Great North Road Garage, Edinburgh, November 1981 by Paul Graham

Paul Graham, Garage on The Great North road, Edinburgh

Paul Graham; Garage on the Great North Road, Edinburgh, 1981

 

[Continuing to re-post pieces from my 2013 series Hodgson’s Choice]

Paul Graham changed my attitude to colour. An excerpt from a gallery text on his own website says that he “belongs to a rare group of photographers that were the final generation to enter photography before it became part of the broader contemporary art world.”  That’s true, and it has nothing much to do with exact dates.  Along with such as Philip-Lorca di Corcia and even Nan Goldin, Graham remains a photographer, not an ‘artist-working-with-photography’.  Graham won the Hasselblad award last year (2012), the first Briton to do so. He’s an international player. Yet, in our very British way, in the UK he’s hardly known outside photographic circles.

When Graham started, documentary photography (at least in Britain) was in black-and-white, and it was about telling the truth.  After him, it was in colour, and it was about having a view.   Richard Billingham, Martin Parr, Nick Waplington, Paul Reas, Donovan Wylie, Anna Fox, even Gillian Wearing…a generation of British photographers, shading off in all directions towards art, were liberated by, and in some sense indebted to Graham.

In the early days, Paul Graham did eye-watering things.  He went to Northern Ireland in the middle of the Troubles and made beautiful, even romantic landscapes with just the tiniest glimpses of all being not well.  He made a record of Britain on the dole in the Thatcher years that would (I’m not joking) have brought down the government had it been published by a major novelist or film-maker.  But he was a youngish photographer, and it passed.

In that same period, Paul Graham went on an absurd road trip up the A1.  The A1 is to road trips as a fairground choo-choo is to the TGV.  It was so British it wasn’t even a motorway.  It still isn’t, as a matter of fact. And on this ridiculous road, with culture and reflexes and patience and sympathy and wit, Paul Graham began to make pictures about what it meant to be European as Europe fell away from dominance.  He was literate in photography – and in a lot of other stuff, too – and he made out of the sleepy cafes and uninspiring landscapes of the A1 a vision so much bigger than the A1 that everything he has done since has been checking the wake behind.

Of course Graham had seen his Joel Sternfeld and his Stephen Shore and his William Eggleston and his Joel Meyerowitz. But still.  A subaqueous car showroom, in which the only line of black is a twisted aerial?  And those names, perfect for cars:  here we go, in the money of 1950 or so, Singing and Humming along.   I don’t even think Humbers were still manufactured when the picture was made: sold to Chrysler or somebody, and then again, to become Talbot, I think, then swallowed up in Peugeot.  This showroom was drowning even as Paul Graham photographed it. The Singer, descendant of the sewing machines which represented one phase of the Industrial Revolution.  And next to it, the Humber, named after the great estuary that watered part of that British industrial landscape.  All going under, in the early days of Thatcherism. It’s very simple: I know intimately the culture this picture comes from.  I even remember the smell of those places, of T-Cut and spilt petrol.  In Britain, this is a brilliant, game-changing picture.  But it also speaks right to me.

Paul Graham’s early prints are absurdly undervalued.  You can buy them from Pace/MacGill in New York, or from Anthony Reynolds in London.

Ady’s Poem by André Kertész

Ady's Poem

André Kertész Ady’s Poem, 1934. From Az Igazi Ady (Le Véritable Ady) [The Real Ady]. Text by György Bölöni. Photographs by André Kertész and others. Editions Atelier de Paris, Paris, 1934.

It started with André Kertész. A little book called On Reading, in which the Hungarian photographer simply presented pictures of people in the act of reading in public places. There is no text. I have my copy still and I see it is an English reprint dated 1982. I had been interested in photographs long before then, but once I had Kertész’s book, I got my teeth into it.

Was it journalism? Was it some kind of attempt at a catalogue, in which the variety and similarity of human activity would be laid out for comparison and categorisation? Was it a sketch of an autobiography? A book of gently comic illustrations in the manner of Sempé? I remember how long I held that puzzle in my mind. Having no scaffolding of reference to make sense of it, I interrogated those pictures again and again. I discovered in that little book that photographs could convey complexity in spite of their apparent simplicity, and that they amply repaid concentration and analysis.

Although this series will abide only by such rules as I shall feel like following at any given time, it seems fair to start with Kertész, because he started me. The series will develop into a virtual collection of the photographs I would help myself to if money were no object. In the nature of photography, there are many versions of most pictures, and sometimes I can have one and you can have another just as good. I will for that reason suggest places where pictures can be bought if I know of such places and if it seems right to do so. But a virtual collection can be selfish and can certainly be light-fingered. I will have no compunction about plundering public and private holdings in establishing my own, and if I happen to want the only known print of something, well, suck it up. Virtual collecting takes no prisoners. I can see that already, and I haven’t even started yet.

Essentially, these will be things I covet. But I covet photographs as photographs, not as a class of asset. Some will be very valuable; others will be unsellable. And with that, let’s begin.

Kertész was an exile and a freelance. He worked where he could and never allowed himself to lose his own personality in the collective personality of a newspaper. For that reason, he had to trust his own taste. Even when working for another, it was always a Kertész he would make. In 1933, in Paris, his fellow exile György Bölöni invited him to illustrate a life of another Hungarian, the poet Endre Ady. It was published in 1934 as Az Igazi Ady (The Real Ady) by Atelier de Paris, and “Ady’s Poem” is one of the illustrations from it. And what is it? Just a little meditation on reading, and on writing. It’s no big deal, yet it’s marvellous. Loads of people can make a picture of a café table. But not many could get those sweet relations between the straight lines and the curves so absolutely right, and even fewer could make a simple modernist study of materials and surfaces into such an exquisite minor-key sigh for home.

Kertész’s greatest hits are everybody’s greatest hits. “Chez Mondrian”, “Melancholic Tulip”, “Underwater Swimmer” . . . More than anybody else, Kertész is the man who claimed for photography its strange intermediate territory between realism and metaphor. This café table was not much on the day that it happened. But turn it into a photograph like this, and it has become quite something. This print was sold by Sotheby’s in 2006, a little thing, less than 10 x 8 inches. It’s a very rare image in the Kertész canon, yet at £48,000 far, far from his auction record. Its tones were lovely but it wasn’t one of the heavenly miniatures that Kertész made on postcard stock. No doubt, I’ll have one those, later. All in all, nothing gaudy, but a lovely thing with which to set off.