Category: Photography Books

by Jonathan Blaustein

It was snowing. Lightly. The roads were not yet covered. Entirely. There was a slight sheen on the asphalt, blanketing the black ice like a grandmother’s knitted afghan. (Big ups, Grandma Ruth, wherever you are.)

I was driving East towards the mountains. My skis were in the back, my mind on the foot of fresh powder waiting to be shredded. I didn’t have my cellphone, which was rare. It was waiting for me on the seat of a little Mazda in the Taos Ski Valley parking lot.

My intended companions were two enormous Germans, so big they were nicknamed Triple G. The Gentle German Giants. One was 6’5″, the other 6’8″ and bald. As a 5’7″ Jewish guy, we were guaranteed to make a ridiculous triumvirate, dashing down the slopes.

There was no one on the Rim Road, so named because it sits above a sheer cliff that drops precipitously down to the Valdez valley, several hundred feet below. This being New Mexico, where things don’t always work right, the road actually narrows to one lane in two places. Sketchy.

I motored along in my Volkswagen Passat station-wagon. I bought it used, from a dead lady, as we planned to have our first child. It’s all about the airbags. The car started to break down the week after the check cleared. Thousands, I poured into the piece of shit. The week before, I cursed the vehicle out loud, screaming, begging the gods to take it from me.

Be careful what you wish for.

I saw the Waste Management garbage truck before he saw me. Enormous. He was chugging out of a dirt road, now slick, perpendicular to the Rim Road before me. With all of his mass, I knew he couldn’t stop in time.

He slammed on the brakes, and skidded into my lane, not 30 yards ahead. I was now, unfortunately, completely cut off. Time slowed down. For real. I had two choices. Take the hit, or jerk the wheel left, whereupon I might plunge down the cliff to my death. Awesome.

Without thinking, I took the hit, and smashed nose first into monstrous steel beast. The crunch was sickening, the smoke almost instantaneous. Thank goodness, I’d bought new tires five days earlier. The airbag deployed, as promised.

Garbage truck, snowy mountain road, edge of a cliff. A recipe for disaster. Somehow, I walked away unhurt. The other driver refused to look me in the eye, or admit his faults. Asshole. He waited, silently, for his corporate honcho to arrive and speak on his behalf. Fortunately, his silence prevented him from lying to the State Policeman, who wrote up the report as I described it.
Thankfully, I’d borrowed my wife’s cell phone, and was able to call for a ride back home. I shook for hours.

Do we all have a story like this? I sure hope not. Though it happened three years ago this week, and I’m very happy with the Hyundai I bought as a replacement, my head still quivers at my good luck. Others, of course, fare not-so-well in similar encounters.

This week, I looked at Nicolai Howalt’s “Car Crash Studies,” put out by Etudes Books in Paris. It didn’t take long for my mind to flash back to that dismal, gray day. I can see it all in my mind so clearly. But the book, you say?

The images are cold, formal examinations of bent steel, crunched glass, and dirty interior carpets. It begins with abstract imagery, pictures one might honestly describe as beautiful. If you like that sort of thing.

After a run of abstractions, the photographer pulls back, and we see the aforementioned airbags. Then, the inside of destroyed cars. Little details emerge. A stuffed animal hanging from a rear view mirror. A pink key chain dangling from the ignition block. A pack of cigarettes never to be smoked. They could be installations, or de facto sculptures inside the wreckage.

Near the end, we see the blood. Only one photo, thankfully. On the steering wheel. Any more would have been heavy-handed. (Looking again, I noticed that this image was also on the cover. I would have chosen differently.)

People can’t help but look at car crashes. Rubber-necking is a morbid and pathetic part of the human condition, but there it is. More traffic is caused by twisted curiosity than I care to ponder. Just think of all that latent economic activity.

Always, though, it comes back to tragedy. These pictures imply it, as did Andy Warhol’s excellent painting series on the same subject. Misery and death are hard to stomach, in literal fashion. A photo of a dead person is just that. A photo. Not much metaphor possible. Here, though, our imagination is stimulated. Our memories flood. And that’s good enough for me.

Bottom Line: Formal, abstract visions of car-crash destruction

To Purchase “Car Crash Studies” Visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

We’re all middle class, aren’t we? We, the creative class, were reared to have options. Here in America, at least, if you’re reading this, you’re probably white, and you likely grew up comfortable. (If you were upper class, you’d be reading Frieze, and planning to jet off to Dubai to take some sun.)

In case you’re wondering, I am aware that one of these days my penchant for stereotyping might just get me into trouble. But until then, I will endeavor to keep it real. If you grew up with enough education to become a photographer, or an editor, or an art buyer, it’s unlikely that you come from a dirt poor rural spot of nothing, or a gritty inner-city ghetto.

I believe our respective middle-ness is a big driver for the need many photographers have to visit emerging nations to document poverty. (And violence. And misery.) The obsession with “The Other” is well-worn. On the flip side, our mission to share truth and reality with the wider world, through our respective media outlets, often comes from noble roots.

Seriously, how many of you have a colleague who rose up from nothing to become an artist? Or a journalist? Of course it’s possible, but I’d suggest that for those with little or nothing, the desperate need to ensure survival supersedes the desire to make pretty, or important pictures. Given how much I believe in the power of Art, would that it were different. But class matters, as does one’s home turf.

I got to thinking about this, having just put down “Steel Work City,” a new book by Rikard Laving. (Journal) If bleak beauty is your thing, this is one to buy. If you love a peek into how the other half lives, those who toil thanklessly in dirty industry to make the cash to buy food, pay for gas, and perhaps have time to fish a bit on the weekends, then this one is for you as well.

The slim volume opens with a lovely poem by Mattias Alkberg, in Swedish, and then English. To be fair, you don’t know it takes place in Sweden until the end notes. The initial viewing provides a generic, cold, Scandinavian experience. Sitting here in New Mexico, it could have been Finland, Norway, or Denmark for all I knew. (It’s funny that some neighboring countries have internecine rivalries, but all look the same from the other side of the planet.)

But Sweden it is. The narrative is based at the Swedish Steel AB compound in Oxelösund, and the surrounding areas. (It employs 54% of the local population.) Lots of billowing smoke, modernist institutional architecture, and gray light. In the wrong hands, the material could easily be bland and banal. Instead, I was hooked.

This book is a great example, (as was last week’s,) of what happens when everything comes together. The production quality, the text, the graphic design, the use of suspense. (Where is this? What’s going on?) I loved that each image was allowed to breathe on the page, and that the titles gave me the info I needed just below.

The subtle color shifts communicate cold, and even boredom. The school children pictures truly surprise, as we see that diversity has hit this sleepy little area. It’s not just a bunch of little Aryan kids. Who knew?

I’ll readily admit that bleak beauty doesn’t do it for everyone. Some folks prefer otters and ocelots. Cacti and chameleons. Boobs and bikinis. Why not?

But I love the experience of opening up a photo-book, and being reminded how lucky I was to be born with options, in spitting distance of the most powerful city in the World. (Here’s your shout-out, NYC. Enjoy the mantle while you’ve still got it.) It’s a big part of why I worked so hard for seven years to share the power of Art with kids less fortunate than I was. The other reason, unsurprisingly, was that the bills needed paying. I’m a working stiff too. Thankfully, though, my fingernails are clean, and my hands are as soft as a baby’s belly.

Bottom Line: Lyrical, bleak life in a Swedish Steel town

To Purchase “Steel Work City” Visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

Three nights ago, I flung raw chicken out the second story window of my Aunt Lynda’s house. With a salad fork. In East Brunswick, New Jersey.

Two nights ago, I traveled to a parallel dimension, and then back again. I was accompanied by a childhood friend named Brett. We made the journey in a machine; a cross between a sauna, and the hot tub from “Hot Tub Time Machine.” When I returned, I was a woman.

Last night, I repeatedly bashed a former summer-camp counselor about the collarbone with a hammer. Again and again, I beat him. Whump. Whump. Whump. A giraffe trotted by in the background.

You’ve probably guessed these narratives come from my dreams. I rarely remember them, but my son recently asked me to try harder, and now I can’t shake the visuals from my mind. I’m ambivalent about the whole thing, as the retained images are as troubling as they are bizarre.

We’re all comfortable with the fact that each evening, our conscious mind cedes control. The conductor of the night shift is clinically insane. We know this, yet still wake up refreshed, or screaming for coffee. Either way, how many of us spend significant time parsing these madcap adventures? And if we did, what might we learn? (No, I’m not about to quote Freud.)

Within the realm of art, when people think of the dreamworld, they invariably go to Dali. Melting clocks in the desert. Maybe the photo-geeks think of Robert & Shana Parke Harrison, or that young woman who ripped them off and is showing her work around these days. (No, I won’t name the offender.)

Some of the most compelling dream-scape images I’ve seen, though, emerge from “Lo Zuavo Scomparso,” a new, magnificent hard-cover book by Paolo Ventura. (Punctum Press, 2012.) Just last week, I assured you that it’s nothing to me if you buy these books or not. Today, I’ll reverse course, and suggest that this is one for the collection.

The book is experiential on multiple levels. The cover is bright red, with terrific design. Open it up, and you’re treated to a cryptic, repeating graphic inside the cover. Then, we get two poems, in Italian and English, that establish the narrative to come. (Anyone with a brain knows that Italian is the most beautiful language in the world. I encourage you to read the Italian text out loud, for sonorous pleasure.)

As many of you probably know, Mr. Ventura builds intricate sets for his imagery. They resemble paintings, while reflecting the camera’s power to observe. Here, the subject is a Papal Zouave who comes to Rome, and then disappears. (The city itself competes for attention.) The mood is mysterious and elegant, the light not easy to describe.

After the photos conclude, there is an interview with the artist, again in English and Italian, that gives compelling clues to the nature of his process and obsession. Rare for my somewhat-short-attention-span, I found myself reading, then going back to the pictures, then reading again. I returned to some passages three or four times.

Eventually, I decided I needed to know more, and googled Papal Zouave. Normally, I won’t do that, believing that the artist ought to provide all necessary information. Here, I was too entranced to care.

Papal Zouaves were 19th Century soldiers in service to the Pope. In Italy, they fought against the Risorgimento, or unification of the country. (In light of Silvio Berlusconi’s ridiculous escapades, perhaps they were on to something. Bunga, Bunga.)

The book concludes with a set of polaroids that were presumably used as sketches. And then that crazy graphic again, which I could by-then recognize as a Papal Zouave’s profile, repeated over and over. (Just like gelaterias in Rome. How much f-cking ice cream can people eat?) This book will be tough to give back, because it transported me to a different reality. Will it do the same for you?

Bottom line: Masterful, beautiful, dreamy piece of work

To Purchase “Lo Zuavo Scomparso” Visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

I’m in a bad mood right now. Grumpy, surly, sour. Take your pick. Why? Because I’m cold, deep in my bones. Nobody likes a whiner, but it’s been well-below-zero here in Taos for more than a month now. Each day, I wake up hoping this arctic wave will break. No such luck.

I know some of you are reading this in the Southern Hemisphere, or straddling the equator. Hell, even my parents were smart enough to high tail it down to Mexico. To all of you, I hope you’re happy. Enjoy it. Because the serotonin doesn’t pump as freely when everything is bleak, gray and dim.

Even now, as I try to put this foul temper behind me, I’m having trouble. The words don’t flow as well when your mind is trapped in a negative feedback loop. Too. Cold. To. Be. Witty. Today.

So what is a hard-working columnist to do? Keep bashing you over the head with complaints? Move to Mumbai? Take a bath in chicken soup? All respectable options, but none seem right.

I have a better idea. I can re-open and flip through “in almost every picture.”, a new book published by Erik Kessels of kesselkramer in Amsterdam. (What would I do if I were in Amsterdam right now? Do you have to ask?) Let’s pause a moment while I actually do look at the book again.

OK, I’m back. And I feel better already. This is one of the funniest, strangest, and most oddly heart-warming books I’ve seen in a long time. If ever. (No, it’s not genius. But that is a big threshold to cross.)

So what is it about? Apparently, one of the publisher’s acquaintances spotted this project on the web, and then the book was born. In almost every photograph, we see a middle-aged woman standing fully clothed in water. Her name is Valerie, and she and her husband Fred are the team behind the project.

I suppose we’d call them amateurs, but then again, they’ve got a book, and most of us don’t. Valerie is a willing subject, and Terry has photographed her, over the years, in fountains, pools, oceans, lakes, showers, you name it. The only catch is that she’s wearing clothes, and standing in water. Or wet, having poured a jug over herself.

It sounds like a concept cooked up out of irony, but it’s not. The end statement mentions the thrill of eroticism, and I guess it’s there. Maybe. Thankfully, though, the book is not made out to mock Valerie either. While she doesn’t look like anybody’s mental vision of a model, she does know how to vary her expression, and to play along. It must take a lot of guts to show yourself this way, especially as she ages over time.

I know many of you look to this column to see what books you ought to buy. But that’s never my motivation. I’m looking to find things that are interesting, innovative, thought-provoking, important, powerful, inspirational, bizarre, or absurd. It’s a high standard, and maybe I don’t always get there. But today, at least, I’m less grumpy than I was five minutes ago. So that’s something.

Bottom line: Weird, fun-loving book by amateur photographers

To Purchase “in almost every picture” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

Taste is fickle. We all think we have good taste, but of course that’s impossible. Some of us are chic, and others display ceramic frogs around their home.

I’m more attuned to the dichotomy than most. Taos, where I live, is famed as an art outpost at the edge of nowhere. We used to have Agnes Martin, Ken Price, and Dennis Hopper, but they’re all dead now. Bummer.

Instead, in the 80’s and 90’s, the Taos art scene began to cater directly to the hordes of moneyed Texan and Oklahoman tourists that drove into town with regularity. Big trucks, big checkbooks, questionable taste. The result was a glut of “art galleries” that each tried to outdo the others with uninspired, gaudy Southwestern art.

If you like bad paintings of cowboys, indians, flowers, teepees, mountains, horses and hollyhocks, this is your kind of place. If, like me, you try to make and look at intellectually challenging work, then you’re probably better served elsewhere. I hate to be harsh, but it is what it is.

Sometimes, though, bad taste can be accepted within the realm of high art. We’re all familiar with kitsch, but I suppose it’s difficult to define. You know it when you see it, like porn. Some things are so cheesy or tacky that you like them in spite of yourself. (Like Billy the Badmouth Bass crooning “Don’t Worry Be Happy” every time you touch the button.)

I’ve got all this in mind, as I just put down a copy of David LaChapelle’s big new monograph, “Thus Spoke LaChapelle,” published in conjunction with an exhibition in Prague. (Yes, I know I ought not pick on the Eastern Europeans again. But I saw more silly mustaches and tacky vinyl siding while living in Polish Greenpoint, Brooklyn than I care to remember.)

David LaChapelle is a super-famous photographer, and you’ve probably already got you mind made up about him. As my knowledge base skews towards the art world, rather and editorial, I knew him as some dude who makes crazy, opulent photos, and who also sued Rhianna. (My goodness she’s beautiful.)

But I didn’t have a microfiche catalogue of his work in my head. Not at all. So I was pleasantly surprised to see this book, filled to the brim with celebrities, hookers, models, fake boobs, fake butts, jutting penises, and tons of campy, gay-themed silliness. Let me be clear: this is a big book, so there is more bad taste than a gas-guzzling RV from Texas towing a Hummer off the back. (Yes, I see them all the time.)

I’d rather not get into too many details here, because there’s too much to discuss. The famous people are there, and boy did he make Courtney Love and Michael Jackson look bonkers. But David Bowie is hip, Uma Thurman is radiant, and he even got Daniel Day-Lewis to do something strange. (Just imagine that set, if it was in the actor’s Bill the Butcher phase. “Uh, Mr. Lewis, we’d like you to rub a pomegranate all over your face. And if you’re planning to stab anybody, please avoid the vital organs.”)

There are some terrible photos in this book, and some photos that are terrible in a good way. (In fairness, some of the celeb pictures are good without being bad at all.) It’s big enough that you’re likely to find some you love, and some that shock you with audacity. Surprisingly, near the end, we see the series of images, represented on the cover, of people photographed while submerged in water. They’re well made, powerful, interesting, and subtle. If you didn’t know who made them, you’d probably just assume they came from the mind of a talented, less crazy artist.

Bottom line: Crazy monograph, famous photographer, famous subjects

To purchase Thus Spoke LaChapelle visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

Karl Marx got it wrong. He prophesied the demise of Religion and Nationalism. Bad call. I know it’s ballsy of me to quibble with a dead great mind, but it was never going to be thus.

As long as humans have been upright, they’ve looked to the night sky. Before pollution, every part of the planet would have provided proper vantage to see the billions of stars above. Speaking as one who retains the privilege, you don’t need to know what those things are up there. You just feel, in your genetic code, that you are a small, insignificant nothing in the face of it all.

From there, it’s not a long leap to name that feeling of awe and worthlessness. And then to worship that name, and then again to ask for favors. (And to pray.) That progression happened everywhere on Earth, and many names developed as such. My wife was just telling me the other day that we Jews have multiple names to suit the many faces of our lone deity.

We, the people of the book, who have such a prominence in the state of the safety of the World, are but .2% of its population, I recently read. (Seriously, Bibi, you can’t keep building on what will obviously be Palestine.) Christianity leads the way with 31%, and then Islam is second with 23%.

Both religions seek converts. And we wonder why countries with those tendencies are oft at each other’s throats. (ie, the Bush Wars.) Nationalism is nothing more than our need for the tribe, of which I’ve already written, and that’s never going away. Put the two together and the reptilian brain takes over, leading to conflict.

Elsewhere in the world, there are Buddhists, Hindus, Zoroastrians, and many other types of worshippers. In Japan, Shintoism remains popular. To those believers, there are entrances to the sacred world called “Torii.” Which is also, conveniently, the name of a new book, out last year, by Risaku Suzuki. (Superlabo)

(You knew there had to be a connection there, right?) The mid-sized hardcover consists of a set polaroid photographs, taken in Japan, in 1993. Almost all contain the presence of the large scale shrine-temple-type structure. It looks like the entrance to something that ought to be just behind it, or above it, but that got vaporized into a parallel dimension. (Or razed to make another mini-mart.)

The pictures look vintage, and some are washed out or have disintegrated edges. The colors might have shifted a touch here or there, but it serves the look and the meaning. Seeing these Torii in parking lots and dwarfed by city architecture hammers home the point that some ideas are eternal, and times always change.

The repetition of the beautiful, shape, over and over again is mesmerizing. Such a beautiful shape, this portal. Peaceful. I loved the one framed against the open car door. Not a big leap from this to the oft-mentioned Murakami vibe. (Pass through and you too can talk to the Sheep Man.)

I hate to state the obvious, but the book and pictures within are Zen. They close that loop on religion, in the way they inspire some immediate mental calm. And that is high praise from a man who’s staring at a snow covered mountain peak as he’s typing these words. (No easy feat.)

Bottom Line: Super-Zen Shinto shrines from 1993

To Purchase Torii visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

I signed up for Instagram a few months ago. As ridiculous as it sounds, I use my Ipad to shoot the photographs. It’s a crappy camera, but what I love most is that I see something, reach for the tablet, and make a picture. It’s perfectly unprecious, and I appreciate that the platform engenders occasional creativity in me, nothing more.

Normally I stay away from the day-to-day controversies in cyberworld, but this Instagram Term of Service kerfuffle is too good to pass up. We can all be as outraged as we like, and feel free to think that way. (Which comes first, I wonder, the liquor or the pitchforks? Wouldn’t you have drink first before you went out to hunt Frankenstein’s monster?)

Can we not acknowledge the silliness of trying to commodify the random, meaningless little compositions we create? If there are billions of these things (photos) getting made every day, how much could any one of them truly be worth? Value is traditionally derived from scarcity, for heaven’s sake.

How much money do you expect to lose when Instagram charges some dumb company $.00037 to put their ad next to your filtered photo? Does anyone actually think they’ll be denied untold riches from Mr. Zuckerberg’s secret vault? (I’ll have the rubies, thank you.)

Rather than focus on the news cycle, though, I wanted to write this last column of the year with a more important message. In the time I’ve been writing here, (2.5 years,) it seems as if the publication industry has started to stabilize, as has the American economy. So, many of you are off the proverbial ledge, worrying about how to pay the mortgage. At least, I hope that’s true.

So, for 2013, as we all emerge from perma-fear-mode, why not take a risk? Try something new. Learn a new skill. Make a conscious effort to improve yourself, and your knowledge base. Embrace the New Year with a sense of opportunity, rather than fear. (And of course I’ll try to do the same.)

Why am I off on this rant today? Why no mention of the wife and kids? Because I just finished looking at Alec Soth’s “Looking for Love 1996,” published by Kominek, and it seemed like the perfect catalyst for a “stretch yourself” message today. (Plus, that was the year I graduated college and took up photography, so I couldn’t resist the chance to wax philosophical.)

According to the text, Mr. Soth began investing in his photographic talents while working at a commercial printing facility in 1996. He would print other people’s birthday photos all day long, and then go out at night to drink and photograph away his misery. He also admits, after the statute of limitations has probably run its course, that he would make his own prints and sneak them out at night, wrapped around his legs. (Cue vision of the robot dance.)

I know Mr. Soth has many, many publications on the market. I don’t know if you should buy this one to add to your collection. That’s up to you. But his photographic style, though raw, is certainly on display here. He walks the line between pathos and poking fun at people. The photos display an eye for detail, and the ability to celebrate the awkward moment, rather than gut it like a branzino destined for the grill.

There is a bit of a time capsule feel to the book. It’s all in black and white, which is not the way we know Mr. Soth’s best work. It really is a cool little object, and ends with a dorktastic self-portrait. The artist, lacking his now-famous beard, lounges back in a tuxedo, sans jacket and bow-tie. The look in his eye is a bit doofy, but you can definitely sense the beginning of some serious confidence. (What the f-ck are you looking at?)

Let’s all take inspiration from Mr. Soth’s journey. Let 2013 be the time when you too try to build something fresh. I’m not advocating theft, per se. But my New Year’s wishes for you are clear. I hope, this time next year, that you find yourself fulfilled, and capable of new and dynamic things.

Bottom Line: Very cool collection of the artist’s early work

To Purchase “Looking for Love 1996” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

It’s late at night, and very dark. The street lamps around you are half-broken. You could be anywhere in Eastern Europe. Let’s say it’s Warsaw.

The rain comes down, cold and painful. It’s half-frozen; not quite snow. The worst. You feel the wet chill deep in your bones, and the slick cobblestones beneath your feet. The tread on your boots is worn, so you have to walk less quickly than you might like. Is this neighborhood dangerous?

Up ahead, a shadow takes form. Just a person, walking in your direction. Nothing to worry about. Two blocks becomes one, and suddenly you can make out some details. It’s a white dude with a nose that’s been broken. He’s big. 6’2″? His jangly leather jacket is tight, so you can see that his muscles are enormous.

Here’s where it gets interesting. Do you feel threatened? Are you afraid of getting mugged? Or is your blood flowing for another reason? Is he cute? Does he look like he wants to hook up? Wait, what’s going on here?

Exactly what I was wondering when I looked at “Fifteen Minutes With You,” a new small hard-cover book by Itai Doron, from Omoplata in Japan. The jacket image, of a muscly white guy taking off his wife-beater while staring threatening daggers at the camera…that’s the gist of it. (Honest to god, I just wrote Ass instead of All as the first word of the next sentence I was about to write. Freudian slip.)

The whole book is a series of thuggish, Eastern European-looking white men, mostly half-naked. They’re taking off items of clothes, holding weapons, or punching, while wearing boxing gloves. What? There’s little overt nudity, just one butt at the end of the book.

But what the f-ck is going on here? The guys look like they want to beat the shit out of the photographer most of the time, but sometimes like they want to make out. As the eroticism is not meant for me, I find it ironic and campy and intelligent. Like images from some 1981 KGB-Christmas-calender-gone-wrong that got its maker dropped in the gulag. Forever.

The pictures are ambiguous and strange. There is no text, no explanation of who these guys are, or where, or why this whole book was published, for starters. Just these weird, thug-porn-meets-MMA-fighter-pseudo-documentary photographs. Only at the end do we get a title sheet, with the names, locations and dates. (Of course it’s Eastern Europe.)

Meager context, but that’s what makes the thing fascinating for me. From the minute I opened the cover, I was constantly trying to figure out the puzzle, while also thinking about all the weird ways that masculinity can be symbologized in 2012. So next time you bump into Miroslav from Bulgaria, keep an open mind.

Bottom Line: Weird, compelling, homo-erotic Polaroids

To Purchase “Fifteen Minutes With You” Visit Photo Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

Last night, my wife trudged to bed in her green bathrobe. At 7pm. She looked at me, forlorn, and said, “It feels like it’s always time to make the donuts.” Then she continued down the hall.

Much as I wished to say something witty or helpful, I was at a loss. Our lives are pretty wonderful, all things considered, but she hasn’t slept right in six months. Every day, from wakeup to bed, she’s responsible for helping someone out of a mess, or cleaning one up from the kids.

Some day, she’ll sleep through the night again. Schedules will develop, allowing for some planned “downtime.” Fun will return to her life, and someone else can make those blasted donuts instead.

Drudgery is a part of the human condition, as much as fun. Death never happens without the sex first, right? But Art is one of the best ways to try to cheat said mortality. And when we make it, we preoccupy those parts of the brain otherwise used for neurotic self-criticality, or constant to-do-list-making. (And the prints we leave behind will outlast us, we hope.)

Those negative thought trains are silenced while the hand draws a line, types a phrase, or clicks a shutter. We all know how much fun it is to be focused on both the present, and the matter of creation at hand. Looking at Art does much the same thing, with the additional benefit of giving us new information about the world around us.

When we’re exclusively literal, we miss out on many of the best parts of life. Photography is a literal medium, but we all know it can be cheated. (I was fooled by a fake shark-in-a-Long-Beach-Island-Front-Yard photograph. Even tweeted it.)

Literature and painting are all better known for delivering abstracted realities. Hence the love for writers like Murakami and Garcia Marquez. And Spanish painters like Picasso, Goya and Dali. (Not to mention the not-quite-Spanishly titled “El Greco”.)

Personally, I love the blending of absurdity married to reality that we see in Spanish culture. I speak from the experience of the bastard son. New Mexico has deeply Spanish roots, but our particular kind of lunacy is homegrown.

As anyone would tell you, life is crazy. But that need not be a sorry assertion. Absurd humor can be cathartic and profound, and is rarely seen in modern photography. Much rarer still in Black and White. So I was happy to find a new soft-cover book from Chema Madoz, a Spaniard, published jointly by PHotoBolsillo and La Fabrica.

I’d never heard of the artist, but that’s not unusual for this column. The pin-through-the-cloud cover gives a quick and not subtle nod to surrealism, and probably Photoshop. The pictures within are excellent. Formally, they’re super-tight. The tonality is always well-crafted too, as is the use of light. The subjects are sculptural as well as whimsical.

We see a chair wearing suspenders. A burned match in the center of a thermostat. A set of plates, stacked in a storm grate instead of a dish rack. A cactus made of stone. Scissors with eye lashes. Shoelaces made of braided hair.

Surreal images like these are ideal for expressing the dreamlike world of the subconscious. And for reminding us that life is not all about punching the time-clock.

Given my own work, and my taste, it was almost assured that I’d love this book. But I think most people would. Once you’ve flipped through it, you’ll likely feel a bit better than you did before. I should probably show it to my wife when she gets home from work.

Bottom Line: Formal, Surreal, Black & White photo gems

To purchase PHotoBolsillo visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

My Dad told me a strange story the other day. Then he tried to tell me again, the next day, sitting in the same chair. Seemed like a great metaphor for Thanksgiving. Same day, same meal, same people, every year.

He read the tale on the Internet, so I immediately assumed it untrue. According to Dad, there’s a guy in China who sued his wife for giving birth to an ugly baby. Once paternity was established, everyone figured he’d lose. But then they discovered his wife had undergone massive plastic surgery, and used to be butt-ugly-heinous. He won a settlement from the judge, so the story goes.

Fortunately, my new baby daughter is totally gorgeous. For now. We’ll see what develops. If she ends up with a grand and Roman nose like I have, we might have to visit the plastic surgeon’s office in 2028. (Happy 16th Birthday, honey. Enjoy your new schnozz.)

Just as we haven’t yet digested how insane and unhealthy it is to be digitally connected to everyone else, all the time, the plastic surgery epidemic is equally absurd and troubling. One can only imagine the daily damage done to impressionable young girls by the cavalcade of fake everything on display in today’s myriad media. Fake boobs on Perez Hilton, fake skin in the fashion mags, fake lips on Top Chef.

People can now, for a fee, cut and paste their bodies, molding flesh like anthropomorphized DNA. That’s pretty nuts. Phil Toledano showed us the freaks, in all their Caravaggio’d-out horror. Great stuff. But mocking the loonies doesn’t exactly lead to subtle iconography.

Cara Phillips’ new monograph, “Singular Beauty,” published by Fw: Books, offers a serene and insightful look inside the scalpel industry. I must say, the book is curiously made. After unwrapping the plastic, one opens the solid, minimalist, white cardboard box-cover, and finds a color-copy-paper-ish, stapled catalog inside. Strange and super low-tech, it seems intended to subvert our desire to aestheticize everything. It also references a catalog in a waiting room, where a fancy lady might peruse herself some boobs.

I was off-put at first, as I’m used to leafing through so many of these expensively crafted productions. But I do give props to the structural metaphor, and it’s in evidence here. The pages are also quirky, as each is an inseparable double-fold, with the titles wedged in between. Black text emerges from beneath the white paper. (Again with the outside/inside dialectic.)

The photos are really well seen: medium or large format, lots of studio lights, banging away in high-end plastic surgery consultation rooms. With tight formal construction, Ms. Phillips shoots the fancy-leather-reclining chairs, the liposuction pump machines, anesthesia stations, metal pokers, and nasty tools of the trade. It’s cooly done, clean and meticulous. That enables the viewer to supply the mental details, like blood seeping into a plastic syringe. (Or liquid fat sucking into a lexan cylinder.)

The photos were all shot in LA, New York, the OC, and DC, so we’re probably only seeing inside the exclusive joints. Not sure that matters much, but it’s definitely not Bakersfield. (Hola, me llamo Dr. Reyes. Quieres un nuevo estomoco? Venga a nuestra officina para un grand discuento. Solamente esta semana.)

I like the work a lot. And for once, I don’t have to chastise the creator for exploiting the Boobs Sell Books℠ phenomenon. Whether as doctorly doodles, or in a sexy-type montage photo, they definitely belong. Couldn’t tell this story without them.

Bottom line: Conceptual book, killer photos, flimsy innards

To Purchase “Singular Beauty” Visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

by Jonathan Blaustein

Yesterday was Thanksgiving in America. Today, belts will loosen around the fifty states. Cholesterol levels will rise faster than the sea in the six years since Al Gore’s Climate Change movie was released. And we’ll see “A Christmas Story” pop up on cable any day now. (You’ll shoot your eye out.)

It’s hard to imagine a movie achieving cult and classic status as quickly as that one did. I remember going to see it with my now-dead-Jewish grandma in South Florida when it came out back in the day. (Big ups to Nana, wherever you are.)

“A Christmas Story” endures because it contains so many memorable moments. It left us with one scene, once seen, that remains in your neuron-memory, forever. I’m talking about the bit where a dumb kid name Flick gets his tongue stuck on a frozen pole after a triple dog dare. (And I double dog dare you not to laugh when he starts crying.)

Despite the film’s popularity, that type of adolescent humor seems anachronistic in a Post-Jack-Ass world. Just the other night, I was watching the 3rd installment of the Harold & Kumar series, and the Korean dude got his penis stuck on a frozen pole while trying to escape from Ukrainian hit men. Like I’ve said before, the 20th Century seems like a long time ago.

Will this prosthetic penis be burned into my brain like the Flick’s frozen tongue? Probably not. It’s just harder to shock people these days. (Unless you choose not to caption photos of dead people in an interview about War photography.)

Perhaps the key to mental resonance is rooted in simplicity? I will spatter paint, instead of apply it. I will film a Western in Spain, instead of America. I will let the sunlight burn through a paper negative inside a view camera. Had no one ever thought to do that before? I don’t know. But when San Francisco-based-artist Chris McCaw stumbled on the technique, he was probably pretty f-cking psyched.

I just got to look at “Sunburn,” Mr. McCaw’s new monograph from Candela Books. (Richmond, VA.) It’s a beautiful new hard cover, and they even took the trouble to burn through one of the intro pages. (Amazing what they can do with lasers these days.) There are a couple of essays at the beginning, including one by New Mexico’s own Katherine Ware. The other was written by Allie Haeusslein, the gallery manager at Pier 24, thereby closing the loop on our San Francisco series.

The first time I went through the plates, I found myself just a wee bit underwhelmed. My eyes naturally went to the landscape subject matter, and I didn’t catch the emerging patterns of the Sun. Kind of like it’s hard to watch the crowd in a sporting event on TV. Your eye keeps tracking the ball.

Even so, the pictures of the Sun’s path caught my attention enough to decide to come back to the book again today. Good sign. The closing text, written by the artist, gives some more context as to where he’s gone to get the images, (the Galapagos, Alaska, and around the American Far West,) and the titles share specifics about the exposure type. He’s like one of those old Mayan shaman guys, charting motion to harness the power of light.

Upon the second viewing, I began to tune out the ocean and bay vistas, and just watch the lines, dots and dashes appear up in the sky. Code. The sunrise to sunset arch is a basically the portrait of a spinning planet. Wow. By the time I saw the vertical sunpath that ends the book, I was hooked.

Mr. McCaw has had a lot of success with this work over the last few years. Deservedly so. You might want this book, you might not. But the lesson in the power of reductiveness is one I’ll leave you with, now that you’re regretting yesterday’s binge-eat-turkey-fest.

To purchase “Sunburn” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

I like to mix things up. It’s a must for this column. Week in, week out, I’m going to write about a book. If I can’t sustain quality commentary, this venture disappears.

Last week, I cut out the personal narrative, and wrote about a book that proved controversial. Mostly because it didn’t look like the things I normally proffer. It was highly commercial, and not exactly original. But it also managed to create a maelstrom in the comment section. I won’t push my luck and say the work was brilliant, because it was not. But I have found that neat and tidy, safe projects do little to promote discourse.

Great art, or at least important art, need not be pretty. In fact, moving into anti-aesthetic territory is an easy way to distinguish “art” from “decoration.” Ugly doesn’t sell as well, until it’s branded “Genius,” but it does get people to rub their chins and fidget awkwardly in a museum context. Tweaking people’s expectations of attractiveness is a good way to get them to think.

Furthermore, as I discussed in the Boris Mikhailov review last year, when examining difficult, exploitative scenarios, it’s disingenuous to try to make things gorgeous. Or to avoid exploitation in one’s process. Difficulty of subject matter, rendered as metaphor through difficulty of concept and image structure, is a good way to take the carpool lane to MOMA.

Just ask Doug Rickard. Despite the fact that there are multiple artists that have come out with Google-street-view-themed projects in the last few years, Mr. Rickard is the one who made it into MOMA’s coveted “New Photography 2011” exhibition. Why?

He managed to take all the messy, uncomfortable strands that jut out of Google’s immaculate quilt, and tie them together in a coherent and edgy way. Mr. Rickard looked at a situation in which a major corporation was invading people’s privacy to an unprecedented degree, and he chose to take that exploitation one step further.

Is this a book review? Of course it is. Because Mr. Rickard’s new monograph, “A New American Picture,” published by Aperture, turned up in my book stack recently. The book is well-produced, with an essay and an interview with the artist. Aperture never scrimps on production quality, so you can trust that the book is well-built. The images themselves, however, will not match up with your expectations of quality and good looks.

The artist spent countless hours exploring dirt poor urban and desolate rural regions of the United States. All via Google’s street view interface. He slowly “wandered” the streets of some of the most crime-ridden, dangerous, and bleak spots, all without leaving the comfort of his Aeron chair. (OK, I made that last detail up.)

The plates are muddy, compelling, and not particularly attractive. On several, I could even spot banding. It appears that he output prints, which were then re-photographed for the book. Clearly, they’re meant to look “poor” on purpose.

And as to the subject matter, Mr. Rickard sees his exploration as a 21st Century version of Walker Evans and Dorothea Lange rolling, in physical form, through the same types of poor places, looking for photos. Documenting poverty. Shining light on the disenfranchised.

The big story here, though, is how the artist shamelessly exploits the poor folks in the photographs. It’s safe to assume they won’t see a dime, mostly because he couldn’t track them down if he tried. He’s not the one who took the source photos to begin with. Google did. He’s just doubling down on the capitalistic land grab. If the suckers didn’t know Google stole their “image”, how will they ever afford the plane ticket and admission fee to go see the prints on the wall at MOMA? (Or for free at Yossi Milo, through November 24)

The answer is, of course, they won’t. This is smart work, and Mr. Rickard is a smart artist. He knows his pictures won’t change a damn thing about poverty in America, and he also knows that none of his subjects are ever likely to even hear about his project. Most of them might not even have access to the Internet.

It’s a dirty, wicked system. Some folks are born with money, get a great education, live in city sky-scrapers, and travel the world. Other folks live in middle-class suburbs, inured from the “fear” of gang violence, but engaged in more-than-ever-before diverse communities. And some folks just get the shit end of the stick. Like I said, difficult art for a difficult situation.

Bottom Line: Smart and well-conceived, but you might not like it

To purchase “A New American Picture” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

Initially, I hated it. Today’s book: “Stay Cool,” by RJ Shaughnessy. I picked the thing up off my bookstack, attracted to the bright yellow color. (Mmmm, yellow.) Then, I set it down a moment later. It seemed insanely cynical, like a mashup of Larry Clark’s “Kids”, anything by Ryan McGinley, and an American Apparel ad. (No offense.)

But wait, you say. Isn’t he supposed to start off with either a self-referential or quasi-philosophical hook? He never just writes about the book. That’s for squares, man.

Well, today, we’ll (kind of) make an exception. There’s been a lot of my voice on APE this week, and I really don’t want to burn you out. I thought it more appropriate to cut to the chase. (Sort of.)

As I was saying, I didn’t care for the book. I put it back on the stack, and forgot. Today, I peeked again, because, you never know. Opinions, left alone without adult supervision, have been known to change.

Do you remember what it’s like to be a teenager? I mostly recall the endless supply of insecurity that pumped through my blood daily. Yes, I was an angst-ridden youth. Quelle surprise?

Fortunately, having taught photography to high schoolers for seven years, I learned to appreciate the combination of energy, intelligence, passion, creativity and curiosity that so many people display at that age. Fire and brimstone. Piss and Vinegar. (Insert one last random cliché here.)

This book has little text, beyond the ubiquity of “Stay Cool.” Only an intro paragraph that speaks to the desire to tell the “story of youth.” (Naive, or refreshingly earnest?) It ends with an entreaty to pirate, copy, and share these photos any way you like. How Millennial.

The photographs represent a series of very-good-looking kids, in LA, goofing off, being very-good-looking kids in LA. They kiss, climb on top of cars, slap five with the PoPos, climb on some more things. Then they kiss each other again. Release some balloons. And walk around with signs that say “Stay Cool.”

Is this an ironic review? I’m not sure. Because as silly as it sounds as I’m writing about it, (and the first time I saw it,) the book kind-of does capture the spirit. In a world where everyone can’t stop talking about the obnoxious chick from “Girls”, and 20somethings living in their parents’ basements, this captures the phase, just before, when kids do stupid shit just because it’s fun. Not because they want HBO to option their life story.

Teenagers really do the sorts of things we see here. (Though I have no doubt this was thoroughly staged.) And in LA, of all places, I’m sure they’re not shy about showing off their trendy jeans and tight posteriors. No artifice, because it’s all artifice. (Wait, are we talking about LA now, or the kids?)

Bottom line: Fun, in a vapid kind of way

To purchase “Stay Cool” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

Here in the United States, we are a nation of immigrants. And yet, we have always demonized them. Does that make us self-hating Americans? Simply ridiculous. Do you know anyone who traces his lineage back to the Mayflower? I don’t.

Of course, those blasted Pilgrims were immigrants themselves. As were the brave, thoroughly crazy men and women who trekked across the Bering Strait land bridge 15,000 years ago. Can you imagine? How hard must life have been in pre-historic Siberia, (or Mongolia,) that it seemed prudent to walk across the frozen ice, into the great unknown? (And then to walk all the way to Argentina? I know people here who drive to the next door neighbor’s house.)

As you probably know by now, I live in the mountains of Northern New Mexico. In my town, the Taos Pueblo claims to be the oldest continually inhabited settlement in the United States. The Spanish conquistadors, who arrived to cut off feet and f-ck shit up, came sometime around 1600. The invading hordes of white hippies and bohemians dropped in (or out) much later, in the 1970’s.

Ironically, all three groups of people have some delicious irony in common. (If I may be so bold as to stereotype.) Each wishes things would go back to the way they used to be. Before new people came to change things for the worse. The Spanish descendants, even today, decry the growth and change, but never seem to mention how their ancestors just took whatever the hell they wanted, at musket-point.

When you stack it up like that, it’s hard not to think hypocrisy hardwired into the human condition. (I do, at least.) A nation of immigrants that has never stopped persecuting itself. How strange.

In 2012, the derogated population du jour is the invading hordes of Mexican and Central Americans who face unthinkable danger when they walk across a forbidding and death-filled desert. Their purpose? To take the fruit-picking, hedge-trimming, and dish-washing jobs deemed too low-paying and thankless for America’s resident citizens.

I still remember the time I met a few Mexican immigrants at a party in Durham, NC in 1995. The idea of Mexicans moving to such a random spot made me laugh out loud. Now, of course, immigrants from points South have gravitated to almost every part of the United States, and have become a political wedge of immense proportions. (I say almost every part, because who would be surprised to find white dishwashers in Utah?)

How and when we deal with our internal conflict is beyond my capacity to speculate. But if we focus on the arduous journey, it certainly helps to contextualize the situation. Some people are actually willing, on a daily basis, to walk across a 130 degree patch of hell, for days, just to make a better life for themselves and their families. Noble, yet tragic, because someone dies almost every other day. (At least.)

They succumb to the elements. Their bones are left to slowly desiccate, in silence. No tombstone. No funeral. No way home.

Is this news to you? Probably not. But when was the last time you saw visual evidence that made your stomach tighten and your tear ducts fire up? (I know, that doesn’t sound fun. But who said art was always fun?)

Jonathan Hollingsworth recently put out a book, “Left Behind: Life and Death Along the U.S. Border,” published by Dewi Lewis, that does just that. It is among the more poignant and thoughtful objects I’ve seen in some time. If every American citizen had a copy, you can bet Mitt Romney would pretend he could speak Spanish. (Hola. Me llamo Mitt. Me gusta los niños, y caminando a la playa con mi esposa.) Demonizing such people should be a crime.

The book, though, lays out its case in a very straightforward and intelligent manner. The opening, short essay was written by the chief medical examiner of Pima County Arizona, in Tucson, where so many bones turn up at the end of the line. Credibility established.

There are three major sections to the project. The first set of photographs documents the sterile, fluorescent-lit confines of the autopsy locale. Sinks, tables, files, skulls, and a spine for good measure. It’s sad, of course, but also speaks to the power of our democracy. While tax rates are on everyone’s mind, it’s good to be reminded of the civil servants who toil in obscurity, day after day, to try to find the answers in these lonely deaths.

Then, we have a slightly-too-long section of images of the contents found on the possession of each corpse or skeleton. ID cards, cell numbers in Brooklyn, coyote contact info, girlfriend photos, belt buckles. Wow. The exact opposite of a dignified stone in a tony cemetery.

Finally, we have the establishment shots. Some landscape images, of course, but also a series of pictures made in a pick-up zone. Left behind shoes, water bottles, clothing. Were they to have come first, their impact would have been muted. At the end of the book, they tug the heart strings rather well.

The book closes with a very-well-written, but not-too-long piece by the artist. Once again, he does what he can to humanize a situation that normally just fumes as a set of statistics. Nicely done, Mr. Hollingsworth. Nicely done.

Bottom line: A sad, poignant, & important book

To purchase “Left Behind: Life and Death Along the U.S. Border” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

Two months ago, I referred to Daido Moriyama as a woman. My mistake. Let this be my official apology. He is clearly a man, and I was remiss for stating otherwise. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

How could such a thing happen? Well, I’m not omniscient. Despite the fact that his work is everywhere at the moment, (Tate Modern et al) I’d not seen much before I picked up that Okinawa book. And let’s not forget Dido, that New Age singer who was sampled in that classic Eminem song back in ’99. It must have stuck in my head as a woman’s name. (Like any parent knows, accidents happen.)

But I’d love to atone, and see an easy way to do so. I will now tell you of the existence of “Labyrinth,” Mr. Moriyama’s new book, recently published by Aperture. Yes, this week is more show than tell; not quite a straight review. (Even by my absurd standards.)

Why? Because this book consists of hundreds of black and white contact sheets. Only. Thousands of images. Not even an essay, thank the photo gods. Just an endless stream of photographs, presented with the hits next to the misses. As they were shot.

I’m providing a couple of extra photos, so you can feel confident about your prospective purchase. My two cents? Dynamic imagery, innovative concept. (I’m sure if anyone has ever done this before, you’ll tell me. It’s cool nonetheless.) And to you, Mr. Moriyama, you have my apologies. Keep up the good work.

Bottom line: Excellent book, countless photographs

To purchase “Labyrinth” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

It’s quiet right now. I can hear the soft hum of the refrigerator behind me. Outside, the cottonwood leaves are more than yellow. Mustard? Cheddar? Honey? Something like that.

The tips of those trees glance the tops of the Piñons that dot the rocky hill above them. (A skyline, from my vantage point.) Above the green, the sky is a confident blue, fading to powder as it bumps against the upward thrust of El Salto Peak, due East.

The light is always so three dimensional around here this time of year. I suppose that’s true many places in Autumn. Who doesn’t think their city or town or pasture the most beautiful in the world every October? (Hey Australians, does that mean April for you down there?)

Light and color. Mutual obsessions of mine, and for so many of you as well. Unless you’re a grayscale junkie. (Do you love the smell of fixer in the morning?) However we choose to make our work, I’d like to think most of us can appreciate a book of great photographs, no matter the subject, format, or style. Great is great, though terribly subjective.

“Karsh Beyond the Camera,” turned up in my book pile on the last visit to photo-eye. It’s a medium sized, soft-cover book, and really, it looks like a biography you’d find on the shelf at Borders. So unimposing. It’s like something your grandpa Morten would buy. Some biography of a general in World War II. Yes, that’s it. Churchill’s on the cover, for heaven’s sake.

Most of you would have heard of Yousuf Karsh, the Turkish-born, Armenian photographer who made his name in Canada. I had not. Opening up a book I thought would be mostly text, I was thrilled to find so many amazing, technically flawless images of so many important historical figures.

The lighting screams drama. It makes you think of old Hollywood movies. Orsen Welles, or Hitchcock. Moody, smoky, straight out of the 40’s and 50’s. Badass.

We see portraits of the aforementioned Churchill, plus Jack and Jackie Kennedy, Picasso, Khrushchev, Grace Kelly, Elizabeth Taylor, Edward Steichen, (twice) Truman, O’Keefe, Bogart, Castro, Frank Lloyd Wright. I could go on. When you photograph that much of history, inevitably you insert yourself.

Beyond the introduction, there are personal anecdotes that accompany each image, as well as recollections from Karsh’s long time studio assistant. I read a few, and they were amusing in the least. One message did pop out. Apparently, one secret to his success was an insistence on being polite, friendly, well-dressed, and entirely focused on the person he was meant to photograph. Great advice, no?

Bottom line: A chunk of history in an unimposing package

To purchase “Karsh Beyond the Camera” visit Photo-Eye

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

I don’t feel very well at the moment. Last week was a mad dash through San Francisco and Denver, by way of Albuquerque. Planes, trains and automobiles indeed. I caught a nasty cold at a children’s Church carnival in Denver, so I’m surly as well as exhausted.

Ironically, my mental state has actually impacted plans for an upcoming project. Still secret of course, but let’s just say that my ambitions for a huge chunk of travel have withered. I may not be old, technically, but I’m old enough to know that my body and mind have limitations. My schedule will change to suit reality.

Tired though I may be, I’m also thankful. Travel is the great educator. We learn more about our own lives and cultures when faced with others. Not the most brilliant thought I’ve put forth here, I admit, but true nonetheless. We push out to know more about where we rest our heads each evening.

Sometimes, though, to get to the core of a story, one must stretch personal boundaries. Occasionally, an artist has to travel to the literal ends of the Earth to scratch obsession’s itch. Can’t say it’s happened to me yet, but we know the results when we see them.

This week’s book is a perfect example. “A Portrait of Ice,” by Caleb Cain Marcus, was recently published by Damiani. It’s an oversized soft cover book, with a delicacy that matches well with its subject matter: the Earth’s rapidly disappearing glaciers. (Insert random environmental statistic here.)

Mr. Marcus must have learned to love the neck pillow, and probably racked up a ridiculous credit card bill, in order to bring back these photographs. He visited Alaska, New Zealand, Iceland, Patagonia, and probably some other places I’ve neglected to mention. The resulting photographs make up the bulk of the volume.

This book goes against the rhythms I’ve extolled lately, in that there is not much of a narrative build-up. Good essays, some more nice writing, and then the plates. The production quality might make up for a lack of editorial lyricism, but, really, this book impresses because of the photographs themselves.

The pictures are uncomfortable artifacts of the 21st Century. They’re razor sharp, with a ridiculous pixel count, and are slightly over-saturated in the manner that marks the hyper-real. It’s possible that Mr. Marcus used something other than a medium format digital camera, but I doubt it. (And if so, he managed to ape the digi-aesthetic in a fantastic way.)

A sense of scale disappears, and you can’t really tell if you’re looking at actual glaciers, or well-made models in a studio. The awkward beauty mystifies a bit, as confusion and appreciation commingle. I think it’s a very smart way to approach a subject that is both topical and ahistorical. Big mountains of ice rendered by big mountains of data.

These images function as documents of objects that may well cease to exist. But rather than tug on our heart strings, like that crying-Native-American-litter commercial from the 70’s, this project pushes us away as it draws us in. And it also deigns to make the large look small, which is a great metaphor for a compressed world in an Internet age.

Bottom Line: Fascinating, topical photographs of Glaciers

To purchase A Portrait of Ice visit Photo-Eye

 

Full Disclosure: Books are provided by Photo-Eye in exchange for links back for purchase.

Books are found in the bookstore and submissions are not accepted.

 

by Jonathan Blaustein

I complicate things sometimes. With my elaborate introductions, I could be accused of stealing the spotlight from the books themselves. With the constant references to self, perhaps I am nothing more than a child of a meta-obsessed generation? Malkovich inside his own head.

If I were kind, though, I might focus on my laurels, like the desire to discuss these books in the context of a lived experience. We share more in common with each other than we don’t, I believe. And yet there are some ideas which cannot be accommodated with others. Some divides seem genuinely unbridgeable.

First on my list would be that gap between extreme religious believers, and the rest of us. Religion, taken to its limits, can be an Operating System. The code, once uploaded, can only work within those sets of instructions. No new information can infect a closed loop.

While Jewish in upbringing and somewhat Buddhist in leanings, I have nothing against the whole endeavor. Whether it’s creation mythology or community building, there is a lot of good in said holywater. But much of the death and destruction we see today is based upon either the nasty intertwining of religion and tribalism, or the inability of ancient beliefs to reconcile with a 21st Century understanding of the world.

Here in the US, we have an almost unbelievable battle waging. On one side lie those who believe that Dinosaur bones are only a few thousand years old, women are subservient to men, and the planet is not warmed by an excess of carbon in the atmosphere. Basically, they don’t believe in science.

The others, myself included, view the continuum of knowledge as a good thing. Physics and genetics and all manner of science wings pursue more and more information, while also admitting how much remains to be learned. It’s absurd and also humbling to believe we used to be Australopithecines, grunting and hirsute.

Is this going anywhere? Does it ever? This week’s book is special, and while I rarely go out and say it, this is probably a book to buy: Berenice Abbott, “Documenting Science” recently published by Steidl. Only in the end notes did I learn that this is the second in a series of books about the artist that Mr. Steidl is producing.

The book begins with a wonderfully written, obviously vintage letter by Ms. Abbott, pertaining directly to her desire to study the eponymous subject. So cool. “The artist through history has been the spokesman and conservator of human spiritual energies and ideas.” Serious intentions lead to serious work.

The photographic plates, made from scans in the Steidl studio, are masterful. (And will definitely suit the tonal range cultists out there.) Different scientific concepts, like Motion, Electricity and Magnetism, and Light and Optics are delineated through a variety of individual examples. Each idea has been rendered as an experiment, or visualization.

It’s terribly clunky in words, I know. That’s part of the point. There’s no magic in the phrase “Conservation of Momentum in Spheres of Unequal Mass.” Yet the photograph those words describe is genius. Kinetic yet Zen.

The book is solid as well as dense. If you read this column, and are a book consumer as well, this is one to consider. I’m not sure what it costs, but you’ll likely return to it again and again for years. As well as it’s built, it ought to resonate down the line, serving as proof that Science is more than just big words and thick glasses and white coats.

Bottom line: A masterpiece

To purchase “Documenting Science” visit Photo-Eye