Art of Photography

Rob Townsend


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Exhibition: Andy Warhol, William S. Burroughs and David Lynch

At the Photographers’ Gallery in London until 30th March is a linked set of three exhibitions, with the common thread of celebrating the photographic output of counter-cultural American icons famous for their work in other fields: pop artist Andy Warhol, author William S. Burroughs and film director David Lynch. It’s hard to go in without preconceptions of the artists based on their ‘day jobs’.

I held two questions at the back of my mind throughout each exhibition:

  1. What are the connections between their photography and the art that they’re already known for?
  2. Would this be an interesting collection of images if the photographer was an unknown?

Andy Warhol: Photographs 1976-1987

Photographers’ Gallery overview

Although Warhol was interested in photography all his life, for much of his career photographs were the raw materials for his more famous screen-print works, rather than being the art in themselves. In his last decade Warhol took to using a 35mm compact camera to record his daily life and reconnected with photography at a more direct, but not necessarily less artistic, level. This collection is divided into two quite distinct halves: the large artworks he created out of photographic prints, and the simpler snapshots of his daily life.

In the specific works of photo-art he riffed on his own iconic technique of repetition of image, in this variation stitching together (or rather, hiring someone else to stitch together, of course) large prints into grids, sometimes with almost imperceptible differences between the frames, sometimes with noticeably different exposures of the same image. As in his screen-print work, his most eye-catching works are multiple images of American icons, but this time contemporary celebrities (Jerry Hall, Liza Minnelli) and with photos he took himself, not the already-iconic images he modified for his 1960s work (Monroe, Presley, Taylor etc).

He mines the same seam of identity and iconography in a way that is so ‘Warholian’ that only he could have got away with it. Some may say that he was repeating himself with these works, but I’m glad he did it and I’m glad I saw them; it made me look at his work and ideas with fresh eyes; his famous 1960s work has become so ubiquitous that it’s lost something now. But they do reinforce my opinion of Warhol as a creator-of-art rather than an artist. Not necessarily an inferior designation, but I do see a difference.

By contrast the daily life shots were very uninspiring; I got the feeling that anyone with a camera in late 70s / early 80s New York could have got a collection of images much like this; his personal vision or ideas don’t come through. As an insight into the trivia of the life of Andy Warhol The Famous Artist they hold some curiosity value, but without that context they are little more than intermittently interesting snapshots.

So to my two questions:

  1. Half of it was unmistakably Warhol; the other half was unexceptional street photography
  2. Half yes (although I’d be accusing the mystery photographer of ripping off Andy Warhol!); half not a chance

Taking Shots: the Photography of William S. Burroughs

Photographers’ Gallery overview

I didn’t think I knew much about Burroughs til I remembered that I’d read The Naked Lunch at university and found it as bewildering and fragmented as most readers. The only other thing I knew about him was his predilection for drugs and guns, hence the triple-meaning title I presume.

This is a hugely eclectic collection: portraits, self-portraits, picture essays, domestic still lifes, collages. Some were reproduced so small as to be difficult to engage with. He seems to have enjoyed experimenting with photography in a similar way to he did with writing. The most interesting images by far were the ‘assemblages’, where he cut up photos to make collages, and in some cases photographed, printed and re-assembled those collages to make further collages, in an ad-infinitum, kaleidoscopic way. He was truly trying to do new things with photography as art, but using the principles that had served him as a writer: cutting up, fragmenting, re-arranging, jumping around, eschewing the expected linear narrative.

In a similar way to Warhol – but deeper, more complex and to me anyway, more satisfying – he used photographs as a raw material for constructing visual works of art. They’re almost closer to two-dimensional sculpture than photography. Burroughs spoke of photography as being able to “disrupt the space-time continuum and expand the viewers perception of the physical world” – and you can almost understand what he’s getting at when you see some of the assemblages. But to be fair, he was on very strong drugs a lot of the time…

In answer to my two nagging questions above:

  1. As with Warhol, the most successful works here contain strong echoes of what he’s most famous for; what’s admirable about Burroughs is that he’s crossed from literature to visual arts yet carried over techniques
  2. The collages, absolutely; the other works, less so – again the interest inherent in those is the man behind the camera, not the resultant images

David Lynch: the Factory Photographs

Photographers’ Gallery overview

Between 1980 and 2000 Lynch took photos of industrial structures in Germany, Poland, USA and England. Initially the purpose was scouting potential film locations but it seems to have developed into a general hobby for a while.

The collected images maintain a consistently dark mood: tense, full of foreboding. He is drawn not just to industry, but specifically to industrial decay; the factories here tend to be derelict structures, being reclaimed by nature. These underlying themes and the gloomy, monochromatic imagery do reflect his film work, especially earlier works such as Eraserhead and The Elephant Man.

He chooses a range of viewpoints, getting closer and closer to the subjects as you move around the gallery: there are long, wide shots of whole factory structures and cooling towers; there are crumbing interiors, often with a window onto the outside environment; there are close-ups of left-behind heavy machinery, pipes, ducting etc; there are very close, almost macro shots of walls, surfaces, broken windows, showing textures and veering towards abstract. I found these last images the most engaging: heavy industry reduced to shapes, lines, blocks of light and shade.

Of the three, his is by far the most coherent and accomplished body of work. Thematically it is extremely focused, and this really helps the viewer immerse themselves in the artist’s world (and this may have been helped by Lynch providing one of his own industrial sound installations to accompany the visuals).

To answer the two opening questions for Lynch:

  1. The trademark sinister edge of his film work is present here; most specifically it brought to mind Eraserhead more than any other of his films
  2. Yes, absolutely; I’d have paid money to see this whoever had been behind the lens – there is genuine talent on show here and he is not merely trading on his name

Summary

The David Lynch exhibition stood well apart from the other two to this viewer. It stands on its own as a cohesive, self-contained series, and this really helps to reinforce and intensify the message and mood. The Warhol and Burroughs shows both suffer by casting their net slightly too wide, trying to cover a disparate set of works per artist, and this diluted the effect for me. If the Warhol gallery just had the stitched multiple images, and the Burroughs gallery just had the assemblages, they would have been much more potent.

Is this because Lynch is still with us, and exerted some influence on the subject matter (although it is curated by a third party), and by comparison the temptation with deceased artists is to anthologise rather than specialise?

Anyway – Lynch impressed me most, Burroughs surprised me most, Warhol reinforced my existing opinion most!


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Exhibition: Ma Samaritaine 2013

I’ve only managed to get to a handful of exhibitions since I started this course, but I’ve belatedly realised that they all had something in common: they were all about places. Mass Observation was about Great Britain and had a wide scope; the Tony Ray-Jones half of Only In England covered England generally, mainly its coastal towns, while Martin Parr’s half of the same exhibition focused specifically on Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire; Mark Neville’s Deeds Not Words was centred around Corby in Northamptonshire. The last exhibition I saw was the most specific example so far of ‘photography and place’ – a collection of new works by young photographers, all centred around ‘La Samaritaine‘, an old department store in Paris – closed down years ago but now about to be renovated. The resulting show is ‘Ma Samaritaine 2013‘. A more detailed description is on the Paris Photo website, but in summary, eleven young photographers were given carte blanche by the Samaritaine creative team to each produce a series of photographs, “organising them as they saw fit in order to express what the site evoked in them through the filter of their eye and their sensibility.” The exhibition takes place in the disused store itself, which deepens the connections between the images and the space they inhabit. The old fixtures and fittings of a faded department store – staircases, changing rooms, shelving – act as makeshift gallery. Unsurprisingly, the 11 photographers all took different approaches to the general brief. I’ve grouped them in what I saw as similar styles. Posed: Tomoya Fujimoto produced a series of cinematic images of intense-looking French couples, with the store relegated to background character, while Marion Gambin reversed the ratio, with wide angle shots of models posing in the vast open spaces of the empty shop. Oliver Aoun went the middle way, with his dreamlike ‘ghosts and angels’ given equal prominence to the Samaritaine setting, and I found his work to be the most interesting. His intention (and I’m translating from the French here, so bear with me) was to ‘discover the imprint left behind by the people who had passed through the place, to show the traces made visible by their absence’. He got the blend of people and place just right, and to me his work was possibly the most successful interpretation of the brief. Marie Gruel took a similar ‘ghostly’ approach, albeit more shadowy, more of a spooky horror film kind of vibe.

© Oliver Aoun, 2013

Interior: Some of them used the inside spaces of the store itself as their subjects, with Marin Hock taking a more deadpan architectural approach while David de Rueda and Clement Briend were more lyrical in their compositions and use of light and shade. In the main these left me fairly unmoved to be honest. I have no aversion to architectural photography per se, but not having any previous knowledge of the store itself, images of the empty spaces didn’t evoke any particular reaction. The most interesting of the three was Briend, whose work was more of a light installation than pure photography.

© Clement Briend, 2013

Exterior: Vladimir Vasilev focused on the surrounding streets, in a mono street photography style that brings out the grittiness of the back alleys at night, in contrast to the bright and colourful image projected by the storefront in its heyday. Marikel Lahana went one step further, focusing on a specific resident of the quarter, a transexual called Stéphanie, making this work more a character study than a study of place. Of the two I much preferred Vasilev’s work; he got the sense of place nailed I think, albeit in a very different way to those who focused on the interior and the history of the store.

Abstract: finally, Nica Junker and Philong Sovan created more graphical, lyrical images using the Samaritaine as raw material. I found these aesthetically more interesting than many of the more literal photographs. Junker’s series was more carefully constructed thematically, juxtaposing close-ups of the remaining fixtures with product information and old advertising slogans to evoke the sense of the shopping experience itself, not merely the building. In a way this gave more of sense of connection with the Samaritaine than many of those images that focused purely on the physical space. Sovan’s work focused on shooting at and through what remains of the windows, using the available light to bring out otherwise unnoticed details.

© Nica Junker, 2013

I found this to be a fascinating exhibition that I’m incredibly grateful to have stumbled upon. It was a great opportunity to look at the work of a wide range of contemporary photographers, all previously unknown to me. I now have 11 new bookmarks in my ‘Photographers’ folder in my web browser. As someone who had never even heard of the Samaritaine before this day, did I leave with a sense of the old place? Not really, if I’m honest. In a way, the subject could have been anything. It just happened to be an old department store.


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Exhibition: Only in England: Photographs by Tony Ray-Jones and Martin Parr

The new Media Space at the London Science Museum is a long-awaited southern offshoot of the National Media Museum in Bradford, and its inaugural exhibition is ‘Only in England’, featuring works from Tony Ray-Jones from the late 1960s and from Martin Parr’s first major show ‘The Non-Conformists’ from the late 1970s.

As well as providing his own photographs – clearly inspired by Ray-Jones – Parr has also curated a selection of 60 previously unpublished Ray-Jones images from the National Media Museum archives.

Tony Ray-Jones

I hadn’t heard of Tony Ray-Jones before this exhibition was announced; he was England-born but worked in New York alongside such luminaries as Garry Winogrand, and in the late sixties came back to England to apply some of the NY street photography aesthetic and technique to the English. Sadly he died in 1972 aged only 30, so the images here represent his last major body of work.

Ray-Jones had a fantastic eye for the quirky details in seemingly mundane situations. He came back to England in 1966 to record what he saw, with a returning native’s eye, as the eccentricities of the national character, particularly at leisure. His settings of choice were seaside resorts, beauty pageants, carnivals – worlds that resemble normal life but were just slightly out-of-kilter. They capture the English attempting to let their hair down, not always looking wholly comfortable doing so.

Blackpool, 1968. Picture by Tony Ray-Jones.

Blackpool, 1968. Picture by Tony Ray-Jones.

Despite the late 60s setting, the look and feel seems more 1950s, not simply through the use of black and white but in the clothes, faces, even postures of the subjects – as if the permissive age hadn’t quite hit these pockets of England yet. When you see the odd long-haired youth in a motorbike jacket, it’s as visually jarring as it would have been at the time. Was he trying to capture a disappearing era, consciously or otherwise?

His images are masterpieces of self-contained narrative. Some are multi-layered tableaux where your eye wanders around, taking in all the characters, while others (including several chosen by Parr) demonstrate how he could use space in an image to draw attention to a simpler but equally fascinating point of focus.

I found lots of humour in the Ray-Jones pictures; sometimes just a facial expression or an incongruous element, but always something that pointed to a playfulness in the way his camera had caught the scene, even when it was underpinned with a sense of melancholy. I wandered through the first room of the exhibition with a wry smile on my face for much of the time. He really captured the provincial English character fantastically well.

Martin Parr

Martin Parr was studying photography while Ray-Jones was working, and happily admits his influence. While Parr’s early work is clearly influenced by Ray-Jones – black and white, focusing on small aspects of English life, capturing a disappearing era – the subject matter (local Methodist communities in West Yorkshire) is a little different. And yet Parr’s most famous later work shares much in common with Ray-Jones subject-wise – the English at leisure, especially at the seaside – but by that time he had developed his signature style of social documentary in a saturated colour palette. So it seems that he was inspired by Ray-Jones in different ways at different times in his career.

Tom Greenwood Cleaning, Hebden Bridge, 1976. Picture by Martin Parr.

Tom Greenwood Cleaning, Hebden Bridge, 1976. Picture by Martin Parr.

It is interesting seeing Parr’s 1970s work; to me there was a sense of someone still trying to find his style. Some images are character-based and feature the flashes of humour that he learned from Ray-Jones, while others are much more formal in their composition, such as the straight-on shots of doorways, shop fronts etc, and the shot with the elevated factory worker with outstretched arm, an apparent crucifixion allusion. There are a trio of shots of ‘Lord Savile’s gamekeepers’ where the first two look classically posed, almost painterly, while the third introduces a bit of cheeky humour in the form of what looks like a dog defecating in the snow (well, I thought it was funny). One other thing he shares with Ray-Jones is a deliberate lack of topicality in the settings; many of the images, particularly the local village shots, could be from the 1940s rather than the 1970s.

So it’s fascinating to see the thread of influences running through the work of these two kindred spirits… Ray-Jones brings a NY documentary approach to England, which Parr then takes and ultimately develops into his own brightly coloured later style.

I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibition, and learned a lot about what made these two photographers so individually and jointly distinctive. They shared a similar eye for the rich seam of eccentricity that runs through the English and how they live their lives – in a warm, non-judgemental, celebratory way.


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Exhibition: Deeds Not Words

The second exhibition I saw at the Photographers’ Gallery in London last week was Mark Neville’s ‘Deeds Not Words’. It’s a study of a local community in the former steel town of Corby in Northamptonshire, shot over 2009–10. If like me you attend the exhibition with no prior knowledge of the subject matter, the unfolding of the different layers of the content is fascinating, slightly jolting even.

Three layers of interest

On the face of it, the 32 images on show here are a yet another celebration of working class rituals in a community that’s seen better days; with the bright, saturated colours, there’s a hint of Martin Parr in both the subject and the aesthetic.

Then on closer inspection another point of interest emerges: the prevalence of Scottish imagery. At this point I’m thinking, hang on, Corby’s in Northamptonshire, so why do they have Highland Games, drink so much Irn Bru and so on? It transpires that the town has a large and fiercely proud Scottish community, from when Glaswegian steelworkers brought their families down south three or four generations ago. This element in itself gives Corby a particular character and offers up imagery that justifies why a photographer would centre a project around the town. But the real purpose of the project crept up on me. I stared at a triptych of a young boy popping a balloon; the first point of interest to me was the moment the balloon splits apart, frozen by a fast shutter speed. A second point of interest was the expanse of red that formed the not-yet-deflated balloon. Then eventually my eyes fell onto the hand that held the balloon; it only had a thumb and two fingers. A second triptych at the other end of the room repeated this balloon-popping pose in mono, and with an older youth. Again, the same deformity of the hand, missing two fingers. In a side room a single image in close-up: blue balloon, same deformity.

Deeds Not Words, Mark Neville, Photographers' Gallery, August 2013

Deeds Not Words, Mark Neville, Photographers’ Gallery, August 2013

Photography as activism

So once the (uninformed) viewer finally peels back they layers of meaning, what emerges is a project about the Corby 16, a group of families who spent over a decade fighting legal battles with the local council about the misuse of contaminated former industrial land and the cluster of childhood deformities ultimately traced to the unsafe disposal of toxic waste. A short documentary film playing in a side room explains all. The court case was ultimately successful. What Mark Neville did with the accumulated material is interesting; he produced a hefty photobook, half images and half text, explaining the case and its effects on the community. However, the book was never for sale: he simply sent a copy to each of the 433 local authority environmental health officers in the United Kingdom, and selected international environmental agencies – an audience he believed might actually have an influence on policy and practice around reuse of contaminated land and disposal of toxic waste. He used his particular brand of documentary photography to raise awareness and instigate change. The velvet glove of the glossy photobook contained an iron fist of activism!

My reflections

I thought about this exhibition a lot over the couple of days following the visit. My views may be entirely coloured by the fact that I wasn’t aware of the subject matter (as I was drawn to the gallery by the simultaneous Mass Observation show, which didn’t stay with me anywhere near as long as this) and maybe the forearmed viewer would see things a little differently. The lasting impression is of an exhibition in two unequal parts. The ‘slice of life’ shots of carnival queens, working mens’ clubs, highland dancing and so on are interesting in themselves, a real portrait of a vibrant community doing its best to cope with long-term economic decline, and the Scottish undercurrent adds more colour (I particularly liked the child standing in front of a huge Irn Bru display in a supermarket). The images of the children affected by the deformities, however, are in a different style, posed not candid. And only seven of the 32 images in the exhibition covered the affected children. To me it felt like the message was somewhat diluted by the prevalence of the candid community images. I didn’t see any overlap, where the kids from the posed shots were also part of the more tableau-style group images. I see the connections: families sharing experiences, all ultimately the outcome of the same socio-economic factors – the community first built around the steelworks, then bonding around its decline, and the specific effects of the way the council handled its dismantling – but in terms of visual representation, it felt a little like two exhibitions pushed together. Copies of the book were on display, along with informative posters to take away. These, and the aforementioned short film, redress the balance in favour of covering the Corby 16 story in much more detail. I’m sure the photographer and the organisers chose the images and their sequencing very thoughtfully and deliberately, but my personal opinion was that the important message was left a little too subtle in the exhibition itself. An absolutely fascinating project nonetheless.

Photographic observations

As I learn more about photography, I’m starting to see aspects I might otherwise not have noticed, and/or can articulate more clearly why certain images appeal to me. One of the visual aspects of Neville’s style is the corner-to-corner sharpness that renders every part of his images in clear focus; this man does not do shallow depth of field. In an interview I found in Hotshoe [1] he explains his deliberate choice of small apertures:

“The large depth of field and detail I employ in my photographs is driven by the desire to record everything, to make a social document, to historicise. It is democratic, and it implies that no element of the picture is more important than any other […] Thus, the colour of someone’s nail varnish is as important as a car number plate, or the design of a cocktail glass.”

This approach works particularly well for the community shots, where there are usually multiple points of interest for the eyes to find. It also suits the large prints that an exhibition such as this will provide. My other observation was about the presentation of the images. The images on the walls looked so much better – more colourful, clearer, sharper, more vibrant – than the equivalent images in the photobook. I’m not sure I’d had noticed any issue with the quality of the book if I hadn’t seen the mounted, framed, appropriately lit large prints on the walls in the same room, but it did bring home to me for the first time how much the viewing experience can be affected by the presentation, and the limitations of book printing in this regard.

1. Hotshoe, issue 184, June–July 2013


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Exhibition: Mass Observation: This Is Your Photo

Mass Observation

I’ve been meaning to visit the Photographers’ Gallery in London for a while and last week I made an after-work trip on its Thursday late night opening and took in a couple of exhibitions.

Two floors of the gallery are taken up with a celebration of Mass Observation, a social experiment started in 1937 to document everyday Britain. Two of the major phases in the life of the project are examined, and I was drawn to how very different they are, and how differently I reacted to the two halves of the exhibition.

Early days

One floor is taken up with the work of the Mass Observation collective in its first incarnation, starting just before the Second World War. During this period it was the work of a group of trained volunteers observing people going about their everyday lives. Much of the work is by established photographer Humphrey Spender, and centres on the working classes in Bolton (codenamed ‘Worktown’ by the organisation) and the same communities at play in Blackpool. As a Lancashire lad I found these images particularly interesting. A recent feature in The Guardian [1] reveals a fascinating lack of interest in the photography at the time:

Paradoxically, though, Spender’s photographs, which are now recognised as an important part of the Mass Observation archive, were never used at the time. “The images were always there to provide a focus for the written material, which was the core of the project,” elaborates Russell Roberts […] “They were purely informational and not meant to be artistic in any way. So from Spender’s photographs of a crowd at a Bolton Wanderers game, the Mass Observation researchers could count how many men were wearing hats at a football match. It was this kind of statistical detail that they collated and processed in their excavation of the everyday.”

Parliamentary by-election – Children hanging around outside, 1937/38 by Humphrey Spender — Courtesy of the Humphrey Spender Archive / Bolton Council

It’s not known whether Spender himself saw his work in the same light, or whether he had claims to any higher art or documentary worth. It seems slightly odd to me that he could have been happy with the only audience for his work being a bunch of researchers treating his images as nothing more than raw statistical material – who knows. Maybe this gave him the freedom to just capture what was in front of him, with no agenda. Maybe that was the entire point. Whatever the motives at the time, looking back on these images now is truly fascinating. It provides a series of slices of life that evoke an era close enough to be in the memories of some folk that are still around, yet historical for most of us.

Spender was clearly a talented photographer. As well as his contribution to Mass Observation he earned a living variously doing commercial photography and working for publications such as the Daily Mirror and the Picture Post, plus a stint as a war photographer.

The revival

According to the literature supporting the exhibition, there was a second phase of Mass Observation in the 1950s where it morphed into a more commercial market research organisation, although this era wound up a decade later. The whole enterprise was then revived in 1981, and this third phase is the subject of the other half of the Photographers’ Gallery exhibition.

This revived social experiment took a very different approach to the original: rather than sending trained photographers around the country to observe the people, it focused entirely on self-reporting. A number of volunteers were recruited to record their own lives against a series of specific ‘directives’, in the form of diaries, other writings and when appropriate, photographs.

I must confess I found myself completely unmoved by this portion of the exhibition, and I had to think about why that was. My first thought was that it was a function of my familiarity with the era: whilst the 1930s/40s images showed me a genuinely different time, the photos from the 1980s/90s showed me slices of a life that I had lived through once already, so barring a slightly kitsch sense of nostalgia, they held no allure, no interest, no reason to linger around the image. But this explanation didn’t really work for me. The other exhibition I saw the same evening was entirely contemporary and yet held my interest so much more. So it can’t be wholly down to the era of the images.

Snapshots, 'One Day For Life', 1987

Snapshots, ‘One Day For Life’, 1987

The second thing that struck me was the presentation format. While the 1930s/40s images were large format, high quality black and white prints, mounted and framed to normal exhibition sizes and standards, the 1980s/90s shots were literally amateur snapshots, 6″x4″ prints from the chemists, lined up in a row on a shelf behind glass, with their edges curling up. Now, I understand why they were presented like this, to emphasise their provenance as true ‘photos of the people’, but their diminutive size and lo-fi quality made them entirely uninteresting beyond a passing glance. I pondered whether the best of them would look as visually interesting as the 30s/40s shots if blown up to poster size and professionally framed; possibly. But I’ll never know, as they weren’t.

Related to the last point, but to me the overriding reason why I was so unmoved by the images, is the fact that they were all taken by amateurs. This is potentially a patronising viewpoint to put forward, but I genuinely believe the reason the vast majority of these images were so easy to walk past without a second glance was not the size, or the over-familairity – they just weren’t very good pictures. Valuable artefacts from a social experiment, maybe; but compelling as photographs? Not to me.

In the current photographic climate, with 40 million photos uploaded to Facebook daily, the need for an exercise like Mass Observation seems wildly unnecessary; we’re all recording everyday life all the time, probably too much. But the overriding feeling I got from the Mass Observation exhibition was that, while the need was there, the aesthetic outcomes of the work was far superior when they entrusted it to photographers who knew how to take a good photo.

‘This Is Your Photo’

The title of the exhibition is interesting, if slightly ambiguous. It takes its name from a Humphrey Spender photo of this phrase inscribed in chalk on a wall, yet in the first half of the show all the images were captured by Spender et al. They were of ‘you’ (the people) but not by you. In the second half, the photos were by ‘you’ but a lot less aesthetically interesting for it.

An interesting footnote: as part of the exhibition, the gallery has teamed up with The Guardian to hold a series of weekly ‘directives’ (“funeral”, “mantelpiece”, “breakfast” etc) for people to submit their own images against, and selected photos are shown in the foyer. So the whole enterprise is a curious mix of:

  • selected historic images by professionals
  • representative historic images by amateurs
  • curated contemporary images by enthusiasts.

Interesting as it was, I’m not entirely sure it all hung together as a whole.

1. http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2013/jul/21/mass-observation-photographers-gallery; accessed 03/09/13