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Depth Charge
by Carol McCusker

Photography is art’s most democratic medium. It would seem that anyone can be labeled a good if not great photographer worthy of a show and publication once they master the mechanics of the camera, take enough trips to exotic places or attend a reputable photography graduate program. The fact is, by virtue of seeming to be a democratic, accessible art form, photography is deluged with mediocrity, imitation and instant art stars with no track record. Before embracing these art stars, I want to know, as curator of a photography museum, what else they’ve done or are capable of doing, and if they have staying power. They usually hail from university graduate programs, and open their first show in a highly visible New York gallery complete with a publication and a $12,000 price tag on each image. As with music and sports, the market hypes their imagery, furthering what I see as photography’s trend toward the big, the colorful and the disaffected. This may appropriately (and sadly) reflect our culture’s state-of-mind, but given the current state of the world, I need something more.

Rather than focusing on what is idiosyncratic or isolating about human experience, I want to see what photography does best, namely, engage me in a relevant, palpable experience of the world that expands, connects or affirms life. Some of the most powerful images are those in which the photographer’s intentions meet the viewer halfway, satisfying or exceeding expectations by opening our eyes to something not seen before. Robert Adams’s photographs from his Los Angeles Basin series come to mind. The L.A. Basin is a place that for many symbolizes the death of nature. Deeply concerned about the environment, however, Adams photographs the basin’s resilience—tenuous but untiring—despite the onslaught of freeways and over-development. His definition of nature is not that it is a wild thing separate from cities but essential to living in one. Eschewing the ironic image (say, a struggling sapling beside a dumpster), Adams gives us instead the sturdy elegance of a bank of trees rising monumentally above a distant ribbon of smoggy freeway. Like the geological nature of his subject, Adams’s pace is slow moving; his projects take years and he walks long distances while photographing. His images feel glacier-like in their symbolic ability to carve depth and to reveal layers of the previously unseen. Nature becomes a hopeful metaphor; it survives. But, he implies, how it endures belongs first in our ability to see it. Adams offers us a second sight, providing what French theorist Roland Barthes valued most in photography, “The power of expansion...I see, I feel, hence I notice, I observe, I think.”

Like other art forms, photography can help us make sense of the world. I recently read a passage by author Rebecca Solnit that made me think of the power of photography. Addressing English majors at their graduation ceremony, Solnit asserted that studying English Lit [and here I substitute photography] can “enable you to analyze, to see patterns, to acquire a personal philosophy rather than a jumble of unexamined hand-me-down notions, that enable you not to make a living but maybe to live. This least utilitarian of educations prepares you to make sense of the world and maybe to make become a producer of meanings rather than a consumer of them in an age when meaning as advertising and marketing is daily forced down our throats.”

When I can, I like talking to photographers about their process, which inevitably leads to how their photography generates meaning, and what it is exactly that they tap into in order for this to happen. I go through a similar process myself when curating an exhibition or writing an essay such as this. For all of us engaged in the creative process, the degree to which we are committed to finding meaning is more important than any photograph or exhibition we create. The images are the overflow when life is sufficiently challenged or stimulated to the point that all the things that engage our bodies, minds and emotions demand an outlet of expression. Consider the music, movies, conversations, fiction, poetry or news media you consume daily; each shapes what you think and how you act. Therefore, how we live and what we surround ourselves with has everything to do with what we produce. Inseparable from the life of its maker, the act of creating becomes the outward expression of a life lived.

Instead of perpetuating today’s climate where the main photo trends are choked with irony or superficial references to pop culture, photography should better the world, not hinder it. I want to affirm what is inherently valuable in life. I am sticking my neck out here asking that photography be “life-affirming,” opening myself up to accusations of being old-fashioned or close-minded. But, for me, photography (as with all art making) has a moral dimension. It is not a trivial act, and comes with responsibility. It is nothing less than a privilege to make art, and responsibility goes with privilege.

I think of photographer Andrea Modica as I write this. Living the peripatetic life of an academic, Modica has satisfied her desire to belong to a community by befriending certain people within it, mostly children who she then photographs over several years. She is committed to them as a friend or older sister. Her photographs are exceptional by way of the camera she uses. Modica uses an 8" X 10" view camera exclusively. This dramatically changes and slows down the picture making process. “The amount of time that elapses between when I ask a person to pose and when I snap the shutter has an effect on their portrait,” Modica says. “Their response to who I am, as well as the camera, becomes a part of the picture.” She then makes her images into sepia-toned platinum photographs printed on tissue paper the weight of skin. Consequently the images have an intimate physical dimension alongside being deeply tender. They come from a need on the part of the artist to find meaning in the commitment to friendships with children and their families, in the emotional connection of photographing, and the shared vulnerability in both. McCusker
Carol McCusker is curator of photography at the Museum of Photographic Arts, San Diego. She received her Ph.D. in art history with an emphasis on the history of photography and film history at the University of New Mexico (UNM), Albuquerque. She has curated numerous exhibitions at MoPA and UNM, and is contributing author to Paul Outerbridge (Taschen, 1999); First Photographs: William Henry Fox Talbot and The Birth of Photography (powerHouse, 2002); James Fee: The Peleliu Project (Seraphin, 2002); Phil Stern: A Life’s Work (powerHouse, 2003); Terry Falke: Observations in an Occupied Wilderness (Chronicle, 2006); and Breaking the Frame: Pioneering Women in Photojournalism (MoPA, 2006).