Kandinsky, 1937, by Paul Outerbridge, Jr.

Paul Outerbridge - Kandinsky - 1937

Paul Outerbridge, Jr – Kandinsky – 1937.

You’d hardly call Paul Outerbridge a nearly man, yet he really was.  In the 1930s, he was one of the leading advertising photographers in New York, certainly among the best paid. He gave himself absolute mastery of the sculptural photography of the object-shot which derived its techniques from nineteenth-century studio perfection and its aesthetics from European modernism and surrealism.  You might think of his early work in black & white as the photographic moment of streamlining – sleek, shiny, geometrically balanced images of such quintessential stuff for the get-ahead All-American consumer as cigarettes and lighters, car accessories, and all the paraphernalia of drinking.  That kind of photography was maybe invented in Europe but translated into advertising both in Europe and in the US. Think of names such as Maurice Tabard, making perfect pictures of shiny cigarette lighters in the early 1930s, or even Charles Sheeler, working out a truly American aesthetic.

Outerbridge worked in Paris as an art director for Vogue between 1925 and 1929.  When he came back, that vision, of silvery precise modernity in silvery photographs (although to be scrupulous to Outerbridge, they were in his case more often platinum), became newly accepted for printing in the magazines. Although they had had the technical wherewithal to print pictures in among the text for some time, they had tended throughout the 1920s to use illustration for advertising in preference to photography. There were dozens of forms of commercial expression in the 1930s – but modern design sleekly offered to the discerning consumer was one of the key ones. It was even plausible to hope that the new consumer, urged on by pictures of that kind, could drive America out of the Depression.

Outerbridge knew Eduard Steichen very well.  Together, they were the drivers of the new commercial photography and had an apparently friendly rivalry: there is even a story that at one period in the late 1920s they exchanged ever-more perfect studies of eggs (in a contest that one much later reviewer referred to as a ‘bake-off’).  To Steichen’s astonishing textile designs (in photographs) of the mid-1920s for the Stehli silk company, compare Outerbridge’s Collar, for the Ide company, of 1922.  Some of the Stehli designs are in Steichen’s autobiographical monograph – and very well-known since: the Wandering Thread, the light through the glasses.. but others are less well known: a pattern made out of beans, another out of sugar lumps.

When Outerbridge arrived in Paris and came to know the circle Man Ray had made there (he had known Man Ray in New York before), he was gratified to find his Ide Collar, torn out of a magazine to be pinned on the wall of Marcel Duchamp, who touted it as the perfect ready-made.  The stiff collar is positioned on a checkerboard pattern, after all, and Duchamp always loved chess.

And that stiff collar is itself a great modernist icon.  Although they seem so quaintly old-fashioned to us, removable celluloid collars (or cloth coated in celluloid) were a boon to the new man making in his way in the city.  You could simply wipe the collar with your handkerchief and wear the shirt the next day.  My grandfather remembered English city types struggling to pop their collar studs off to wipe their collars after a ride to work on the Tube, then still driven by steam engines and therefore smoky.  Griffiths, the miserable hero of Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, found a job when he needed one in his rich uncle’s collar factory and there got one of the factory girls pregnant.  Impossible to believe that Dreiser didn’t think that old, old story somehow more poignant being set in such a symbolically modern context. An American Tragedy was published in 1925 – it matches Outerbridge’s great early picture for date.

At the end of the 1930s, Outerbridge devoted himself to experimenting with colour.  He made himself by laborious effort the absolute master of a process we now associate immediately with him, the tri-carbro process.  But the story starts to unravel a bit at this time, too.  First, he retreated to the family home, in suburban Monsey, New York, and accepted far fewer commercial commissions. Then it began to appear that his tri-carbro prints were too expensive for commercial users anyway. Tri-carbro looks wonderful, with something of the hazy density of colour of autochrome. But as a commercial process it became really too slow: it took Outerbridge up to nine hours to make a good print – and he only made good prints.  They also cost him $150 dollars each to make in the money of the time. That didn’t give his clients many to choose from.  At the same time, new processes, including dye transfer, were beginning to be not only available, but capable of very fine results.

He started to make nudes, variously described as ‘risqué’, ‘avant-garde’, and so on.  A catalogue description on the Met Museum’s website accompanying one of them still purses its lips in prudish disapproval:

Photographing nude models in color in the 1930s was challenging—not only in the difficulty of correctly capturing skin tones using complicated new processes, but also because finding a venue to publish or exhibit the work was unlikely. Although he began by posing his models in the manner of painted masterpieces, Outerbridge’s compositions became increasingly provocative in the late 1930s. The sexualized charge and commercial palette of works such as this were not in keeping with attitudes of the period and were not shown

And then indeed, not shown becomes the phrase of his life. There was a scandal of some sort about the nudes.  I seem to remember (but cannot now find) a description of him drinking too much in the late 1930s.  He moved to Laguna Beach in California and sort of .. dwindled until his death in 1959.

But it’s enough. The influence of the wonderful things that he made goes in all sorts of directions.  Plainly, some of the lovingly crafted still life studies of Irving Penn owe a lot to Outerbridge (I’m thinking most particularly of the lovely Composition with Triangle of 1985, done for Fuji, very similar to the Kandinsky here in its treatment of specifically photographic objects).  The famous studies of tools that Walker Evans made in the 1950s have a loving memory of Outerbridge platinum about them – and it’s hard to imagine that Guy Bourdin had never looked at Outerbridge.

It goes on, to a surprisingly contemporary degree. This Kandinsky, for example, with its deliberate look of an experimental set-up and its deliberate references to technical photographic equipment (the timer in the foreground, those sheets of background paper, but also the greyscale just visible, tacked to the wall at the very top of the picture, which reads Kodak) seems a clear precursor of the work Christopher Williams has made, braiding and rebraiding the differences between photographic space and the space it depicts.

Outerbridge does sit at crossroads that go in many directions.  He was a first-rate commercial person, and a first-rate artist, too.  He’s American informed by Europe, he’s interested in film.  He is not frightened to make fetishistic photographs but refuses to compromise by using Kodachrome until it’s too late for his career.

That’s partly why I want to add this to my little fantasy collection; I like that so many things meet in this picture. There was a reproduction of Outerbridge’s Images de Deauville, rather similar to this, but less mysterious, on the cover of a Thames & Hudson book called Photography as Fine Art, published in the early 1980s and which I used enthusiastically as a guide.  That may be part of it, too.

The first actual prints I saw were shown to me by the late and regretted Paul Kasmin, who died earlier this year. I can’t remember the date, but he had not left London at the time for New York, so perhaps in the mid-1980s. They were nudes, certainly, and while not pornographic, they had an enthusiastic sexual vigour about them which might well have put off the very different audiences of thirty or forty years earlier (at least in public).

This picture itself, apparently so obviously a branded advertisement, is in fact nothing of the sort.  It’s a training exercise, but a virtuoso one, a bit like watching Roger Federer hit balls before a final. That’s why the whole of its left side has that informal, edge-of-the-set feel. The crumple in the bit of paper, the unresolved shadow on the far wall, the papers not pulled to edge of the table. The first challenge was that splash of red; could a champion colour printer save it from being bullied by the yellow? Outerbridge could.  I see the allusions to Kandinsky, but I don’t fully understand this picture.  I’m not going to get bored of it, thinking I know it too well.  Only this morning, as I sat down to write this, did I realise that for some years I have enjoyed the little joke of that Z in the brand name on the bottle magnified in the white measuring rod which snakes across the table. That itself for some reason has an arrowed double ZZ printed upon it every few inches. I’d seen that many times, but without really acknowledging to myself how much pleasure it gave. Only a second ago, I noticed that Outerbridge took a pull at the bottle at some stage before making the picture – the level is below the neck label that bears the single word Italy.

One thing I do know, is that Outerbridge is in there himself, as shadowy as he was in reality, lurking crouched in that silver dunce’s cap, watching us watching him. I even think he wrapped himself in a cloak of some kind to avoid being distinct.

This print was sold for $241,000 in a Sotheby’s sale in New York in 2008.  I can’t afford it.  Too bad.  This is Hodgson’s Choice, and I can have it if I want it.  And I do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Premise is Simple; the Tone is Jolly

The fact is, it seems, that the most you can hope is to be a little less, in the end, the creature you were in the beginning, and the middle.

Spoken by Molloy, riding his bicycle – Samuel Beckett, Molloy, 1951

 

John Grierson’s group of public-information film makers at the Empire Marketing Board – often identified as the acorn from which grew the whole of British documentary film – were scattered when it was closed in 1933. Many went with Grierson himself to the GPO, the Post Office. Edgar Anstey was one of those who made that move, and then moved on.

Anstey eventually became, in 1949, the head of the film unit set up by the British Transport Commission.  Under Anstey, British Transport Films, like the GPO before them, and like several private-sector equivalents at firms like Shell, made hundreds of films promoting public transport – including British Railways, nationalised in 1948 and the inland waterways, nationalised in 1947. Their tone, inevitably in the economic hard times after the Second war, was very much ‘make do and mend’ – persuading the public in lots of ways that the long-lasting austerity of the post-war exhaustion was good for the nation. Remember that the good times did not simply magically get switched on after VE day.  Food rationing – which we apprehensively wonder about in these days of the coronavirus – did not end until 1954. It is perfectly plausible to argue that prosperity didn’t really return until twenty years after the war ended (and then only for some) –  and that the Swinging Sixties was when the nation at last began to let its breath out. Those films were internal propaganda in hard times – to be situated somewhere on a spectrum between the Reithian BBC and Beaverbrook’s Daily Express.

One of these films, made by a team under Anstey, is a relatively well-known and very enjoyable one made by British Transport Films in 1956 called Cyclists’ Special.  It gets Tweeted and Instagrammed periodically as somebody new discovers it. You can see it (free, through the good graces of the British Film Institute) here :

Cyclists Special, 1956, via BFI

The premise is simple; the tone is jolly.  The idea is that British Railways would tack a few freight wagons adapted to carrying bikes (the adaptation stretched to rubber-covered hooks to hang the machines by their front wheels) on the back of an excursion train from Willesden Junction or Watford to Rugby, thus allowing people to get out of the city and ride loops around such joys as the monument to the battle of Naseby, with cheery stops in the pub on the way. It’s an interesting piece of film history and social history in its own right, and in my view (but I’m very ignorant of film) these public service films are under-appreciated.  But that’s not the only reason to bring this particular one to your attention.

I notice the bikes, beautiful and now probably very classic British lightweights for the most part, and I notice the people on them.  Those people are rangy and tough, certainly, and their average weight far lower than we’re used to seeing today.  But they are also quite a wide cross-section in age: some are young, some much older.  Many of them carry cameras, too.  The camera and the bike share many things in common, from their nineteenth century origins and mechanical consistency through the years, to the powerful democratising effect they have both had.  Although the bikes in the film are lighter than the heavy roadsters many would have used around towns, they have remarkably little special equipment to distinguish them from an ordinary commuter. The cyclists were recruited for the film from among members of the venerable touring club the Cyclist’s Touring Club, founded in 1878.  There are still occasional CTC badges to be seen on the youth hostels or cafes or pubs they approved, dotted around the country in a manner exactly parallel to the rather more common AA badges that offer assurances for the quality of service in hotels for motorists, for long before the AA, the CTC was a members’ organisation of great reach and importance. It still exists, oversensitively rebranded as Cycling UK to avoid excluding those who take no interest in touring – for the old CTC took the Touring part of their title seriously. They made maps, published routes, they ran meetings which included strenuous gallops of many tens of miles.

This film dates from pretty closely the same time as the Rough-Stuff Fellowship, founded in 1955, which was a sort of offshoot or sub-set of the Cyclists’ Touring Club. It gives you a wonderful chance to see what these people looked like.

The Rough-Stuff Fellowship still exists, a very distinctive (and almost caricaturally British) association of cyclists whose particular relish is to go where it’s not really possible to bicycle at all. While the machines used by the members have changed a little, the spirit has really not.  They still like routes arduous to the point of impassibility, and they still share an ethos of non-competition in which brewing mugs of tea in wild locations acquires considerable importance.  They make adventures for themselves, and are changed by their adventures.  In 2019, The Rough-Stuff Fellowship Archive appeared, a book devoted to them, part tribute, part lifestyle guide.  It’s also fully a photographic book, and a very interesting one.  This is about that book, and although it’s taken me some words to get here, most of the pictures that follow come from it.

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According to Mark Hudson, the archivist of the Rough-Stuff Fellowship, “a gentleman called Bill Paul was inspired by the writings and lantern shows of a chap who went by the name of Wayfarer, a keen advocate of tracks and the lesser trodden path. Bill put out a series of adverts in local and national press to see if there was interest in starting a club for similar minded folk. There was an immediate and positive response. Around 40 people turned up for the inaugural meeting, and quickly the membership grew into the hundreds.”  Remember, this is in the mid-1950s, long before the invention of mountain bikes and mountain biking.

Illustration for The Open Road, Wayfarer's lecture given under the auspices of the CTC on December 8th 1921 in Liverpool.

Illustration for ‘The Open Road’, Wayfarer’s lecture given under the auspices of the CTC on December 8th 1921 in Liverpool.

Somewhere a Road is Calling Patterson Cycling Mag 1919

Somewhere a Road is Calling. Frank Patterson cover for Cycling Magazine, 1919

Frank Patterson,  Westmorland Wanderings, 1931

Frank Patterson, Westmorland Wanderings, 1931

The ‘chap’ whose influence they acknowledged was Walter MacGregor Robinson, a Liverpool insurance agent who wrote of riding the mountains of North Wales for Cycling Magazine in the period immediately after the Great War, and whose lectures on cycling were immensely popular.  They tapped into something of the same feeling of the greatest of all cycling artists, Frank Patterson, whose illustrations were in the same journal, that an idyll could be found if one put the miles in.  In modern terms, no doubt they were right, too.  Plainly, for people actually damaged in the war, either in the trenches or at home, or for people whose world-view had been badly shaken up by the post-war world, plain outdoor exercise would have helped recovery, physical or mental.

A much later – and also a hugely popular advocate of bicycling as a refuge of sanity in an otherwise over-hasty, over-consuming world, Richard Ballantine, was to be influenced by precisely the same thinking and always paid his tributes to off-road cycling, to MacGregor, and to Patterson. Richard’s Bicycle Book, as it was called, first published in 1972, was maybe responsible for a similar resurgence in interest in bicycling.  And there’ll be another one along soon. Bicycling ‘lost’ a huge battle of public relations to the motor lobby in the early twentieth century, notably in the United States. But its basic attractions, of expanding the human range (and maybe individual freedom) at low cost, of a mechanically extraordinarily effective machine which can go a hundred miles or more on two bananas and a few throatfuls of water, tend to recur in the public imagination every so often.

It is slightly hard to throw one’s mind back.  Sometime in the 1990s, perhaps a little earlier, outdoor activity of all kinds became a consumerist arena, and the particular marketing ploy that became its driver was subdivision. It wasn’t enough to have a rucksack, for example.  You had to have a bag allegedly specific to your kind of activity.  Look in your own cupboards now, if you don’t believe me.  You have more rucksacks than you need, maybe several more. Same with sports shoes, which have morphed into a zillion variants, with coats, even with leggings and such apparently sport-indifferent kit.  The proliferation of bikes and bike gear, became so absurd that even the shopkeepers could no longer tell you the differences between machines marketed into ever tinier niches.   Cyclo-cross?  Hard-tail? Oh, no, Madam, you’ll be wanting a gravel bike.

Rough-stuff predates all that. It predates the Rough-Stuff Fellowship, too, come to think of it.  There must be many Clarion clubs that cycled rough roads long before the 1950s. The early Tour de France went up goat tracks. Rough-stuff riding involves a degree of hardship, an avoidance of cossetting. It definitely involves no-nonsense knees, of any gender, exposed in any weather. It was something that ‘ordinary’ people did on more-or-less ordinary bikes. It had something of the ethos of the Mass Trespass on Kinder Scout, in 1932, described once by Roy Hattersley, the former Deputy Leader of the Labour Party as “the most successful direct action in British history”. The Mass Trespass formalised the wide popular appeal of rambling over the countryside and led directly, in 1951, to the establishment of the first National Park in the Peak District. That was only a few years before the launch of the Rough-Stuff Fellowship. Rough-stuff was outdoor leisure of a similar kind to rambling, similar to the tough non-pricey sailing that was contrasted to the very different business of ‘yachting’, similar to climbing, even perhaps with something in common with Scouting.  It was for working people, whatever their line of work. They made their own entertainment, often around a camp fire.  They stayed in Britain, at first, because mass jet-travel had not yet arrived.  Rough-stuff riding involved camping, basic cooking, mending one’s own machines. Those riding rough-stuff might well spend a (relative) lot of money on a machine marketed as a tourer by Mercian or by Holdsworth or by Ellis Briggs, or they might even try going up mountains on what was called an Audax bike (there’s the beginning of specialisation for you – it just meant a lighter ‘fast touring’ bike) but it wasn’t really a shopping activity.

cycling Super-Nomad

The Bertram Dudley Nomad, 84/- in Gaberdine, 116/6 in Poplin

Which is not to assume that hours and hours of highly technical conversation weren’t a part of the joy of the thing: I’m sure they were. The great jacket of those days – or at least the one that all the nostalgia fiends looking back claim was the one – was called a Greenspot Nomad, made by Bertram Dudley of Cleckheaton in Yorkshire. It was made of a tightly woven gaberdine, and apart from pockets designed to hold an Ordnance Survey map and pockets in that position (beloved of cyclists) over your kidneys reachable while riding, it also had a zip that stopped well short of the hem, to allow free movement for thighs pedalling.   But look carefully at the pictures in the book and you’ll see as much non-gear as gear.  Ordinary flannel shirts, windbreakers, even town shoes of whichever kind worked OK on the bike. Almost all the saddle bags in the pictures are Carradice – also canvas, but much stouter, almost unbending canvas, like something from the heavier end of the sail locker. That’s still made, in Nelson, Lancashire, where CLR James and Learie Constantine played their cricket for a while in the 1930s.  But second-hand army stuff was pretty good for a lot of kit.  I took a while to work out what the circular brass fitting was that hangs off the top tube of a lot of bikes in the RSF archive book; but the RSF Instagram sorted me out in the end. It’s a Primus stove with a special bike attachment called a Terry clip. As I say, I’m sure gear of all sorts was part of the pleasure; but I don’t think the Rough-Stuff people were particularly worried about shopping.  Old and worn and proven seems to have been better than new and not quite tough enough. Look at those people in the film.

Archivist Mark Hudson has got together with writer Max Leonard, founder of a specialist outdoor and cycling publisher called Isola Press, to produce the book (Isola Press, £28.00).  Many of the reviews have centred on the eccentricity or quirkiness of the Rough-Stuff people, and there’s something to that.  I myself used the word caricatural a few lines ago. Yet I don’t think it’s the caricature that’s the most important thing here. Sure, one can laugh at the stoic qualities displayed – often in the rain.  It’s very noticeable that in the whole book there are far more pictures of people pushing bikes than riding them (because if you do choose to ride on narrow tyres on unmade roads there will be many miles that you simply can’t ride.)  I enjoy all that a lot: pictures of people pushing bikes through rivers, or lowering them on ropes down cliff faces, or up to the cranks in snow.

If you enjoy that, too, it’s very simple.  Buy the book, which is a delight, and follow https://www.instagram.com/rsfarchive/, which is another.

Yorkshire 1976

Yorkshire, 1976

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This seems strenuous, even by RSF standards

The bicycle may seem ill-adapted to the conditions

The bicycle may seem ill-adapted to the conditions

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Crossing the Maize Beck, 1955

Crossing the Maize Beck, 1955

S. Ireland 1955

S. Ireland, 1955. Do notice that those are tandems, which are often fast on a road, but very heavy being pushed uphill.

Ingleborough 1957

Ingleborough, 1957. It’s like taking an old and favoured but now lame dog for a walk. You carry it almost all the way.

Glen Doll Scotland ~ 1959

Glen Doll Scotland, 1959. Here is one example of the Terry clamp holding a Primus tank to the top tube.

But there’s another thing.

This is a rather good photographic book.  It is proper social history, of an informal kind, certainly, but still …  There is a principal author in the person of Bob Harrison, who is credited with the majority of the photographs (and the distinguished outdoor photographer Henry Iddon has supplied new pictures of the archive itself, including views of slides laid out for editing, wooden drawers of miniature plan-chests crammed with 35millimetre slides and so on).  This is a wholly respectable, wholly fair exploration of a sub-group through its archive.  It gives a plentiful element of context, good original material to study (including much in the way of maps and diaries and reproduced magazine pages that goes far beyond the photographs themselves). It reproduces many photographs which are both crammed with interesting detail and redolent of their time and of the groups they came from. This is, in other words, a book of serious intent which stands mainly on the photographs it brings together, on the context in which they are shown, and on the background furnished with them. Yet it has, as far as I know, made no ripples of any kind in that corner of the world which admires and discusses photobooks.

This seems to me quite a revealing failing. Now, it seems, only those things which are self-consciously ‘fine’ photographs draw the attention of the people self-consciously interested in photography, and a fairly naïve, fairly un-self-conscious collection of pictures like this one simply doesn’t count.  Some of the cycling community have taken to this book with curiosity, with an open-minded interest in what it shows and what it reminds us of.  It advertises today more than £50,000 on its Kickstarter account, a sum to make green many hundreds of self-publishing photographers scraping about for ways to cover the costs of their hope for an audience.  The RSF Archive book makes a wonderful coronavirus book of escapism and absurdity and the possibility of dancing down into the next valley.  But it wasn’t conceived as that.  It is a proper collection of photographs. There’s honour to the people who did the riding in there, and also honour to those who made and edited the pictures. It does have a jolly tone, certainly, and its premise is not complex. But it’s none the worse for that. It’s also an invitation to re-think, perhaps to a world in which standing around in yellow capes was itself a pleasure. Why does that largely miss the world of photography? Is photography now only to be considered when it’s about previous photographs?

Flydal Gorge Viewpoint Norway 1965

 

 

 

 

Show and Tell : The Image in Research

Berenice Abbott Loaded Swinging Wrench 1958

Berenice Abbott. An Asymmetrical Object Behaves Symmetrically. Loaded Swinging Wrench, 1958

Berenice Abbott Wave Reflection 1950s

Berenice Abbott.  Reflection of Waves, 1950s

We’re told – and it seems very likely – that the third age of the internet will be the visual age.  At a recent edition of the annual LDV Summit, Evan Nisselson confidently said “Ninety percent of the data Artificial Intelligence needs to succeed, I believe, is going to be visual”. Nisselson’s a booster. As the founder of LDV, a venture capital firm investing in visually-driven new technology, he plainly has interest all over statements like that. Seen from where most of us stand today, the ‘internet of things’ is fairly restricted. Fridges might have cameras to read the sell-by dates on milk cartons and doorbells might be connected to apps to allow you to see your visitors when you aren’t at home – but we don’t for the most part yet see far beyond those fairly trivial gadgetty developments.  Yet Nisselson most assuredly has a point: we’re heading to a visually driven internet, and it’s been coming a long time.  Big data is a thing; and it’s here.  We’re getting to the place where seeing things displayed intelligibly is going to be the only way to have any understanding of them at all.  Have a look even at some of the simple tools of graphical display; look at the tools on Gapminder.com, for example. If you haven’t checked in with this stuff for a few years, you’ll be amazed at what is now routine. At the other end of the process, computers are acquiring the facility to make use of more and more information gathered visually.  Quite soon – if we haven’t got there already – more pictures will be generated by machines to be read by machines, with only occasional human inspection or audit, than are made by people for people. Computers deal in numbers so huge we can’t really see what they’re up to.

 

The one thing you can say with certainty about a computer is that it doesn’t understand what it tells.  Garbage in; garbage out used to be the litany but you could write a parallel one: big numbers in; big numbers out.  No need for the computer to make metaphors, use allegory or innuendo. Computers don’t allude or suggest or imply or remind.  They just puke out the numbers.  For the humans among us, with slower mathematical processors but far more complex and complete systems all the same, there has always had to be a more satisfactory interface between the data and our understanding.  Since the first story from the Bible was stained into glass and positioned to catch the sun high on a cathedral wall – long before that, in truth – that interface has as often as not been visual. What we like to do, when we don’t understand something completely, is make a picture of it.  It seems clearer that way. We can see obvious flaws in a picture that we can’t in a stream of numbers, a syllogism, or a few pages of code.  Computers fast enough to process huge volumes of data (just-in-time supply chains; facial recognition; fly-by-wire systems; virtual reality; global positioning and geo-tagging…) will do things that we can’t.  But we’ll keep in touch with those things in pictures because that’s the only way we can understand or hope to keep up.  The visual, in other words, is expanding.

We think of research as an occupation which finds its expression in writing (classically in the Research Paper published in an Academic Journal) but it can take many other forms.  Think of an old map with its large patches marked Terra Incognita or – better – Here be Dragons.  By marking what wasn’t known, that made a clear statement of where previous research had stopped – as well as an invitation to go in the future to find out what might be there.  A university such as the University of Brighton, where I work, is filled with people using imagery in their research and using it in all sorts of different ways.  A pie chart clumps numbers of instances of something in conveniently legible form.  An organigram might well be the first expression at a time of corporate change: it shows a complex set of relationships in a single sheet, graphically rendering something invisible visible.  A moving pointer shows sound levels  – or any of one thousands of other variables.

We can simplify and say there are two kinds of images in research.  There are those that show things which the researcher intends to address.  We can think of those as input imagery.  A collection of still photographs of broken turbine blades, for example, might be a very valuable beginning of an enquiry.  Different in kind are the charts and graphs and myriad other expressive ways of showing the results of research: this number did that; another number did something else.  This behaviour was expected; this actually resulted. A given group of variables can be grouped this way; another that other way. We might think of those as output imagery, helpful to transmitting the research process or results with clarity and speed.

But a simple taxonomy of this kind doesn’t begin to address the range and scope of possible visual expressions that come into research or come out of it.  That’s why we have brought together a few examples of colleagues’ work just to begin to suggest the scope of a vast subject.  How research comes to be visualised will be at the core of the new dependence on the visual ­– and we can expect a new literacy in the visual to make sense of it.  We’re putting on a little exhibition of current images to show how central is the role taken by images and imagination in the research processes.

It started a long time ago.  Our contemporary researchers are advancing habits of thought which already exist; are already old. You’ve heard of Florence Nightingale?  Remember her, the Lady with the Lamp, patiently ministering to wounded soldiers in the Crimea?  The convenient (but essentially sexist) view is that she was a nurse; she tended to men far from their loved ones who had been hurt or fallen sick in service.  Buried beneath that Ladybird view is another.  Florence Nightingale made herself a most remarkable statistician, and used her mastery of data to campaign for change – with success.  Florence Nightingale invented the rose chart, a strong representation of data by area, and she used it to devastating effect. One example among very many of the ways in which visualisation wins the challenges of understanding.

Chart Prepared for WEB Du Bois to Exhibit at Paris 1900

‘Assessed Valuation of Taxable Property Owned by Georgia Negroes’. Chart Prepared for W.E.B. Du Bois to Exhibit at Paris Exposition Universelle of 1900. Library of Congress.

Chart prepared for WEB Du Bois to Paris 1900

‘Occupations of Negroes And Whites in Georgia’. Chart prepared for W.E.B. Du Bois to display at the Exposition Universelle in Paris, 1900. Library of Congress

A similar one a few years later comes from another great social reformer, W.E.B. Du Bois, who prepared elaborate charts to express the economic condition of the black population of the United States for the Paris Exposition Universelle in 1900. It’s tempting to push the point: the famous pump in Broad Street in Soho whose handle was removed in 1854 by John Snow once he’d plotted the occurrences of cholera round about it was an actual pump with an actual handle.  Stopping it from working was a physical way of stopping the dirty water from being consumed, and it certainly slowed the spread of the epidemic.  But it was also a strongly graphical representation of the results of his research: Snow the meticulous data-cruncher found the perfect illustration to make his point.  Stop the pumping and you stop the disease.  A pump: cholera.  A pump amputated of its handle: cholera diminished.

Many specialists can do you a history of infographics more complete than I can,  and many other universities have assembled groups of research pictures.  There is a well-travelled formal history of this stuff, of course.  A lot of what is called by the portmanteau word infographics ( information graphics ) derives from sources perfectly known.

Playfair

‘Linear Chronology Exhibiting the Revenues, Expenditure, Debt, Price of Stocks and Bread from 1770 to 1824’ by William Playfair.

The English political economist William Playfair invented or perfected in the late eighteenth century many of the familiar charts we use still today.  A Playfair chart had perfectly recognizable elements : named regular values along an x- and a y-axis for example; careful use of colour; the certainty (as he put it) that ‘whatever can be expressed in numbers, may be expressed in lines’ .  Playfair was a far more colourful figure than many researchers: so much so that he would make a tremendous subject for a racy filmed Life.  He was at one time apprenticed to Boulton and Watt, the refiners of the steam engine, and at another so active in Paris that he was rumoured among those who stormed the Bastille.  More certainly he ran a business making gun-carriages and was also convicted of fraud.  Playfair’s important; but he did not invent it all.

Priestley-Chart-of-History-1769_lowres-3000x1957

Joseph Priestley. A New Chart of History. Published April 1769. This copy via ‘Boston Rare Maps’.

Some of his chart work derived from some by Joseph Priestley, the greatest of all British enlightenment savants: Dissenter, Member of the Birmingham Society of Lunar Men, friend of Benjamin Franklin, discoverer (or co-discoverer with Lavoisier), of dephlogisticated air – what we now call oxygen.  For people trying to offer ready grasp of exponentially more data than had been normally dealt with even a generation before, it seems natural that late eighteenth century scholars would devise versions of charts.  As in our own generation, there was then such a quantum jump in the information calling to be processed, that a heavier reliance on picturing seems a reasonable and – if you can overlook a momentary historicist elision ­– almost an inevitable outcome.

Again and again, we see the forms of visualisation become more influential in each specific area than might have been predicted. I am told by an ophthalmologist that photography (my own area) had at one time been a useful possible form of note-taking in her work, as in many others.  But the sweep of inference rapidly to be drawn from the pictures had pushed the role of photography ever deeper into the field.  Now, I understand, photography is the primary diagnostic tool for ophthalmologists – and far from furnishing a simple aide-memoire, it is central. That is a familiar history in photography.  Imagery helps to make things clear to the specialists; imagery becomes the prime way to make things clear to the non-specialists. What I hadn’t realised is that the same expansion has been familiar in so many other fields, too.

Minard - mouvement commercial du Canal du centre 1844

Charles Minard – Mouvement Commercial du Canal du centre 1844 (Traffic movement on the Canal du Centre in 1844). In the same way that French schoolchildren are convinced the potato was brought into regular use by Antoine Parmentier whereas British children think of Raleigh in that context, so Minard (rather than Playfair) is the father of chart data in France. Parmentier, by the way, was a contemporary and correspondent of Voltaire. Raleigh died more than a century before Parmentier was born, although as usual in these national claims to priority, each can be credited with part of the story.

Economic growth versus deforest

A ( to me ) wonderfully unreadable contemporary chart of Economic Growth plotted against Deforestation. It gives lovely order; but perhaps rather less understanding. Many images in research contexts do the same – or the opposite.

Agassiz

The Crust of the Earth as Related to Zoology. Louis Agassiz and A. A. Gould, 1870. This lovely anti-Darwinian arrangement shown simply as a page reproduction from Animal Vegetable Mineral: Organising Nature, A Picture Album: Tim Dee, Anna Faherty, Wellcome Collection, 2016

Much of the inventiveness to date has been in fields we know.  Playfair worked a lot on economic data, and we all know the familiar figure of the newsreader airily guiding us around charts of the economic news (unemployment figures; inflation; foreign exchange rates…). I mentioned maps, and there have been generations of new types of maps, all seeking to present a particular kind of clarity.  The very idea of a map projection, flattening the globe, is an attempt to visualise research data; different projections have different uses.  Harry Beck’s famous map of the London Underground from the 1930s does the same thing: it strives to make sense of the wiggly complexity of a system too big by then to be readily held in the head of a traveller.

Booth's poverty Map, 1898

One Section (of a dozen) of Charles Booth’s ‘Poverty Maps’ of London, 1898. London School of Economics

Florence Kelley - Hull House Map of Poverty in Chicago - brothels on clark Street

Florence Kelley – Hull House Map of Poverty in Chicago – showing brothels on Clark Street, published in 1895. This work was indebted to the Booth maps.

original_517a647f77c578f086594b981700037e

Metropolitan Town Planning Commission Map of Melbourne Time Zones, c.1910.

Map of locations of record covers in Greenwich Village and East Village

Map of Locations of Record Cover Photography in Greenwich Village and in the East Village from popspotnyc.com

humboldt1805-chimborazo

Alexander von Humboldt. Chart of the Flora and Fauna Found at Different Altitudes on Chimborazo. 1805.

Plan of Routes BEA and BOAC

Schema of Operation of Routes by the British Overseas Airways Corporation shortly after the War and Corporate Mergers, 1946. Via Paul Jarvis, Mapping The Airways, Amberley Publishing, 2016

Charles W Baker 1924 artwork camden

Charles W Baker. The Underground railway junction at Camden Town, drawn in 1924 as ‘London’s Newest Wonder’ for a poster – to boast 160 trains per hour.

Is it too much of a generalisation to say that mapping is the area where experimentation to make the visual expression of the widest range of variables has been most developed? It may be so.  A map of the Melbourne suburbs shows travel time as more important than distance, always true for commuters. The great Alexander von Humboldt makes a famous combination of a map and a table as he climbs laboriously up Chimborazo, then thought the highest mountain in the world, a truly momentous announcement of the ecological relationship between altitude and latitude.

16th C copy of an illustration of Avicenna -11th C- of the muscular system

Sixteenth century copy of an illustration by Avicenna (eleventh century) of the muscular system. Wellcome Collection.

Modern cutaway drawing by Bruno Betil of 1936 Topolino

Modern cutaway drawing by Bruno Betil of the 1936 Fiat Topolino. I have never seen a history of the cutaway drawing although I’m sure there are many good ones. It was once a highly original and remains now a very effective way of depicting that which you can’t see.

 

Touch Maps Hazard & Willian v Burnley

Touch Maps of the Chelsea players Eden Hazard (L) and Willian Borges da Silva (R) in the Premier League match vs Burnley in September 2016. Charts via the Premier League

 

Rank15

Rank of the riders on successive stages of the Tour de France cycle race, showing the difference between relatively uneventful days and those with more movement in the field.

But there has been plenty of this work in other fields, too. In some areas, data has become almost a parallel to the main activity.  Medicine of all sorts relies on data: think of the chart at the end of a patient’s hospital bed – the completing of which sometimes feels more important to the staff than any interaction with the patient.

Stephen Jay Gould wrote a famous essay on statistics and baseball, and many discussions about sport start and end with the stats.  The advances are not just in display, but in data collection: Premier League soccer players are routinely tracked around the field as they play, and remarkable statistics evolved (and made available for sale) about their movement.  This in a sport famous – unlike cricket, for example – for the simplicity of its scoring system and therefore its apparent resistance to statistical overload.  Cricket has been at it longer: the elegant formulae of the cricket score-book have passed into the language, with the ‘dot-ball’ moving from the stats to the sport, rather than the other way as is more usual.  In a piece on the new possibilities for football managers to monitor increasingly complex data from the players while the game is actually in process, my colleague Peter Lloyd quoted the philosopher Julian Baggini in talking of the quantified self, ‘an approach to living which encourages the relentless gathering of data about everything related to our wellbeing, from health and fitness indicators like heart rate and cholesterol levels, to time spent on social media or learning new skills. All this data is supposedly used to make us leaner, fitter, happier, more efficient.’  We all know at least one person who chooses to suspend their free will in such matters as what to eat (or when) in favour of the unknown designer of the app they look to for guidance in that area. Everybody with an Apple Watch knows what it means to live as much in the graphs as in real life.

Beethoven, another page from o. Sonata 111, op.32

A page from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 111, op. 32.

Beethoven, a page from o. Sonata 111, op.32

Another page from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 111, op. 32. With a few more such illustrations, we could easily begin to see how Thomas Mann might have described (he put the words into the mouth of Wendell Kretszchmar in the eighth chapter of Dr. Faustus) this great sonata as the one which killed off the sonata altogether.

90 secs of Dance Notated by Rudolf Laban

Ninety Seconds of Dance, annotated by Rudolf Laban

Some visualisations, it has to be said, are more successful than others.  Western musical notation is a graceful and readily understood transcription of the mathematics of pitch and rhythm.  To watch a fluent sight-reader making music from an unknown score is to be readily convinced of the precision of the ideas conveyed. Musical notation is a little less successful at transcribing tone, perhaps. The sight-reader knows the tone because of his or her own instrument; the notation has little to say about the colour or voice of the music to one who might not know the instrument intended.  Still, it’s precise compared to dance notation, say, which seems to leave room for interpretation in the very fundamentals of the art: gesture, movement, and expression.

Visualisation is always metaphorical, allusive.  Any way of visualising complex effects will have slippages.  The question is which ones are built in to the research and which are not. I’m reminded of the oft-quoted tag attributed to Laszlo Moholy-Nagy who is supposed to have said “The illiterate of the future will not be he who is ignorant of the pen but he who is ignorant of photography”. Walter Benjamin gave this phrase its impetus, and his version was this “Nicht der Schrift-, sondern der Photographieunkundige wird, so hat man gesagt, der Analphabet der Zukunft sein.”

The researchers of today are furiously accumulating the data, as we know. With the help of computers on steroids, they are accumulating it in such quantities that we cannot easily process the results.  So at the same time, they are inventing the new visual grammar of the future.  And it’s fair to notice that neither their Dr. Johnson nor their Noam Chomsky has yet appeared.  We simply don’t yet know the codes by which we, the visual generation of the new machine age, will analyse and make sense of the pictures which will have such an important part in controlling us.

Historically, much of that work has been done in photography.  People have always read pictures; but photography is the place where we learnt to read pictures at high speed, across cultures, for usable relevant information urgently needed.  It may well be that other vocabularies and syntaxes are going to be developed; but they will stand on the piles of photographs we have already tried to make sense of. It is in photography that we learnt to process visual information in bulk – and it may well be that we need to look to the habits of mind we acquired there to help us make sense of the new mountains of information we are heaping (we already have heaped) up around ourselves.  Those mountains of data, like the dust heaps in Our Mutual Friend, are the potential source of both great prosperity and great menace.  So it is urgent that we know how to make use of them.

We need to develop new and revelatory ways to picture data; and that seems to be happening at a great rate.  But we also need to develop new and reliable ways for humans to read those pictures, and that may not be happening quite so quickly.

Xavi Bou 2

Ornitography_38

Xavi Bou

Three photographs of the tracks of birds, by Xavi Bou, from his series ‘Ornithologies’ (seen via http://www.laboiteverte.fr/ – to whom thanks). Even the familiar world does not look familiar when its images take a less than usual relationship between time and place.

original_395437220d7f15495f86f73fd1340fbf

An ‘outsider’ graphic by George Widener, known as a ‘lightning calendar calculator’. Widener is widely held in art galleries and there are films about his work. Is his seeming incomprehensibility different in kind from that of many makers of graphics we recognise more formally as ‘researchers’ ?

 

Ulises Carrion

Another disruptive graph, this time by the great ( and weird ) maker of artist’s books, Ulises Carrión. This one, from about 1972, is Untitled (Margins). It is perhaps a graph whose inhuman regularity has been interrupted to leave some room for the human.

 

Circos Genome Software

Circos is software for visualising a whole genome: “Displays large volumes of genomic rearrangement data. Circos is a visualization tool that applies a circular ideogram layout to display relationships between genomic intervals. The software provides a scalable means to illustrate relationships between genomic positions and is designed to allow flexible and easy rearrangement of elements in the image.” Brayton Orchard, The Ohio State University.  As often happens, this image implies a lot that was simply unthinkable a few years ago. Good or bad? We don’t yet know. But if only researchers can read it properly, how can the ethics that apply to it and the social adjustments that derive from it be adequately sorted out?

 

A small estuary seahorse- Hippocampus kuda- drifts in the polluted waters near Sumbawa Besar- Sumbara Island- Indonesia. Justin Hofman

A small estuary seahorse – Hippocampus kuda – drifts in the polluted waters near Sumbawa Besar- Sumbara Island- Indonesia. Photograph by Justin Hofman. tThis kind of imagery goes back to an older version of visualisation of data. Knowing about plastic pollution and seeing a picture like this are different things. For pictures of this weight – hard not to see something is badly wrong here – we know how to extrapolate the thousand words the single view is supposedly worth.

 

Show and Tell – the Image in Research.    29 April – 10 May 2019

Under the auspices of the Creative Futures of the University of Brighton

At the Edward Street Gallery in

the School of Media of

the University of Brighton: BN2 0JG – UK.

Open Monday – Friday, 10am – 6pm; and 10am – 4pm on Saturday

There is a not-at-all-Private View on 26th April 2019 in the evening, 5:30pm – 7:30pm.  Anybody who is interested and within reach of Brighton is welcome.

 

Like A Toothbrush, It Does the Job – Don McCullin

homeless irishman near spitalfields 1969

Sir Don McCullin – Homeless Irishman Near Spitalfields, 1969

Sir Don McCullin was the marquee name at the 2016 edition of PhotoLondon. (He wasn’t  knighted, as a matter of fact until the New Year Honours list of that same year, a few months later.)  I was asked to write various texts in that connection, including the words to go on wall panels for a very fine one-man exhibition that Hamilton’s – his gallery for many years –  put on in his honour.  I wrote two more general pieces at that time, which I reproduce here in advance of his retrospective show opening at Tate Britain in 2019, which will once again put his name in the headlines. That will run 5 February – 6 May 2019.

The first of them is a curiosity – the formal address I was asked to make to mark McCullin’s being appointed the PhotoLondon Master of Photography for that year.  He was embarrassed to hear it, and I was more than embarrassed to give it.  I was a sweating, stuttering wreck, to be honest.  Who could possibly enjoy giving such a speech in front of the man it described?

The second was a catalogue piece to accompany the Hamilton’s exhibition, a more usual format for me, which was published (a slight variant) in the PhotoLondon guide for visitors.  Neither is easily accessible for most people. Together they both make the point which I still think worth underlining, that McCullin was never only a photographer.  He was always a tremendous journalist – who happened to use a camera as most traditionally used a typewriter and some sometimes a tape-recorder.  There is a kind of snobbery in isolating McCullin by the tool of his trade which limits our appreciation of his high talent.

These pieces overlap as I repeat myself across the pair of them.  I hope that doesn’t matter too much as they add up to a whole.

early morning, west hartlepool, 1963

Sir Don McCullin – Early Morning West Hartlepool, 1963

 

Ladies and Gentlemen,

It is customary on these occasions to make an introduction.  But I can hardly introduce you to someone you all know.  Don McCullin is with good reason the best known name in British photography, and if some of you don’t know the person before you here today, you all know the work almost intimately well .

I hardly need to bring to your mind that there is no end of places in the world where cruelty is allowed to flourish for advantage; and that there is still a very large number of photographers who make some part of their living by showing us the manifold horrors to be found in those places.  For most, I’m afraid, it is simply a question of getting to the site of whatever famine or war or other crisis, making pictures without seeing too much and getting away.  Increasing evidence suggests that those pictures have little or no effect upon viewers.  Call it ‘compassion fatigue’ as some do, or call it mediocre photography, as I do; either way you have a vast pool of pictures from the bad places in the world, spread before us to consume as part of our varied media diet, but which do nothing to persuade us of injustice or cruelty.

Don McCullin set himself apart from that way of working many years ago.  He has said many times that his emotional commitment to what he photographed was always the thing that mattered.  He has been open in discussing his motives, his frame of mind.  But in the end he remains impatient with the hairsplitting.  He acknowledges that he made for many years his living and his reputation out of the suffering of others. No, he doesn’t ” hide behind the camera”.  Yes, he knows the truth when he sees it. Yes, he knows that great pain and fear and damage and squalor slide onto light-sensitive paper just as easily as grace and joy.  He knows, in other words, that photography changed for ever our notions of truth and beauty.   He was one of the people who did that, and that, difficult as it is to accept, is why we honour him today.

Don McCullin was born shortly before the Second War and raised in modest circumstances in Finsbury Park in North London, the son of a father who was too ill to work much, and who diminished and died in front of McCullin’s young eyes.  He had as a youngster a tough evacuation during the War, which involved among other things being separated from his sister.  His mother had a great love of music, and even had a few 78s ; she owned the Ink Spots, of course, but her real love, although nobody knew where she had found it, was opera.  McCullin told Roy Plomley on Desert Island discs in 1984 that she had saved money to take him just the once to Sadler’s Wells, where he felt out of place.  He heard La Bohème.  McCullin won a Trade Art scholarship to study art at the Hammersmith School of Arts & Crafts at Lime Grove, but had to pass it up to earn his living after his father died when he was 14.  He got a job:  working on the dining cars on the railway – sleeping, he recalled, in incredibly crisp sheets at the staff hostels where some kind of imperial splendour of service still somehow prevailed.  Perhaps some of his dandyism comes from those starched sheets, or perhaps from his next job, as a messenger and colour-mixer for Larkins – film animators in Mayfair.  He has described his education in ‘the beautiful’ coming from the windows he passed on Mayfair streets, notably Moyses Stevens’ flower shop in Berkeley Square (the window display was described in the 1920s as “a veritable Chelsea Flower show every day of the year”).

He did his military service, becoming what he called a “broom-wallah” in the RAF, and being sent in the end to Kenya, where he bulk-processed film of the jungle before it was bombed.  On leaving the RAF he pawned a camera bought on his RAF money, having no great mind then to make it the tool of his trade. He wanted a 500cc Norton Dominator rather more.  Indeed, he famously said later that he used a camera as he used a toothbrush; it did the job.   Yet he was beginning to see all the same that he had a gift for pictures and that they gave him a certain power denied to others.

An early successful sale to The Observer – of a gang in his home district he had posed in a bombed-out building some time before one of their number was charged with killing a policeman outside Gray’s Dancing Academy in the Seven Sisters’ Road – netted him more money than he had ever earned before.  That was encouraging.  He took a risk. When he heard that the Berlin Wall was going up he spent all the money he had, everything, on a throw of the dice.  He paid for his own trip in 1961, with no commission, while more established journalists waited to see what would develop;  he made brilliant pictures;  and his career was on.

The Observer sent him to Cyprus, and he found he could manage in war zones.  From then on for many years, there was hardly a hot spot in the world to which he was not sent.  Mark Haworth-Booth, the distinguished curator of photographs at the Victoria and Albert Museum called the pictures that have resulted ” part of the furniture of all our minds.”

He moved from The Observer to The Sunday Times.  He worked there first in 1966, and had a contract from 1969-1984.  The peculiar blend of the British Sunday supplements owes a lot to many people:  to Michael Rand, the picture editor of the magazine, to Harold Evans, the editor, as well as to many precursors such as Stefan Lorant who had edited both Lilliput and Picture Post a generation before.  But it was Don McCullin who nailed the business, week after week, of putting the unspeakable in front of the public in images of such exquisite beauty that there was no hiding from them.  I should underline, too, that he was by no means a specialist in the far-flung places.  His reports from the deprived corners of a Britain exhausted in the war years, and losing one by one all the industries upon which its nineteenth-century fortunes had been made, are every bit as burningly urgent as the better-known work from elsewhere.

So he became – with neither hyperbole nor any chance of being contradicted – one of the greatest war photographers there has been.  It is an odd footnote that the three greatest photographers working in Vietnam, one of the periods when McCullin was at the height of his powers — who did so much between them to change public attitudes to violent colonial adventures overseas — were all British (the others were Larry Burrows and Philip Jones Griffiths).   It is another odd footnote — and one rich in ironies —  that it was McCullin who made the photographs for Michelangelo Antonioni’s famous Blow-Up – in spite of the hero being a fashion photographer.  The originals, and the eponymous enlargements were made by McCullin, probably introduced – we can ask him – to Antonioni by Francis Wyndham, his colleague on The Sunday Times.

Don McCullin’s motives were complex.  David Cornwell, who proved in his great series of novels under the name of John Le Carré what an acute judge of character he was, felt that ” McCullin was peace-weary before he ever went to war.  He arrived at the battlefield with open wounds and he has bitterly refused ever since to let them heal.”  There’s probably something in that: but it was written in 1980, and McCullin has made huge efforts to look for healing since then.  By developing his career in landscape photography, in particular, he has made himself a great master in an area which uses wholly different skills to the ones we know he excelled at way back when.

McCullin was a very angry photographer. He has said so many times. His background in poverty made him angry, and so did his work.  When you read his description of coming to a hospital in Biafra in which 800 had died, children and women among them, you can see why.

Were Don McCullin passing through the education system today, he would most likely be diagnosed dyslexic.  He certainly had a quite exceptionally retentive mind yet found great trouble absorbing information from books. He was also, curiously, colour-blind to some degree, a condition which affects more men than women.  As an adult, he has understandably and openly admitted suffering badly from what we can only call post traumatic stress.

Yet you can’t be fuelled by rage as a landscape photographer.  You can’t even necessarily hope to tell the truth.  All you can do is try to say who you are.   McCullin still itches to go to war; I suspect that he has a visa for Syria in his pocket right now.  But his friends will try to stop him.  He’s slowed down, and he’s let some of that anger go. He shouldn’t go back. He’s told us what he has to say about war.  He has a magnificent new career, making long careful sequences of pictures, first about the landscape where he has found some solace, on the low hills of Somerset, and later a major work around the margins of the former Roman Empire.

If ever a man was self-made it has been Don McCullin.  The career, the reputation: both are stellar.  It goes without saying that he forged those alone and against long odds.  He also no longer speaks or dresses like that boy from Finsbury Park.

I opened by saying that it was absurd to introduce a man of this calibre to you; you know him already for his great skill as photographer and printer of photographs; for his refusal to drop below high standards of honour; for his insistence on speaking the truth to large corporations or governments; and above all for the great dignity he has always given to those suffering in the most violent or catastrophic moments of man’s inhumanity to man.  But I want to make a slight introduction all the same.  We know Don McCullin as a photographer.  That’s what we call him: the great war photographer.  He was that, of course, but I think the title does him a disservice.  He was more.  In honouring Don McCullin today, I don’t think we are honouring only a user of cameras and lenses.  Don McCullin was one of the great journalists of his generation, a great reporter, a communicator of genius.

Don, I speak formally on behalf of PhotoLondon, but also informally on behalf of many, many others, when I say thank you for all that you have done.

east wall 8

Sir Don McCullin – Vietnam View, n.d.

unemployed men gathering coal, sunderland, early 1970s

Sir Don McCullin – Unemployed Men Gathering Coal, Sunderland, early 1970s

Near Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin 1961 by Don McCullin born 1935

Sir Don McCullin – Near Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin 1961

Gangs of Boys Escaping C.S. Gas Fired by British Soldiers, Londonderry, Northern Ireland  1971, printed 2013 by Don McCullin born 1935

Sir Don McCullin – Gangs of Boys Escaping C.S. Gas Fired by British Soldiers, Londonderry, 1971

A Young Lebanese Christian Woman Throwing a Hand Grenade from the Holiday Inn Hotel 1976, printed 2013 by Don McCullin born 1935

Sir Don McCullin – A Young Lebanese Christian Woman Throwing a Hand Grenade from the Holiday Inn Hotel, Beirut 1976,

 

If — and you should —  you listen to Richard Dimbleby’s icy broadcast of 19th April 1945 on the BBC from the newly liberated Belsen concentration camp,  you will hear him say quite calmly “I passed through the barrier and found myself in the world of nightmare.”  He then goes on to describe appalling suffering, in which death is vilely cheap and even cannibalism necessary to survive.  Don McCullin has passed that barrier many times.  Like Dimbleby, but not necessarily like other war reporters, McCullin seemed also to remain calm in the very face of man’s worst inhumanity to man.  Wounded, flung on a truck in Cambodia among the dead and dying, he took his mind off the pain and the fear of what might happen next by struggling in the fading light to get his exposures right.  Another harrowing set of pictures was the result.

Everybody thinks they know Don McCullin.  His face is known, his name almost a shorthand for that place where photography meets conscience.

Part of the reason for that has been his subject matter.  He volunteers to see such cruelty, such pity and shame, that where we see those things it’s not hard to associate him them.  But that’s only part of the reason.  For while McCullin been able to survive (and with his eyes wide open) in places most of us would flee, he has also done a great deal more. We tend to forget it because we think that a reporter like him can only tell the unvarnished truth.  We have to hope that what he shows is never a trick of photography.  It isn’t a trick.  But that doesn’t mean it’s naïve or neutral.  Don McCullin has in fact been a great stylist.

He is a wonderful printer, a great one.  Today, he spends a lot of time in his darkroom, getting his prints miraculously right.  That wasn’t always so; inevitably he sent many rolls of film back from the field to be printed by someone else.  But he was always a great technician, of the cameras and the film, even when the final print was by necessity made elsewhere.  I remember him telling me once, years ago, that he used to carry a length of lavatory-chain as part of his kit.  I wondered why, as he expected me to.  Some kind of arcane tool of self-defence? In fact, he used to screw it into the tripod socket under his cameras, and then brace his elbows tight into his ribs while jamming the lower end of the chain under his foot.  That extra tautness gave his camera a little more stability; and that in turn gave him a stop, perhaps two, of exposure.

Those sunken pools of black and glistening greys of McCullin’s are not accidental, in other words.  There is a gulf between making pictures and taking them. McCullin’s great images are made and worked at even though we see in them circumstances so fast — and often so appalling — that simply to have pressed the button at all would have been enough for most. Under the most appalling stresses, McCullin remained a virtuoso.  His compositions bear careful examination; the tones of his prints are exquisite.  For balance and harmony he equals Ansel Adams.  Only to see that, you need sometimes to abstract the photograph from what it shows.  For his photographs — it’s a word which is troubling in his contexts, and one with which McCullin has quite naturally wrestled for years — are beautiful.  Part of his greatness lies there, that in spite of everything, the language that he chose to address us in was the language of art.

There are a number of public visions of Don McCullin which are only partly true at best.  First is the myth of Don the straightforward antique hero in a safari jacket.  McCullin has been brave as a lion.  He has gone where angels fear to tread. In a long career witnessing horror on our behalf, he has more than earned a number of clichés of that sort. It is perfectly true that McCullin rushed to the car in which Nick Tomalin died in the Golan Heights in the vain hope of saving his colleague and friend.  He knew full well as he did it that he would be in clear gunshot and did it anyway.

Clearly, there is in Don McCullin something of the hero.  But he is far too intelligent to be a classic hero.  He has never been blithe, or insouciant, or nonchalant.  In the face of the terrifying, he has often admitted to being terrified.  The classic hero does his duty, patriotic or romantic. Although he may have an Achilles heel, he does not engage in moral ambiguity. Don McCullin has never disengaged from that.  He has been an actively moral person, with all the complexities that implies.

This shades into a related myth: Saint Don.  This was most clearly seen in a retrospective show put on by the British IWM, the former Imperial War Museum, under the title Shaped by War.  In this extraordinary tribute, McCullin’s work – his pictures, whether seen as individual images, or gathered together on the pages of the magazines as thev were first seen – was not enough.  That show surrounded the work with relics, actual relics, whose clear function was to add a kind of moral aura to the man behind the pictures.  There were passes and letters allowing him to various hell-holes.  There was his military issue bayonet, a weapon of war used presumably only to open tins of food.  There was above all the camera damaged by a bullet which would otherwise have damaged the photographer.

There exists an extraordinary picture of Don McCullin in 1964 (it was made by John Bulmer, then working for The Sunday Times while McCullin was still working for The Observer) carrying an old lady in his arms to safety.  That was useful to the museum’s view of the reporter-saint.  So was the fact that our own Ministry of Defence refused him permission to go to the Falkland Islands embedded with the taskforce:  it’s traditional for saints to have their truths denied by authority.

Don McCullin has indeed carried many wounded. He has shared privation and desperate danger with hundreds of victims of war or civil war.  He has suffered dreadfully, not just in terms of wounds to his body, but in terms of what we would now call the Post Traumatic Stress which he has described searingly in himself.  His relations with people, his family foremost among them, have suffered as a result. But he isn’t a saint.  His motives have been professional or personal like all of ours, his actions sometimes frankly wrong.  He is a person.  A person of exceptional gifts, certainly. But it is wrong to caricature him even in a complimentary way.  Hero, saint; these are nice labels, but they are also ways of avoiding understanding.

Don McCullin wrote that he was a “product of Hitler. I was born in the 1930s  and bombed in the 1940s. Then the Hollywood people moved in and started showing me films about violence. ”   As a young man, he was poor, and he was dyslexic, and his father died when he was fifteen.   He had to give up then a scholarship he’d won, to Hammersmith School of Arts and Crafts.  No need to be a subtle psychologist to see already that there were causes of great anger there.   His brother made a thirty-year career in the French Foreign Legion, and McCullin might easily have done the same.  He did do military service, in the RAF, and won a campaign medal for service against the Mau-Mau in Kenya.  But he realised early that the military life was not for him.  We are immeasurably the richer by that.

There is no need to caricature Don McCullin.  He remains – perhaps oddly for such a great traveller – a devotedly English Englishman.  He loves India, and many other places, too.  But he has no wish to pretend to be other than as he is, still less to abandon himself and remake himself differently.  He had not much to start, but he made himself a really great journalist.  That requires no caricature.  He believes in finding out the truth, in part by deep and serious reflection, and then telling it with energy, clarity, and beauty.  When his employers changed, and wouldn’t afford him doing that any more, he left them and found another way to carry on doing the same.  He has made pictures just as telling in Bradford as in Biafra:  he is not only a foreign correspondent, a war reporter, or even perhaps a photographer.  He is a powerfully gifted communicator with important things to tell us. ” I only use a camera like I use a toothbrush”, as he put it once.  “It does the job.”

It isn’t extraordinary that a man who found it difficult to read should have found such sophisticated virtuosity in communication. It should not still have to be said, but the message has still not sunk in: A photographer of the calibre of Don McCullin is a great communicator, fully the equivalent of a great songwriter or film director or novelist.  He does not merely illustrate the words his pictures are often published alongside; he does not ‘merely‘ do anything.  He expresses in his pictures his arguments, beliefs, prejudices, judgments as well as the bloody facts of each case.  You can no more misunderstand McCullin on war than you can misunderstand Primo Levi or Wilfred Owen.

Don McCullin has spent his life in showing us that wars are not accidents; the suffering he has seen has not been a by-product.  Policy; doctrine; profit; even economy or system….these words sound so abstract, so remote. The child’s ditty is simply wrong.  Sticks and stones, they do break bones.  But those words end up hurting, too.

 

 

La Luz de la Mente, by Luis González Palma

Gonzalez Palma 1624

Luis González Palma. 1624, from the series La Luz de la Mente, 2005. Película orthocromática y láminas de oro.

 

One of the perks of working at Sotheby’s is that you can keep works by your elbow a certain time as you put them through the cataloguing and valuing process.  Some years ago, I kept by me a print from this series in just such a way and christened it the Underpants of Christ. I have wanted one ever since.

La Luz de la Mente is a series of re-creations of the loincloth of the crucified Christ in pictures by artists including Velázquez, Zurbarán, Murillo, Bellini, Rubens, Guido Reni, El Greco and (more surprisingly) Eustache Le Sueur. It is a mad idea: the devout obsession of a small boy used to praying in the presence not of a painting or a carving, but – as the church insists –  in the actual presence of Christ.  In González Palma’s hands, it is not so mad . He has taken pains to recreate the drape and fold of each painter’s version of the loincloth, and he shows us his workings in the bits of string that hold his arrangement together.

Making this sculpture is slow careful work of the kind thought particularly apt to the greater glory of God.  He photographs it as a rich devotional object in its own right.  The print is about 1 metre wide and high, which makes the loincloth more or less life-size. Most of the series are (as this one is) kodalith prints with gold leaf and resin, a few are kodaliths with silver: rare processes with precisely that same intention of giving richly to God as the original paintings.

I am hazy on the doctrinal implications, but there may be a thought that the loincloth has importance as the only bit of Christ’s equipment left behind at the Resurrection.  (A recurring medieval dispute pitted against each other competing owners of the prepuce — the foreskin — of Christ, a relic to be venerated for precisely that reason, as the only part of Christ’s person known to have been removed while he lived. You can see that anybody who claimed this relic would dispute anybody else who did.  There can only have been one.)

González Palma is a contemporary Guatemalan artist much of whose work has revolved around the strange hybrids of race and culture that add up to Latin America.  This series was shown at the Venice Biennial in 2005, but has not sold particularly well at auction.  That means nothing.  I love the twisty way this picture is both a heartfelt religious object and at the same time a reflection on the depiction of religious objects. It’s gorgeous, too.

 

Here’s another one:

Gonzalez Palma 1580-1585

Luis González Palma. 1580-1585, from the series La Luz de la Mente, 2005. Película orthocromática y láminas de oro.

 

 

Iago, or Study from an Italian – by Julia Margaret Cameron

iago1

Julia Margaret Cameron           Iago – or study from an Italian 1867       Science Museum Group collection

What follows is the next instalment of my re-posting of the various pieces that first appeared in the Financial Times in early 2013, in my discontinued series Hodgson’s Choice.  I have had some misgivings about this one, not because of any doubt that the picture is wonderful – it is, and my insistence on having it in my ‘collection’ is unchanged.  But re-posting reminds me of the deficiencies of my own scholarship – and nobody much likes that.

Once it appeared in the FT, I was contacted – very civilly – by Scott Thomas Buckle to point out that some weeks before, he had published a long and detailed piece of research updating the rather older research by Colin Ford upon which I had based myself here – to the effect that the model used by Julia Cameron pretty certainly was not the one I wrote about, but another.  I simply hadn’t read his article.  According to Buckle – and his view will not, I think, be displaced as the orthodox one in the future – the model for the great Iago was not Angelo Colarossi but a member of another family of professional models connected to his, Alessandro di Marco, who posed, among others, for Frederick Leighton and Edward Burne-Jones and the sculptor Sir William Hamo Thornycroft.  I don’t doubt that Scott Thomas Buckle is right.  But I don’t want to re-write the piece because I’m reposting the series as they were.  I hope that the gist of the little piece I wrote is not too badly affected by having the wrong name, because the new sitter proposed was another professional model – a rarity in Cameron’s portraits. The best I can do, I think, is to acknowledge my error and Buckle’s careful research.  If anybody wants to follow in his tracks – and you all should, for it’s a fine piece of detective art history – his article is to be found here :

Is this the face of Alessandro di Marco?  The forgotten features of a well-known Italian model, by Scott Thomas Buckle.  The British Art Journal, Volume XIII No.2, Autumn 2012, pp 67-75

And with that mea culpa, here’s what I wrote, warts and all.

 

What a piece of work Mrs Cameron was ! Eccentric, name-dropping and unbelievably pushy; absolutely incapable of taking ‘No’ for an answer, she would have been a handful in any society.  But as a grand Anglo-Indian administrator’s wife in High Victorian England, she was amazing.

Here’s her niece Laura Gurney casting back her mind:  “Aunt Julia appeared as a terrifying elderly woman, short and squat, with none of the Pattle [her maiden name] grace and beauty about her. Dressed in dark clothes, stained with chemicals from her photography (and smelling of them, too) with a plump, eager face and piercing eyes, and a voice husky and a little harsh, yet in some way compelling and even charming… No wonder those old photographs of us, leaning over imaginary ramparts of heaven, look anxious and wistful.  This was how we felt.  ‘Stand there’, she would shout, and we stood for hours… ”

Her grand-niece, Virginia Woolf, found her pretty odd, too.  Here she is: “I must note for future use, the superb possibilities of Freshwater [on the Isle of Wight, where Mrs. Cameron lived], for a comedy.  Old Cameron dressed in a blue dressing gown & not going beyond his garden for twelve years, suddenly borrows his son’s coat & walks down to the sea.  Then they decide to proceed to Ceylon, taking their coffins with them, & the last sight of Aunt Julia is on board ship, presenting porters with large photographs of Sir Henry Taylor and the Madonna in default of small change.”

For years after that departure to Ceylon, Mrs. Cameron was treated as not much more than an eccentric amateur dabbler.  She was an easy target.  Her imprecision offended those for whom photography was above all the careful following of recipes. Even today, her deep, deep sentimentality grates with many, and while everybody today acknowledges the portraits as the towering, pioneering achievement they are, there are still many who find her illustrations of Tennyson, her religious allegories, and many of her pictures of children too mawkish – impossible to bring back across the gulf of taste between then and now.

This is one of the very few pictures she made of a professional model.  Detailed research by Colin Ford identifies the sitter as Angelo Colarossi, a member of (in effect) a dynasty of professional models. Colarossi posed for Lord Leighton and John Singer Sargent and G.F.Watts among others, and his son posed for Alfred Gilbert’s Anteros, the memorial to Lord Shaftesbury that gets moved every few years as new traffic schemes alter the shape of Piccadilly Circus. The Académie Colarossi, run by a relative, was an art school in Paris, whose students included Amedeo Modigliani and Alphonse Mucha.

It’s important that the sitter was a model: it took skill to sit for the agonizingly long exposures that Mrs. Cameron required.  As a result of Colarossi’s professional patience, this portrait has less of that over-excited blur that Mrs. Cameron sometimes went in for, and more control than she sometimes achieved.  It’s partly because Colarossi could bear the exposure time that the picture is so startlingly modern.  I’ve also, on the other hand, felt it a slight shame the sitter was a model.  Given what she did to Thomas Carlyle it would be wonderful to think this a literary or cultural figure whom we could imagine we knew better through the portrait.  There’s so much expression in that face it deserves to be associated to a character rather than merely to a professional mien.

Still.  Can’t complain.  It’s as strong a portrait as anything Nadar ever made. It’s a beautiful print, too, luckily, because there’s only one known print of this portrait, in the Herschel Album which was ‘saved for the nation’ in the mid 1970s.  It’s now in the Science + Media Museum in Bradford.

The Red Bustle, by Nick Knight

Nick Knight Red Bustle for Yohji Yamamoto 1986

Nick Knight            The Red Bustle, 1986

The colours of a bullfight as the sun finally goes down. It’s not complicated. The elements of this photograph are controlled with a curious mix of indulgent austerity, and it remains seductive long after the clothes it was made to sell have passed into the archive.

The picture comes from early in the series of clothing catalogues Nick Knight made for Yohji Yamamoto and is dated 1986.  The model was Sarah Wingate and Knight was an outsider. He’d made a documentary series about skinheads (the disaffected right-wing youth movement which was both scary and deeply fashion-conscious) and a series of exaggerated portraits of a new London in-crowd of the early 1980s in a commission for i-D magazine. Still not thirty when the Yamamoto commission came his way, his collaborations with graphic designer Peter Saville and with art director Marc Ascoli were relatively new.

The catalogues were an experiment in how these confident, even arrogant talents could work together, and they were a departure for the client, too. It is always a wrench for a fashion house to publish pictures which give no very clear idea of the garments.

These pictures were a reaction against a period when fashion had been for a while even more overtly all about sex than usual. They are deliberately non-sexy in the same way that a Mohican and a pair of Doc Martens had been a few years before. They have technical brio. Knight flirted between flat representation and three dimensional: almost all of the girl, her cap, her long coat, most of her shoes are in inky black silhouette.  It could have been drawn with a Rotring.  The bustle that flares out behind her is glittery translucent pink net, and every pleat catches its full complement of zinging highlights and dark shadows.  The pool of shadow on the floor reminds us that this is a person, not just a graphic.  The little highlight on the heel is important: that’s where the flat blankness finally begins to curve into relief, and it’s the only place which shares something of the rival qualities of a map (on the left) and a sculpture (on the right). There is originality here, but there are debts, too, most obviously to Erwin Blumenfeld, the great innovator. It’s a cultured picture as well as a brash one.

Later in the same series of catalogues, Knight made a set of four pictures of Naomi Campbell in a red coat, the shapes as full as the sails of a J-Class yacht.  Those are perhaps better known than this one, but in the Red Coat, Knight made a formal error which jars badly:  he cut the girl off at the ankles, and in one version, at the top of the head, too.  This is better.  There is no slippage here.  This is a collision of punky daring with a very British Puritanism.