes without saying.

Zhang Huan, Homeland. © Zhang Huan.

AL: What research methods did you use to find the photographers and how did they make the cut?

SB: I think I have answered this above, but to elaborate further. I would contact each photographer directly, introduce myself and tell them about the project. I would usually have a body of work in mind that I wanted to include but there were (many) times when I didn’t know all of their work or they might have new work they were working on and hadn’t been shown before. Through a series of emails we would come to agreement about what work would be included. It’s also worth mentioning here that this is a design lead book rather than a text lead book, so the designer (Anna Perotti, at Thames & Hudson) also had a say in the final edits as she was laying out the pages. She would send me page by page and I would comment. It was a very collaborative process and one I enjoyed enormously. Writing can be a pretty lonely existence so to work with others, hear their opinions, argue your side and just generally talk about photography with people is always good. I formed a great many friendships with the photographers in this book—more than any other project I have worked on. I think it was the subject matter—it allowed both of us to be very open with one another.

Perhaps this is a little oblique, but I think its worth mentioning. I did the majority of this book whilst I was either heavily pregnant or with a young baby. During this time my sense of self was hugely shifting (literally!), and the book became not only an intellectual exercise but one that was essential to me as a person. This is the first time this really has happened, and I made a decision that any large project I work on from now on has to resonate with me in a similar way. I was 100% invested researching and articulating issues of the self.

Patrick Tsai and Madi Ju, Untitled, ‘Tibet/Nepal,’ Nepal, 2006, from My Little Dead Dick. © Patrick Tsai and Madi Ju.

AL: We’re curious to know if you’ve seen any of the original photographs, or if your choice of images was based purely upon digital renderings? Do you think the method of viewing the photographs, within the context a book edit, is important?

SB: I am very old school and I prefer to see prints. I have just done a quick inventory through the book, and I experienced 4 photographers’ work through prints in the introduction (either through gallery visits, studio visits, museum and archive visits or having worked with them in exhibitions) and in the body of the book 30. Many of them I experienced through books and the rest on the web. Remember that a couple of photographers in the book (My Little Dead Dick and Jeff Harris) don’t have prints and their work is web based. It’s an interesting question and I see more and more on the web. There are some artists in the book where I have never seen their prints. That’s because they either live on the other side of the world or have not had a book published or not had an exhibition that I can easily get too. Everyone likes to moan about looking at photographs on the web, but I would never have been able to include many of the photographers I did without it. I think in some instances it’s crucial to see the print, but not always.

When I am writing an essay in a monograph for a photographer, I always ask for prints to borrow whilst I am writing. Some think I am mad. It’s expensive for them to print up and send a set. I do understand that, but I like to spend time with prints and edit them and have them to hand when I write. This is a luxury, I know, and one that is disappearing.

Anas Al-Shaikh, Memory of Memories 1, 2001. 
Courtesy Anas Al-Shaikh.

AL: We believe the book was a good five years in the making. Can you talk about this and how it impacted the final product?

SB: I was first approached to do this book shortly after Art Photography Now came out, so probably in the beginning of 2006. This coincided exactly with me being commissioned to curate Face of Fashion at the National Portrait Gallery (London) and co-curate How We Are: Photographing Britain with Val Williams at Tate Britain. It was impossible to work on all three projects simultaneously, so the book commission went on hold and I was officially commissioned at the end of 2007. As mentioned I then had a baby so it went on hold again whilst I was on maternity leave. So between these hiatuses I guess the time did add up. During the time I was working on the other projects it was sitting in the back of my brain and I was gathering images and articles as I came across them and storing them for use when the time came.

A book of this scale typically takes 2 years from being commissioned to publication. That is the publisher’s time scale and one I am very comfortable working within.

The time it took allowed me lots of time to think about it, which was great.

AL: There’s a lot of discussion right now about the state of curating, indeed, questions regarding just what curating is. You’re both a curator and a writer. Is there a difference between editing images for a book and curating for an exhibition? If so, what are the key differences? Are there any similarities?

SB: A book and an exhibition are completely different and the editing process has to change accordingly. They are so different it’s actually hard to compare. The worst exhibitions I have been to are books on walls. It just doesn’t work. When curating an exhibition, you have to deal with the physical space—you have a bigger variety of sizes and modes of presentation. It has to have more drama in it and theatricality. You have bodies to maneuver. It’s a bit like being a dj—you have to entertain, educate, get people moving etc.

A book, of course, does many of these things too but differently. The edits have to be more compact, often, and stand out on a page. I am finding it really hard to compare as my experiences with both are just so different.  Editing a book (I don’t actually think books are curated) and curating an exhibition is a way of putting an idea forward, and each one has a different language and rhetoric.

Everyone is a curator these days aren’t they?! It’s a buzz word for editing anything; it both annoys me and amuses me. I guess everyone is a photographer and an editor too; terms become meaningless when they are overused.

Curating has changed so crucially from the original idea of the job (a caretaker of culture who looks after a collection and is engaged in scholarly research—something which is a primarily conservative endeavor) to something that does not necessarily need specialism, and the discipline is breaking down. Connoisseurship has been replaced by curiosity.

I think this mix is good and there is certainly room for both. I see myself as having a foot in each camp.

Kelli Connell, Around Here, 2006
. © Kelli Connell.

AL: Any predictions for future models of curating and/or image editing?

SB: Not really. Things evolve and fashions come in and out. I think people just do what they do and it’s wonderful when they do it well. Like I said, there is room for everything and it’s just a case of people finding what they are most comfortable with.

AL: Photo Book publishing is enjoying a renaissance—certainly with regard the monograph. This said, do you think there are ‘gaps’ to address through a survey book such as Auto Focus?

SB: I would like to see a survey book on contemporary Still Life, which I feel is going through lots of interesting changes and also a really good book on contemporary Documentary.

AL: If you could own one photograph featured in the book and hang it on your wall, which would it be?

SB: Serpent of the Nile by Hew Locke. I haven’t got the wall space though.

Nick Cave, Soundsuit, 2008. 
Courtesy Nick Cave and Jack Shainman Gallery, New York.

AL: What would your dream book project be?

SB: I have many. Ideas are not something I am short of! But what I would love to do is a really interesting book on 19th Century vernacular photography. When I was working on How We Are, Val Williams and I visited many archives that didn’t make it into the exhibition. I was blown away by the amount of 19th Century and early 20th Century work that isn’t really considered important or interesting in the canonized History of Photography. It’s such a wonderful period of photographic history and one which has been so misrepresented and sanitized in so many ways. It was exciting and weird and full of entrepreneurs and chancers. If time and money allowed I would really like to investigate the “shabbier” side of photography in the latter half of the 19th Century.

AL: You’ve previously authored several exhibition catalogues and the book Art Photography Now; with Auto Focus now published, what new publication and/or curatorial projects do have planned?

SB: I guess I am in the process of realizing another dream book (and exhibition) project. I am working on a curatorial PhD that will be both a book and an exhibition. The subject is contemporary representations of Motherhood in both fine art and the media. I’m at the beginning of it and there is much research to be done.

Susan Bright is a freelance curator and writer. She authored Art Photography Now and previous exhibitions and catalogs include Something out of Nothing, How We Are: Photographing Britain and Face of Fashion. She currently lives and works in New York and is a faculty member of the School of Visual Arts.

For the past five years, Getty Images photographer Mario Tama, has been documenting Hurricane Katrina’s devastation and the recovery process of New Orleans and its people. Coming Back: New Orleans Resurgent, is his newly released book published by Umbrage.

September 6, 2005—A resident walks past a burning house fire in the 7th ward, New Orleans. Fire companies are struggling to combat fires in the city with no water pressure and difficult communications.

At Length: What was it like for you, as a photographer, when you first arrived in New Orleans to cover Hurricane Katrina?

Mario Tama: It was apparent from the moment I stepped off the plane in New Orleans, two days before the storm, that the situation would be chaotic. I had reserved an SUV through a car rental agency, but as I arrived at the counter, the line was endless and there was only one poor soul manning the desk, the rest of the workers had fled. It was impossible to get a car from the regular agencies, but I was lucky enough to get the last vehicle available from a local agency, a Toyota Corrolla, not exactly the type of vehicle one hopes for to cover a hurricane. As I arrived into the city, many local residents were checking into hotels in the French Quarter, as they knew the Quarter was on high ground. Of course, the poorest residents could not afford a room in the Quarter and the buses that were supposed to be provided to evacuate them never arrived. I rode out the storm in the Holiday Inn in the Quarter and ended up on a rescue boat in the Lower Ninth Ward the following day. I recall at one point our boat became stuck on something, nearly tipping over. And as we looked down it turned out we were stuck on the top of someone’s roof. It was at that moment the immensity of the disaster became brutally apparent.

AL: At what point and why did you decide to compile your Katrina work into a book?

MT: Reportage photo editor Lauren Steel approached me about doing a book and of course I jumped at the chance. It had been in the back of my mind for a while, but I wasn’t really sure of the best way to approach it. I always felt the story was just too massive, too complex, to possibly be captured in a few images or in moments just following the storm. New Orleans has withstood 27 major floods over the past 290 years or so, so the real story was never just about Katrina, but about the resilience and spirit of the people who always manage to overcome and endure. We also wanted to give something back to the community, so I’m very proud that Getty Images will donate 100 percent of the royalties from this book to New Schools for New Orleans.

August 30, 2005—A woman is placed into an Army vehicle after being rescued from her home in high water in the Lower Ninth Ward during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans.

AL: You have had assignments in Haiti, Iraq, Afghanistan, 9/11—what was it about New Orleans that compelled you to continue documenting the city over the course of 5 years?

MT: I think I connected with the people of New Orleans on a deeper level than I ever had with my subjects before. I had fallen in love with the city years before Katrina, so I knew what an amazing place it was and I just felt that if the people were going to try to come back, I would try to come back with them. I think riding on boats with them in the Lower Ninth, walking through the floodwaters with them around the Superdome, waiting on overpasses with them to be rescued, all these experiences created an unbreakable foundation of solidarity. I’m not in any way, shape, or form a nationalist, but at the same time, there is something different, something more disturbing, about documenting people of your own country in such dire circumstances. I felt that if I were to truly be an American photojournalist, it was my duty to follow this story as thoroughly and sensitively as I could.

August 31, 2005—Two men paddle in high water after Hurricane Katrina devastated the area, New Orleans.

AL: Were there certain parts of the city that you focused on during your return visits?

MT: Yes, I focused of course on the Lower Ninth Ward, which is the first area of the city I photographed in the aftermath. I also focused on the B.W. Cooper housing projects, the projects were a very controversial subject following Katrina, and most were torn down. No one claimed that the projects were an ideal place to live, there was a terrible history of violence, drugs and crime in the projects. However, they were home to thousands of the poorest New Orleanians and a true incubator of New Orleans culture. Most of the people who lived there have now been priced out of the city. But I was able to photograph one section of B.W. Cooper that has remained open and I was indescribably drawn to the spirit of the people there. They truly embody resilience. Speaking of resilience, I also spent a lot of time in the FEMA Diamond trailer park in Port Sulphur, Louisiana. There were still people living in FEMA trailers down there four years after Katrina hit. The conditions were absolutely deplorable and shameful especially here in the richest country on Earth.

September 1, 2005—Stranded survivors wait in the Superdome, New Orleans.

AL: Being a staff photographer for Getty, how did you manage to spend so much time shooting in one location and on the same project?

MT: I was very fortunate that my Director of Photography, Pancho Bernasconi, understood the importance of this story. We had many discussions about how to cover it and we ended up coming up with ways to keep our coverage relevant. For instance, I would visit at times when New Orleans was in the news, like during elections, or at the beginning of hurricane season, or when presidential candidates came through town. Or we would cover other newsworthy moments like Easter and Thanksgiving in New Orleans. Even during my longer stints I would cover stories for the Getty wire in New Orleans which had very little to do with Katrina, such as immigrant rallies and oil production. There is enough going on in New Orleans that one doesn’t have to only photograph stories related to Katrina. Another big help was a great little bed and breakfast I found, the Crescent City Guest House, which charged me extremely reasonable rates, making coverage easy on the budget.

AL: It’s been five years since Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, how has the rebuilding of the city progressed;  have things changed during your trips there?

MT: I have heard the city compared to a stroke victim, in the sense that most areas seem to be functioning normally but certain areas are completely nonfunctional. If you visit the French Quarter or the Garden District there is basically zero evidence of Katrina. But if you go to certain parts of the Lower Ninth, homes remain destroyed and in fact a significant amount of the Lower Ninth Ward has now been overtaken by wild vegetation. It is coming along, slowly but surely.

May 28, 2008—Kailah Smith, 18 months, sleeps on a couch covered in mold caused by rain leaks in her parents’ FEMA trailer, just before the family moved out of the trailer to an apartment, Port Sulphur, Louisiana. Smith’s parents had to hospitalize her with bronchitis four times since they moved into the trailer and they said they were sure the trailer was to blame for her illnesses. Doctors fear tens of thousands of children were exposed to dangerous levels of the cancer-causing agent formaldehyde in the post-Katrina FEMA trailers and could have lifelong illnesses.

AL: During the time that you have spent in New Orleans, it must have been overwhelming witnessing the transition from the devastation to the recovery process, as well as the resulting good and bad aspects of human nature?

MT: This story has been an incredible roller coaster of emotions and experiences, but I’m thrilled to say almost every new visit seems to mark another milestone of progress and redemption. Of course some of the worst elements of humanity were manifested in the aftermath, but what truly sticks out in my mind is the strength of community, the bonds of family, the inherent decency of most humans, who bonded together, pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, and reclaimed their city. When you mention bad aspects of human nature, the thing that immediately pops to mind was the negligence and ineptitude of our government, which was deeply disturbing. Most people who went through Katrina will tell you they will never have faith in government again.

August 26, 2007—Boys participate in the Valley of the Silent Men Social Aid and Pleasure Club Second Line Parade, New Orleans.

AL: For a good time after the hurricane there was quite a media frenzy in and around New Orleans. Were there any major challenges that you faced as a photographer, coming from the outside?

MT: The challenges I faced were nothing compared to what the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast faced. I was very fortunate. I slept in my car for a couple nights following the storm before luckily finding a new hotel room, albeit without electricity or running water. I had a satellite phone to transmit pictures with, but it barely worked. I was eventually able to send images via a landline that somehow worked in a local bar. Driving through the flooded streets in a Toyota Corolla was not exactly optimal, and many times the only option was to wade through the floodwaters on foot, sometimes with cameras hoisted overhead. A police officer tried to commandeer all my gasoline at one point, that would have possibly put an end to my coverage. At one point the National Guard blocked myself and some other photographers from re-entering the city, but we were able to find another way in.

May 29, 2008—Isabella Lander and Arabella Christiansen climb on the 17th Street Canal levee, Metairie, Louisiana.

AL: A lot had been said about the inadequate government response during the Katrina crisis, how did people help each other out during that time?

MT: In the Lower Ninth Ward I saw citizens on boats, even canoes, rescuing their neighbors from rooftops and delivering food and water to those trapped inside their homes. Although most of the governmental response was mediocre, The U.S. Coast Guard and Louisiana Dept. of Wildlife and Fisheries both did an excellent job with rescues. Even in places as miserable as the Convention Center, I remember people still telling jokes and trying to smile, which is the New Orleans way, it is a communal method of getting through hardship.

August 24, 2007—Retired seamstress Rita Gillett, 63, sits in her damaged home in the Lower Ninth Ward where she lives with her husband Hazzert, New Orleans. The couple still lived without electricity or gas because they weren’t able to secure government assistance to pay for the repairs.

AL: Much of the recent press on the Gulf Cost has focused on the BP oil spill, how are the residents dealing with yet another tragedy?

MT: I think initially it was a big shock and of course people are angry and upset, but as time has passed I see once again the resilience shining through. Living down here is truly a way of life, and people will fight to keep their way of life with every bone in their body.

AL: You are currently in New Orleans on assignment right now. What’s the mood like during the 5th anniversary of Katrina?

MT: I think it’s difficult to guage an exact mood, a lot of people just want to look forward and forget about Katrina, understandably so. Others want to honor those who perished. And still others want to celebrate a little bit, like the dancers I photographed at a second line parade in the Lower Ninth. As they say down here, “In New Orleans, we put the ‘fun’ in funeral.”

November 26, 2009—Camilla Brewer attends the Thanksgiving Day horse races at the Fair Grounds Race Course, New Orleans. Each year people don their Thanksgiving finest and watch the races in an old New Orleans tradition.

AL: Do you feel that your relationship with the city and its people has changed since you started the project?

MT: Yes my relationship with the city has grown much deeper, I understand more about the history of the neighborhoods and the cultural significance of the various rituals that embody New Orleans. When I come down here now it usually takes about a day to de-New Yorkerize myself and get into the graceful unhurried rhythm that exemplifies New Orleans life. The two cities are different in so many ways, but one thing both cities absolutely share in common is amazing people. I feel so blessed to have been able to witness and document the spirit of so many incredible New Orleanians along with the resplendent intricacies of New Orleans life. It is truly one of those places where the more you know, the more you know you don’t know. So it has been a great education and I hope it continues for a long time.

June 6, 2007—B.W. Cooper housing project resident Leianne LaRoche holds niece Destiny Herbert, two, as they jump rope using a phone cable in front of their apartment, New Orleans.

AL: The Getty Images royalties from Coming Back: New Orleans Resurgent are going to the New Schools for New Orleans. How did NSNO become involved with the project?

MT: The book has an emphasis on children, and so when a friend suggested I speak to Sarah Usdin, founder and CEO of NSNO, I jumped at the chance. We hit it off immediately and they just seemed like the perfect cause for this project. One of the silver linings of Katrina was that the school system was so devastated they were able to practically start over from scratch.

AL: What do you hope to achieve through the publication of this book?

MT: I hope people will never forget what happened here. It is a terrible mark on our nation’s history and the only way history won’t repeat itself is of course if we learn from the grave errors that occurred in 2005. But more importantly, I hope this book will serve as a reminder that New Orleans is a cultural cradle of our country, an extremely important and vital link to our nation’s history and to her future. The suggestion made in some circles that New Orleans shouldn’t be rebuilt was, to me, utterly preposterous and could only have been made by people who had never actually set foot in this glorious city. It is a city where history lives on in every corner and its citizens carry a vigorous and rarified strand of the very DNA of the American experience. I hope the book calls attention to that.

The book signing and launch for Coming Back: New Orleans Resurgent will take place on Wednesday, September 8, 6–8pm at Umbrage Gallery, 111 Front Street in Dumbo, Brooklyn. Selected images from the book are on view at the gallery through September 15, 2010.
To see more work by New York-based photographer Mario Tama, visit his website. Tama is a staff photographer for Getty Images. All images © Mario Tama/Getty Images

After the Thunderstorm, 2005, from The Prodigal Son

At Length: You have stated elsewhere that the two main themes of your photography are reality and communication. Can you expand on that?

Marc Baruth: Reality is always mere allegation, and in my works, I absolutely deny constructed reality, which may at best be found in the representation of a tiny, actually photographed element. From this accumulation of small, ‘real’ elements comes something which presents itself as reality or at least something clearly defined, like a landscape painting. With the recognition that this is not the case comes the recognition of some sort of ‘deceit,’ of a disturbance in the communication between author and spectator.

This flawed form of communication can be seen in New Morning (in the relationship between humans and humans) and The Prodigal Son (in the relationship between humans and nature). In the latter series, there is no communication left at all.

AL: The Prodigal Son is inspired by and clearly references the painter Peter Paul Rubens. Why is this?

MB: When I was looking for a diploma topic in 2005, only the two aspects of ‘landscapes’ and ‘digital manipulation’ were fixed. It also seemed appropriate to look towards classic painting, partly because New Morning had already referenced the traveling painters of the Renaissance.

Rubens came into play because he is a significant factor in the self-marketing of the town of Siegen (Germany)—without having ever actually lived and worked here. Siegen is merely his birthplace. To me, this kind of marketing always felt slightly desperate, and I wanted to address that in The Prodigal Son too—even if just on a secondary level.

The images of the series are composed of individual photographs taken in Siegen and in Flemish Brabant, the region in which Rubens spent the last years of his life, and where he painted most of the landscapes that inspired my pictures.

Cows, Shepherds and Duckhunters, 2007, from The Prodigal Son

AL: Do you feel you have any special affinity with Rubens, having been born in the same town of Siegen?

MB: Not with Rubens himself, and not necessarily with his complete work either. I certainly have an affinity with his late-period landscapes, and I understand the way in which the hard working people of the country must have made an impression on the diplomat Rubens in the last years of his life, to the extent that this topic became his passion.

I never wanted to move to a bigger city; it has always been more important to me to live close to nature, especially the woods.

AL: What is your response if someone asks why you reference historical paintings and not historical photographs?

MB: Because I greatly appreciate classical paintings in spite of having studied photography. When looking at a picture or painting, I want to be drawn into it, I want to be told a story and to be able to continue it. Many old works of art are incredibly detailed, allusive and referential, and I’ve always enjoyed them a lot because of that.

Another important aspect is the opportunity to remove the boundaries between painting and photography. I can use the individual pictures I take for my works like painters use their color palette.

Also, I have a tendency to lose interest in things that I have not discovered, and become fascinated with, by myself. Unfortunately, the history of photography is—in part—one of these things. I will not deny its significance, but it does not interest me to the same extent that classical painting and large sections of other contemporary arts do.

AL: Which photographers inspire you?

MB: That’s a tough one—I find greater inspiration in classical painting or contemporary art in various media. Jake & Dinos Chapman and Paul McCarthy are artists whose work I regard very highly. I don’t consider them provocative; rather, I admire the way they integrate references from the history of art and culture, and transform these into something personal.

Evening, 2005, from The Prodigal Son

AL: Your photographs are at once seamless, yet they exhibit numerous visual signs pointing to their artifice. The balance between the two must be difficult to achieve. What is your process of making the images and decision-making, in terms of your use of scale, light and the different components?

MB: I deliberately distanced myself from the original with regard to aspects like scale and light, and relied more on my intuition. I chose the individual elements for their effect and flexibility; aspects like focus and a photo’s scale in relation to the other elements were ignored. The resulting impact of the whole image surprised, amused and confused me equally. Ultimately, it felt ‘right’ and could not be classified at first glance.

Ultimately, I want the viewer to become increasingly aware of the ‘flaws’ in the picture as his spatial distance from it decreases.

On a technical level, I do appreciate mere detailed depiction that cannot be recognized as artifice, but it frequently lacks the storytelling element. I miss the areas of contact.

My works do not always develop in the same way, but most of the time, the process begins with the collection of images which may be used later on. For The Prodigal Son, these images were only landscapes painted by Peter Paul Rubens, for New Morning, only renaissance status portraits; for my current works I am working with a variety of influences for the first time.

Collecting is followed by sketching, attempting different color schemes, and assembling individual, re-usable elements.

With The Prodigal Son, I took great care to follow the original’s composition as precisely as possible, as that was the only way which could result in the confusion/vexation that I have described.

The Avenue, 2005, from The Prodigal Son

AL: How long did it take to complete The Prodigal Son and what were the main challenges?

MB: It took close to 6 months to complete. Certainly, the greatest challenge was the pictorial formulation of a convincing topic, and the subsequent balancing of direct and subtle depiction.

It may sound strange, but I don’t really like taking pictures. I mostly photograph ‘in one piece,’ within a fixed, manageable period of time. Usually, this doesn’t take long, and then I can focus on doing what I prefer by far: collecting, sketching, and working digitally.

New Morning #7, 2002

AL: Your earlier series, New Morning, is quite different from The Prodigal Son, yet you have maintained an interesting color palette between the two which connects them visually. How else do they connect?

MB: With New Morning, the co-author of this series, Bozica Babic, and I chose the color palette deliberately to achieve a cooler, starker impression which at the same time, possesses a certain patina that refers to its precedents in classical painting. Here, the ambivalence of what is being depicted and the mode of depiction was very important, too.

For The Prodigal Son, I aimed for a similar coloring, which radiates a certain lifelessness as a result of being almost monochrome. It was not supposed to be too ‘comforting.’ More apparent similarities between the two series are the fact that both were processed/manipulated digitally and have similar topics.

AL: With an expanded field of technological tools, there appears to be a resurgence in the practice of photo assemblage. Where do you see our work within this context? Will your future projects continue existing themes and use of assemblage?

MB: I find it hard to say where I see my work. It certainly does not show anything completely new, but I do think that it may be different from similar series/works due to the ambivalence I mentioned earlier.

After completion of the new series Old Land—which is not too dissimilar from The Prodigal Son, I would like to focus a lot more on the reduction of the individual elements. I have just begun with just that in The Hermit’s Cell—and I believe that this could be a rewarding experiment.

The works following Old Land will also have reduced amounts of references to existing works of art.

AL: In an ideal world, what response do you hope for from people when they see your photographs?

MB: To be honest, I hope that people/the viewers enjoy the pictures on the one hand, and on the other perhaps recognize their haunted quality.

The Hermit’s Cell, 2010, from Old Land

AL: Your most recent image The Hermit’s Cell shows a slight darkness in emotional tone, as well as a sense of movement. Is this an indication of the direction your work will be taking in the future? How has the overall concept of your work altered in this new image?

MB: Yes, The Hermit’s Cell defines the direction. As mentioned earlier, the pictures are now based on a variety of influences and references, such as private photos, film stills and a number of classical works. The images’ considerably more cramped composition and the reduction of elements are important here.

In spite of this, the picture appears to be denser and more self-contained, and to have much more plasticity and depth.

The images are not about variation of individual elements, but about the multiplication of very few elements. As a result, there is a kind of movement in The Hermit’s Cell which, in this case , is also a result of the picture’s composition.

Thematically and imagery-wise, the new pictures will be darker than The Prodigal Son, although parts of that series already hinted at such a direction. The deaths of my parents certainly play a (subliminal) role, and places we visited together when I was a child can be found in the basic natural elements—most of which were made in the Alps of Southern Bavaria.

AL: What are you working on now?

MB: Right now, I’m working on the next picture in the Old Land series, which will be based on Carl Blechen’s picture The Building of the Devil’s Bridge, amongst other things. The ‘material,’ i.e. the reduced individual elements, will consist almost entirely of different stone and rock formations.

Additionally, I’m currently working on further sketches, and their presentation as part of a group exhibition at the end of the month.

To see more work by photographer Marc Baruth, please visit his website. All images © Marc Baruth.

Fishermen with a USA flag they found in the Caspian Sea, Nabran. From the series Caspian Dreams.

At Length: You originally studied mathematics and philosophy, what inspired you to become a photographer?

James Pomerantz: I enrolled in a photography class as an elective at Columbia University, Tom Roma was the teacher. He brought photography to life for me. Class discussions weren’t about focal lengths or apertures—they were about poetry and emotion. Until then, I had never seriously looked at photographs or considered them as more than simply illustrative. I fell in love with photography because of that class.

A man floats in a mineral bath on the beach near the oil fields of Bibiheybat. From the series Caspian Dreams.

AL: You have spent a good amount of time photographing in the Caucasus. How did you get interested in that area and what brought you there?

JP: I had spent time in Asia, Africa, The Middle East…all the places I felt compelled to explore as a young photojournalist. While they were all interesting, I never felt a connection to any of them. I thought I would give the Caucasus a shot. I had seen Rena Effendi’s photographs from Azerbaijan—there was something about the faces in her portraits that intrigued me. She had also stated that she felt that Azerbaijan was photographically a black & white country—I was curious about what she meant. My plan was to go to Azerbaijan and produce a photo essay about the oil industry there. It also didn’t hurt that I had heard that Azerbaijan has amazing kebabs—I used to be a cook and I’d be lying if I said that food doesn’t play into my travel decisions.

High school graduate and friend in Baku, Azerbaijan. From the series Caspian Dreams.

AL: What are the underlying questions or issues that you are exploring in documenting that region?

JP: Within a few days of landing in the capital, Baku, I forgot about oil and just wandered. I found myself relating on a personal level to what the country was experiencing 17 years after the fall of the Soviet Union. I remembered what I was like at 17—awkward, unsure, trying to figure where I fit in my world. Of course, I was projecting my own history onto the region, but I don’t have a problem with that. The work that most moves me is the result of a collaboration between the artist and subject, a sort of symbiosis. My work from Azerbaijan isn’t objective by any means and is as much about me as it is about the country and its people.

A destroyed cable car in Tkvarcheli, Abkhazia. Once a mining town with a population of over 20,000, the war saw the closure of almost all local businesses and now less than 5,000 people remain. From the series The Balance of War: Abkhazia.

AL: Caspian Dreams and The Balance of War: Abkhazia deal with upheaval and transition. What are the connections between the two projects and what were the key challenges of working on these?

JP: While both projects are personal, the work from Abkhazia was made for the World Press Joop Swart Masterclass. As part of the weeklong workshop, we had to prepare a photo essay in advance that revolved around a word that they provided. The word we were given was “balance.” The two projects are aesthetically similar as I made the Abkhazia work shortly after Caspian Dreams and both projects share that same post-Soviet, Caucasus color palette. There were additional challenges to shooting in Abkhazia—it is still a disputed region occupied by Russian forces. I had an Abkhaz press card, but that didn’t mean a thing to the Russian soldiers. I was also in Abkhazia at a fairly tense time, just a few weeks before the 2008 Russia–Georgia War. It seemed to make sense to go to Georgia and Abkhazia after Azerbaijan—they’re neighbors. At some point, I would also like to visit Armenia.

Young refugee and cat, Tskaltubo, Georgia. From the series The Balance of War: Abkhazia.

AL: Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, there have been many photographers documenting various aspects of life in the republics—such as Stanley Greene’s Open Wound, Simon Roberts’s Motherland, and Andrew Moore’s Russia—to name just a few. Do you feel there is a trend for Western photographers to pick up on the subject? If so, what’s your view of that and where do you view your place within it?

JP: The collapse of the Soviet Union was an historic event that had a global impact. Many of the countries that gained independence as a result are now in an interesting stage of development. When I was in Azerbaijan, it had the fastest growing economy in the world because of its oil. But, there were also hundreds of thousands of displaced people living in terrible conditions as a result of the Nagorno-Karabakh War. It was an interesting time to be in that part of the world. The three bodies of work you mentioned are so, so different in content and form. The Russia–Georgia War did result in a lot more coverage by foreign press for a short period of time and Magnum recently released their book Georgian Spring but I wouldn’t say there’s any sort of trend to pick up on the subject. The Soviet Union was almost 2.5 times the size of the United States but the countries in the region are still much less covered than many others.

Refugee wall, near Kutaisi, Georgia. From the series The Balance of War: Abkhazia.

AL: How would you characterize your visual style and approach?

JP: It varies. Sometimes I like to work very fluidly, without much of an agenda—it’s a great feeling to just wander and discover. At other times, I’ll make a shot list of things I’m looking for—it all depends on the project. I think there’s often a lot of pressure to specialize, to have a particular style and to remain consistent from project to project. I would much rather vary how I shoot to suit the subject than try to shoehorn the world to fit a limited style. Right now I’m working on one project with webcams, another with a point and shoot and another using large format.

Refugee, Lenin, Marx and Engels, Tskaltubo, Georgia. From the series The Balance of War: Abkhazia.

AL: You’re currently in the MFA program at the School of Visual Arts. Why did you decide to go back to school?

JP: I went back to school hoping to accomplish the following:
1. To strengthen my technical skills. Prior to SVA, I knew very little about lighting and post-processing.
2. To strengthen my understanding of contemporary photography and the history and theory behind it.
3. To be a part of a community that revolves around rigorous critiques with established artists and equally curious peers.

My hope upon graduating is to continue my shift from the magazine and newspaper world to the fine art world. I would also love to teach. An MFA is helpful for both.

AL: As a photographer with an established track record, you’re studying alongside a number of people who have yet to build their careers. How are you finding that?

JP: Everybody brings something different to the table. A professional career doesn’t have all that much to do with having an ability to appreciate photography or to provide insightful feedback. Many of the other students studied art as undergraduates and know far more than I about Renaissance art or Greek sculpture or architecture or digital imaging or lighting—their feedback is priceless. All that matters is that they care about photography and are curious. A career in photography is more about business and not the act of photography itself. I really appreciate the purity that there is at school, it’s not about magazine assignments or contests or sales or shows. It is about learning and experimenting and having fun.

From the series Agua Sagrada.

AL: Whilst you’ve been in school, you’ve been signed to Institute for Artist Management. How is that working?

JP: Well, so far so good. It’s an amazing group of photographers. The people running it are open-minded and looking to explore new ways to promote the artists and their work. I’m very excited to be a part of it!

AL: You’ve shot for magazines and know that the past year has been challenging for the print industry—with many notable magazines and newspapers shutting down. There has been talk of the “Death of Print”—or at least its rapid decline. In this context, do you feel a need to alter your approach once you’ve completed your studies and re-enter the photography field full-time?

JP: I think that a working photographer in the 21st century needs to be as diverse as possible. Know how to work with still and the moving images. Know how to use all of the available software out there. Keep an open-mind. There are photographers like Jason Eskenazi, Rob Hornstra and Stephen Gill who are self-publishing wonderful books. There are storytellers like Tim Hetherington who are working with whatever medium is most suited for the task at hand. There are artists like Broomberg and Chanarin, Simon Norfolk and Luc Delahaye who are referencing traditional paintings in their photographs and merging the language of fine art and photojournalism. I want to be as educated and versatile an artist as possible so that no matter what happens in the print industry or the fine art world, I can continue making work that I care about and that I hope has relevance to the world.

From the series Agua Sagrada.

AL: You’ve been chronicling your time in school on your new blog A Photo Student. Why are you doing this and what kind of responses have you been getting?

JP: I started the blog as a resource for people considering MFA programs. When I was looking at schools, I was unable to find much information about the various programs. I wanted to provide a window into the day to day of a photo MFA program. As the blog has developed, I’ve realized a few other benefits. The blog lets me write, curate, critique, teach and learn all at the same time. It also lets me maintain some of the relationships I’ve developed in the past few years while I’m locked away in school! It’s also my photo diary. Years from now, I’ll be able to look back at what work I appreciated, what I was reading, what issues I was wrestling with…

It’s a ton of work but I think it’s worth it. The feedback has been 99% positive with a few comments about how education in the arts is a waste of time or how theory is meaningless. I think general, sweeping statements are pretty meaningless.

From the series Agua Sagrada.

AL: Last June, some of your Agua Sagrada work was included in the Summer Show at the Bonni Benrubi Gallery in New York. The work seems to be quite a departure from your previous work. Can you tell us more about the project?

JP: The work was made in a cenote in Mexico. Cenotes are underground fresh water sources. For the Mayans, they were also places of spiritual importance. Not only were they the sources of their drinking water but the Mayans also often performed various religious activities around the cenotes. Today, cenotes are visited by tourists who pay to swim in the cool water. The work is different from my previous work but I think that’s a reflection of my state of mind at the time I made it. I made Agua Sagrada before I had committed to going back to school and it was during a period of dissatisfaction with the work I had been making. My first trip to the cenote was also made the same week I proposed to my fiancée, so it was a period of contemplation and transition.

I sat on a ledge in the cenote and photographed people interacting with the single shaft of light that entered through a hole in the cave ceiling. It was a comforting body of work to produce and I intend to go back. Again, I shoot differently depending on the subject. For Agua Sagrada, I wanted to emphasize the spiritual relationship between the bathers and the light. Their gestures and body language take on new meaning in the photographs. Just as in Azerbaijan, the photographs are just as much about me and what I felt as they are about what I saw.

AL: Where do you see your work going from here?

JP: I’m interested in exploring the ever-shifting line between documentary and art. I’ve been feeling a bit goofy lately so I think I’m going to work on some funny projects. I think my most successful work has embraced the quirky so I want to see how that develops. For some reason people think that humorous work shouldn’t be taken seriously—I really appreciate artists like Tim Davis, Martin Parr and Stephen Gill. It would be nice to make people laugh and think.

To see more work by New York-based photographer James Pomerantz, visit his website. You can also follow his blog A Photo Student—an insightful chronicle of his adventures back in school, as well as additional observations on photography in general. James Pomerantz is represented by Institute for Artist Management. All images © James Pomerantz.

Coaster

At Length: How did Ruins come about?

Beth Dow: I was always fascinated by the work of Francis Frith and other expedition photographers, but Ruins began quite spontaneously. I was on a road trip working on a collaboration with my husband (the photographer and printmaker Keith Taylor) and we planned to reward our patient, long-suffering kids with some time at a water park at the Wisconsin Dells. It had just stopped raining one morning as we drove down the road, and the warm light was glowing on an odd structure that looked instantly like a Francis Frith photograph. It took my breath away, and I knew I had to postpone the original collaborative project. This first image became Coaster.

AL: There is a wonderment in seeing iconic architectural structures like the White House and the Roman Colosseum contextually displaced, framed within power lines and country roadways. Is this perhaps a statement on the decline of Western Civilization or a reverence to such structures?

BD: I know it’s easy to look at these follies with disdain, but I see something quite different. To me, they are signs that we have some sort of shared understanding that the past still has meaning. These are symbols we can recognize. The word “ruins” describes decay, yet I’m more interested in the ways these original antiquities persist despite their decay—they persist both in reality and in symbolic form.

The White House

AL: The majority of your work are Platinum Palladium prints. What is it about that photographic process that you feel is appropriate for your work?

BD: My earlier work was all gelatin silver, but I moved on to platinum-palladium several years ago because I wanted to work on nicer paper. I consider a photograph to be a complete 3-dimensional artifact, and platinum offers the best possibilities. A platinum print is constructed from the ground up, with home-brewed chemistry and hand-coated paper. Light burns an image on cotton paper infused with precious metals, and is so much more soul-satisfying for me than a spray of ink. I like all things mechanical, and it is a mechanical, analog process. I call myself analog-retentive.

Colosseum

AL: Keith Taylor is your printer, it’s a rather unique relationship in that he’s also your husband. How collaborative a process is it with you and Keith in printing your photographs?

BD: I used to work in gelatin silver exclusively, and printed my own work. I absolutely love printing, and would spend long hours in the darkroom. It’s one of my favorite things to do, and I’m rather good at it. Having said that, I have never printed in platinum, and am married to one of the very best printers in the world. Our process works quite smoothly. I scan my medium-format negatives, use Photoshop to burn, dodge, spot, and adjust contrast (everything I used to do in a darkroom) and then Keith prints a new, enlarged digital negative from that file before making a platinum print. My job is to give Keith a file that is exactly as I want the final print to look, and Keith’s job is to make that perfect print. He is so good at what he does and understands my eye and intent, so this is rarely a problem. Keith is also an amazing photographer, so he understands how important it is to the artist that everything is just right.

Trojan Horse

AL: Do you feel that there has been a recent revival of 19th century photographic processes?

BD: I don’t know if there has been an actual revival/increase of practitioners or a new willingness of curators and collectors to pay attention to the work. There is more than one way to make a photograph, but some people are too easily distracted by the bright and shiny. They sniff at any black and white work, but will go all fluttery in front of a photograph that is large and colorful. Regardless of the image content, one form was declared relevant at the expense of all others. I don’t understand that orthodoxy, just as I don’t understand the conviction of some that the use of a vintage process, regardless of image, automatically warrants respect. The digital age has us so accustomed to looking at images online, with our noses pressed up against glass screens, that the experience of dodging our reflection in the surface of an enormous Diasec-mounted print is familiar and reassuring. Handmade processes bring us back to the material nature of the medium, and remind us that photographs can be artifacts as well as images.

AL: Who or what are your influences?

BD: My Ruins pictures reference the work of photographers like Francis Frith, Felix Bonfils, and Giorgio Sommer, but also the ink drawings of Claud Lorrain and the etchings of Piranesi. My work as a whole is influenced by anyone willing to provoke, and anyone with a dark streak. I think I continue to make black and white landscapes partly because that very genre is so readily dismissed. My work as a whole is probably influenced by collages from the Dada movement, and I’m sure that is hard to believe. I relish the absurd, but especially when it is discreet. I shot a whole series in formal gardens, which sounds at first like a safe, perhaps romantic subject. However, I looked at those landscapes from a different perspective entirely, and on a more subtle and subversive level. Those pictures are filled with little signs of the natural world flicking us off. As much as people struggle to dominate and impose order over chaos, nature cheerfully undermines our efforts—I’m comfortable with disorder.

Aqueduct and Waterslide

AL: In Ruins, as well as in your previous projects Fieldwork and In the Garden, there seems to be a fascination with the human influence in shaping the natural environment?

BD: Always. I’m constantly amazed by our efforts to interfere with our environment. How do we do it, and why do we bother? Fieldwork came about because I love the curious forms that arise from our use of the land. They are not critical pictures—they are observations. I recognize that we use trees, which means we occasionally have to cut them down. I simply love the formal qualities of these alterations of the land, independent of any political or ecological issues, and look at them with only that in mind. I’m a very political person, but I choose to keep that out of my art. I aim to document my initial, pre-intellectual encounter with something. I work quickly with a hand-held camera, and look for things that I can’t quite figure out at first glance. This first glance is the most honest to me, because it is an event free of external influence. It is the only time I can see the world for what it really is, on its own terms. Our brains work furiously to make sense of the puzzling things we meet, but that rationality neutralizes and “humanizes” the experience. I try to capture the world, both natural and artificial, from its own perspective, which presents itself only in that quick and fleeting flash.

AL: Your projects often have a sense of nostalgia present. Where does that stem from in your work, are you a nostalgic person?

BD: I’m not nostalgic at all, which is why nostalgia fascinates me. I am interested in the processes of nostalgia and romanticism precisely because I don’t share them. I use vintage and contemporary methods while referencing the history of art—but this is all in the absence of nostalgia. I like the juxtaposition of disparate elements, much like standing on Earth, looking up at the night sky, knowing that the light from the stars is actually the distant past only just now reaching me. Someone out there in space at the same time wouldn’t see our reflected light until some point in the very distant future. Instead of nostalgia, I think I’m just willing to think of time as a plane rather than a line.

Leaning Tower

AL: What’s next for you?

BD: I recently went to Rome and am making some books from those new photographs. This is a sort of sister project of Ruins, and combines elements of authentic and fake antiquity in the form of handmade editions. I am also putting together a book of images that mess with ideas of space, time, and climate. When the weather warms up, I’ll continue my Ruins pictures, which I’m just so wrapped up in at the moment. I will also continue to expand Fieldwork, which can only be shot for a brief window of time each year. I would love to get a publisher interested in that project, and think it would make a fantastic book. I am always working on many things at once, but my biggest focus right now is on expanding Ruins.

To see more work by Minneapolis-based photographer Beth Dow, along with information regarding print sales and gallery representation, please visit her website. All images © Beth Dow.

View the gallery

“My family’s old photos have always provided inspiration for my personal work. My relatives in Colombia loved to dress up and have their portraits taken at their local portrait studio. This tradition is now disappearing in many parts of the world. During the three weeks my studio was open, I noticed that people enjoy being a part of this process, and how much they miss it.

“The Photo Studio project is a natural progression for my portrait work, and a way to pursue my interest in recording different communities. The studio itself was located on a block with lots of foot traffic in downtown Brooklyn. It opened the day after the Obama inauguration. Some days the studio was full of people, and many took the opportunity to talk with others waiting patiently for their sitting. I was pleased to see such a sense of community.

“I also realized how much people love to be photographed even when they say they don’t. When someone says ‘I hate having my portrait taken,’ they’re usually implying that they don’t like the way they look in the pictures that have been taken of them. After our sessions together, the people who didn’t like having their picture taken were the ones who came back again and again.

“I really enjoyed working with the sitters who wanted their portraits to tell a story. Sofia, a little girl, came in with her mom and then decided to come back dressed in her princess outfit. There was also a woman who came in with several of her family photos. She explained to me that her family had a tradition of going to photo studios, and she wanted to continue this and be photographed with her family’s history. She had just purchased several frames at the Target store down the street so that she could display these old pictures, and had even taken the glass out of the frames so there wouldn’t be any reflections from the flash. There were many instances like these, where the sitters were not at all passive. The sessions became collaborations, and I was always excited to see who would come through the door next.”

—Caroll Taveras