Galen Schlich: Innocence and Transition
The home page of Galen Schlich’s website features an apt quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson: “From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things, and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all.” Coming from a broken home, Schlich has been trying to illuminate a personal and artistic path through a lifetime of transition. He originally sought a creative outlet through landscape photography, but didn’t discover his personal voice until he began photographing people, as well as confronting the circumstances of his childhood. His twin themes of beauty and innocence — and their sometimes disturbing intersections — resonate throughout all his bodies of work.


Galen Schlich

Describe your first attempts at photographic visual expression.
When I first began taking photographs, my primary motivation was to put my love of nature down on film. I did that for 15 years or so. At that time I very rarely photographed people — most of my work excluded the human presence. Eventually, I picked up a book by the Czech photographer Jan Saudek. I had never heard of him before, but his work was so different from what I been exposed to; it was much more personal, and was profoundly affected by his childhood. Then, while I was working in the Antarctic for the National Science Foundation, my father passed away. After my employment there was finished I traveled back to Illinois to attend to family affairs. I also reconnected with some old friends there. I had never been around children much before, and they had two girls, Brittney and Brooke, who opened my eyes to the beauty and innocence of childhood. They were for me an expression of all that is pure and good in a world that, as we know, can be very cruel. They were an emotional oasis for me during a time of confusion and loss. They very much affected my soul as well as my work. Afterward, I traveled around the world and spent some time in Paris and southern France and consumed everything about painters and photographers that I could get my hands on. I’d spend hours in dusty little bookshops in Paris looking for new inspiration and wander the floors of the museums studying paintings.

How long did it take you to develop a personal vision and style?
I think it took a lot longer for me than perhaps others simply because I hadn’t been hit over the head with the substance of it soon enough. I really hadn’t explored deeply enough. There were a lot of things I was running away from, although I didn’t know what they were and I didn’t see it as running away at the time. When that “substance” finally did hit me, I was quite unprepared for where it would take me. Nevertheless, I dove into it and pursued it with vigor. The beginnings of this personal vision emerged from beauty. Just as I had photographed the beauty of nature, now I started photographing the beauty of women and children, but clearly with more of an idea of where I wanted to take it.


Untitled

What was the biggest challenge in doing so?
Impatience. I had these feelings and ideas that I knew I wanted to express, but at the same time seemed unable to produce any material from them. I took a sketchbook everywhere and would write ideas and sketch pictures to help me visualize these ideas. I would keep postcards, brochures, tourist leaflets or any other advertising material. If it had an image on it that gave me some ideas, it was mine. Sometimes I just felt like quitting altogether; it bothered me very much that I couldn’t seem to produce anything good.

Which photographers and/or other artists have influenced you? And why?
As I’ve stated, Jan Saudek is a big influence. His photography contains elements of dreams, fantasy, beauty, ugliness, humor and juxtaposition. I like the fact that he uses symbolism in his works that often tie into other pieces, such as a window or an old rag doll. The aspect of time in his work is also fascinating — he’ll photograph a small child and years later photograph her as an adult. He is captivated by beauty, but at the same time questions it and challenges our perception of it. Robert Demachy is another influence. His eye for composition was wonderful, and his portrait and nude studies are very simple but extremely striking and emotional. He also disliked the “straight print” and preferred to add another dimension to his work through alternative processes. His work has influenced me in that I also try to achieve a different look through alternative printing methods. Joel-Peter Witkin is another photographer that has interested me. He is constantly challenging the viewer into looking at the subject of beauty, ugliness, life and death. His pictures make you ask questions or they disgust you or they make you laugh, which is what good art is all about for me.


The Falling

The ethereal, dreamlike quality to these images calls to mind the Pictorialists, yet the mood and tone feel contemporary. Is this your intent?
It is and it isn’t. I have been heavily influenced by the Pictorialists and tried to emulate that feeling in my work, but I also realized that I didn’t want to produce the exact same thing. I’m also thinking that maybe my interest in fashion portraitists, such as Paolo Roversi, may be behind the contemporary feeling in the works; possibly something is slipping in there from that influence.

Your photographs are very sensual, yet they also project innocence, which creates a certain energy and contrast.
Yes, that’s true. I think my focus in many of the pictures was to create something very simple for the eye and at the same time very sensual. The subject of innocence is very obvious in my work because it has always captivated me. It’s a question for me, and also something that goes hand in hand with beauty in children. The innocence of a child combined with beauty is magical for me, but that innocence is fleeting, like the blossoming of spring flowers; you know that in the not too far-off future that bloom will be over. Children live in the moment and, unlike many adults, are constantly dreaming and questioning things, however simple. For me, it’s nice to be a part of that simplicity and innocence. I believe that beauty and innocence are two of the aspects that compel me in most of my work.

My initial read on many of your photographs is that they’re meditations on the transition from childhood to adulthood. For example, you have an image of a ballerina that's cropped so that the position of the hands and arms is that of a pregnant woman cradling her belly, yet the subject seems to be an adolescent.
They could very well be looked at in that light. Yes, the ballerina picture does specifically play with the idea of transition. When I started exploring the themes of youth, innocence and beauty these naturally brought up questions for me about time, birth, aging and death. Even the young girl in the image “The Dreamer” evokes the idea of life and death. On one hand we see a beautiful girl who looks as if she’s asleep, and on the other hand one may also perceive her as being dead.


The Dreamer

Your image of a young girl’s legs — bare, ghostly white, smudged and cropped at the knees, seemingly suspended in midair — has a disturbing elegance and surreal intensity that reminds me of similar imagery in some of Luis Buñuel films. Do you recognize this affinity?
Yes, this is one of my favorite photos. Although I’ve only viewed one of his films, there is definitely that surrealist element that I relate with. Your expression, “disturbing elegance” is exactly what I was trying to represent with this image. I like that it leaves the mind to wander a bit about what is happening here. It’s not so clear-cut to the viewer and yet it’s not an overly complicated picture.

The still life of the dead birds and fruit and the double-exposure portrait “Natalie Two” also project a subtle surrealism. Is this planned, or is it a spontaneous result?
Yes and no. The double exposure was shot on an 8x10 camera and I forgot to flip the film plate, thus the double exposure. When I exposed the negative and printed it, it became apparent that this was a far more interesting composition than it would have been had I not made the error. With the “Still Life with Dead Birds” I planned this to have the surrealist element. I wanted to override the traditional “still life” with something that would breath new life (or death) into it, something completely out of place. I messed around all evening with different variations of these birds, and the one I eventually came up with seemed to show a mixture of tranquility, the nice peaceful arrangement of fruit and wine, overlapped by the tragedy of these birds that look as if they had just dropped out of the sky onto this table. Sketching ideas onto paper is very important to me in the visualization of planned shots such as this. I can be spontaneous, but I find that if I already have an idea to work from, spontaneity becomes much easier.


Still Life with Dead Birds

Looking at the portraits on your website, I get the impression of very concentrated, intense shooting sessions, and of a sense of collaboration with your subjects. They seem to be full and equal participants in the process, at least in terms of their emotional involvement.
Participation is the one thing that I require. If the subject doesn’t understand my work or at least what I am trying to capture, then oftentimes the end result doesn’t work. I try and involve the subject into being an active participant in the creative process. I explain what I am trying to capture, be it mood, feeling, et cetera. I often find that the second shoot with a person is much better than the first, because they’ve had a chance to see the results and have a better understanding of what I’m looking for. The exchange between subject and photographer is paramount to realization. When everything fits there seems to be a unique stillness and unspoken conversation between us. I find this very calming; it’s like someone telling you a bedtime story when you’re a child. For most of my portraits I use an 8x10 bellows camera. This slows everything down and allows for that space to emerge. I try and set an atmosphere of tranquility and work slowly so there’s a very tangible calmness when it comes time for exposure. Children are wonderful to work with — anything that involves attention and imagination seems to compel them, although sometimes it’s hard getting them to be still for long.

It seems that portraiture is your preferred genre. Do you find it more expressive than, say, landscapes or documentary?
I find that portraiture is much more expressive for me. I mentioned that years ago I only shot landscapes. That fulfilled something in me at the time, but even then I felt there was something missing, and that basically I was just composing another “pretty picture.” I like the truthfulness and reality of reportage, but I have never been able to express myself or my vision through that facet of photography. Portraiture provides the unique opportunity to seen inside someone else, to get to know them, enjoy their beauty, and try to work together to capture that vision on film.


Natalie Two

What specific ideas, themes or attitudes do you try to express in your photographs?
I try to find beauty first and foremost. If the subject has a unique look, I might try something with a different idea in mind, such as the girl in the photo “Camille.” I wanted to capture her beauty, but also the feeling that if you stumbled upon her in the forest, your first reaction might be run away. Those piercing eyes evoke a sort of evil wood nymph image. I like to experiment with different themes in my work, so it depends on what kind of physical features my subjects possess. I like to depict children as beautiful, innocent creatures, but at the same time tip the other end of the scale and portray another side of them, which is their ability to be mischievous and sometimes downright mean. Youth is a wonderful way for me to contrast immortality. Everyone can associate with youth, the days when nothing seemed to matter. There’s something about the freshness, beauty and pureness of youth as opposed to aging and withering away of the body and mind that captivates me.

I also sense feelings of loss, regret, nostalgia.
I have also perceived that in my photos. Subconscious or not, it’s definitely a recurring element. Something that was totally unexpected for me in my photographic endeavors was that there would be questions popping up about my childhood and past in general. I come from a broken family — my father raised four boys alone. I definitely lacked a female presence in my life, being four when my mother left, and thus also lacking the nurturing and love necessary for a child at that age. My father went through an amazingly hectic life to ensure our well-being and safety, but lacked the ability to show affection. I often wonder if what comes out of my photography may in fact be tied to childhood issues. I believe that’s where some of those emotions you reference come from. I relate to the nostalgia of being a kid and feeling carefree, of yearning for an age when things weren’t necessarily easier, but simpler. Many children today have never had the chance to explore wooded areas or sit outside, stare at the stars and dream. Many can’t even see the stars because of city lights. Activities that children used to participate in and learn valuable life lessons from have been replaced by videogames, iPhones and television.


Camille

Is it fair to say your works more on emotional than intellectual levels?
Although I like to include a hint of something thought-provoking in my work, my favorite photographs and paintings have always been those that hit me emotionally first. I think a work of art should try and elicit both from a viewer, or at least attempt to.

What do you think gives your work its individuality?
I would have to say that much of it evolves from the way my images are cropped and the overall feelings associated with my subjects. One’s inclination is to photograph a whole object, or at least something the mind recognizes easily, like a face. It’s not standard to crop a visually vital element out of the picture, such as half of a person’s head. This disturbs some people, who are used to seeing the whole picture. Bu I believe this can be a positive first step for viewers to use their imaginations. In “Girl at the Gate of Time” one first wants to know what the rest of her face looks like. But as the eye wanders around the frame, the focus is soon withdrawn from her face to the other, more important aspects. Symbolically, there’s a lot happening in this photo. The cropping also draws attention to areas of interest that provoke an emotion — like the girl’s neck in “Devon.”

Has your approach to photography changed through the years?
Dramatically. I see photography as an avenue to express my ideas and myself, whereas before I wanted so bad to just make that “pretty picture” that would make it in a magazine? Photography, like any other art form, should try and raise questions and emotions, not just feelings of joy at something pretty to look at. The aim of art is to challenge. If one isn’t challenged, then one stagnates. I want to create images that one can’t pass by, but are forced to take a second and third look because they contain elements that won’t leave you alone.


Girl at the Gate of Time

(I wrote about Galen Schlich for issue 54 of Black & White magazine. Spend some time with his work at: www.galenschlich.com)

Jeff Alu: Desert Dreams
Jeff Alu is a freelance digital artist and photographer who spends most of his free time roaming California's desert areas in an open-ended journey of personal and visual exploration. His black-and-white photographs play with lighting, scale and perspective to transform the mundane into something ominous and alien. Visual equilibrium becomes a tenuous concept, as the viewer tends to feel trapped between dimensions of reality and surreality. Yet no matter how unbalanced things become, one is invariably seduced by the dark poetry of Alu’s post-apocalyptic visions.


Jeff Alu

You studied to be a musician, but began taking photographs in 2000. What drew you to the medium?
I’ve always been attracted to photography, and even entered a few competitions in junior high school, but I was much more interested time in music at that time, so that’s where I concentrated most of my efforts. I’ve always loved the desert and hiking in remote areas. I bought a digital camera in 2000 to document some of my hikes, without any real intention of breaking into fine art. It was only after playing with some of these images in Photoshop that my love for black and white was reborn. And from there I just couldn’t stop.

People are largely absent from your work, with the exception of a couple of series. Are you more comfortable photographing unpopulated locations, or is this more of an artistic/philosophic choice?
I also do commercial work, which always features people. But for my fine art work, it’s true, I’m much more interested in shots without people, even when I photograph in densely populated areas like New York City. I try to project human emotions and feelings onto inanimate objects; I’ve done that ever since I was a kid. So when I come across a small bush or rock in the middle of nowhere, I feel like it’s trying to say something to me, like it wants to be photographed, to be noticed. I don’t hear an actual voice, of course, I just get a feeling that the scene has something to say and needs to be recorded.


Hill

You seem most at home in desert locations. Why do these kinds of locations speak to you more than other kinds of landscapes? Your bio references an absence of complexity. What else?
I think it also has to do with the difficulty in finding subjects in the desert. It’s not like the city, where everything is close together. I like to have to work for what I find, which turns it into an adventure. I think maybe it goes back to the work I used to do at the Jet Propulsion Lab, hunting for comets and asteroids. It took lots of time and patience, but when I found something, it was well worth the effort. I no longer do that kind of work, but my desert trips are a continuance of that mindset. It’s really all about discovery. Although, I must say, I’ve found city photography to be equally as rewarding.

You’ve written on your website that you now see the desert in a new way since you began taking photographs. What exactly do you mean?
Well, it’s not just the desert, but everywhere. Doing photography has taught me how to see in 2D. We’re used to walking around, seeing everything in 3D. Everything looks great in 3D. But stop walking and look at the same scene, from the point of view of a camera. It can become less interesting when seen that way. So, doing photography has really taught me to notice interesting compositions that I would normally just walk past. And these compositions are available to us all the time, everywhere. You just have to stop and look. Otherwise they fly on by unnoticed.


Floater

The digital manipulations you perform look as if they could conceivably have been performed in the darkroom. In other words, your photographs have a more organic feel to them than most digital images. Do such distinctions matter to you?
There’s no doubt that I look for ways to create an organic, and even traditional, feel to my images. My processing techniques in Photoshop are very basic, converting to black and white, using the dodge and burn brush, a little sharpening here, some blur there. I don’t work in layers when processing, I just do everything to the original image layer. I like to keep it basic. I think I would probably be doing the same kinds of things if I were working in a traditional darkroom.

Have you ever worked with traditional photographic materials and methods?
Back in junior high school was the first time. Just your normal photography class. The second time was while I was working at the Jet Propulsion Lab, We would go up to Palomar Observatory and use the 18” Schmidt Camera and make images of the sky. There was no room at all for art; everything in the darkroom was very procedural. I spent many hours in there processing those films, and listening to music was the only thing that got me through it. After that, I had no desire to go back into the darkroom, so the digital age is what brought me back into photography.

There’s a kind of artificial quality to many (but not all) of your photographs in that they look more like tabletop dioramas than actual locations, giving them a surreal aspect. Do you recognize this quality and, if so, is this intentional?
The tilt-shift style of focus that I use in some of my images brings that about. I was attracted to that effect ever since I first saw it, and I think using this technique is yet another way to isolate subjects, making them appear to be hidden away within something.


Come Out and Play

Surrealism is, of course, a route to the unconscious. Does your photography tap into submerged feelings and ideas that you’re perhaps not fully aware of?
I don’t believe that I have a full grasp of why I create the images that I do. I’m not exactly sure where my desire to create these kinds of images comes from. But honestly, I try not to think about it too much. I just go with the flow. I know that when I’m most happy with the way an image turns out, it usually means that I feel I’ve created something from a different point of view from which I’m used to seeing it, and that I’ve given it a new meaning of some kind. But what that meaning is exactly, is not always clear to me.

Your images tend towards harsh contrast. Why do you print this way? Is it to enhance the abstraction of the images?
I’ve always used the word “impact.” Not to be trite, but I think this gives the images more impact, at least for the kinds of things I’m trying to express. Indeed, it does enhance the abstraction as well, which helps to take the viewer out of reality, at least a little.

According to your bio, you don’t set out to photograph with a particular theme in mind. Do you sometimes unravel the meaning of your images after you have manipulated them digitally?
I generally take and image because I see “potential” in it. Sometimes it’s very obvious when I take the shot. Other times, I don’t see it until I actually start playing with the image. Many times, I don’t actually process the image until a couple of years later. I have a huge backlog of images, and every once in a while I revisit images which at first didn’t mean much to me, but only after a time have become important.


Sensuality

What kind of statement(s) do you want your photographs to make?
In my 3D animation work, everything is created from scratch. I can create anything that’s in my mind, even though it doesn’t exist in the real world. But actually, I’m much more interested in finding interesting, surreal scenes that are in the real world. Almost like they could have been created from scratch with a computer, but are in fact, real. I guess I’m interested in showing the kinds of fantastic things that do exist in the real world, that are often overlooked. Art is everywhere.

Photography seems to be a way for you to filter out the extraneous baggage of urban life and pressure, practiced in a kind of Zen manner in which you’re completely open to chance. Is that an accurate read?
Yes and no. That is to say in the final product, yes. But in going out and gathering my photos, even though in the case of the desert it’s an escape of sorts, it isn’t always especially relaxing. I usually like to photograph in extreme heat. I’m constantly worried about my Jeep breaking down, etc. The part about chance is right on. I usually photograph very quickly, and I don’t hang around in one location for very long. I find that the more I think about things, the less interesting the photographs become. Or the more I know about a location ahead of time, the less interested I am in photographing there. I like to “discover” as I photograph, and that’s when I take my best shots.


Border

Is mood always more important to you than subject? To paraphrase Marshall McLuhan, is the mood the message?
Hmm, great question! Mood is certainly part of it. A big part of it. But I can’t create the mood without the subject. That is, it’s the subject that attracts me in the first place. The subject dictates the mood. I’m going to have to go with 50-50 on this one.

The mood your pictures evoke is typically dark and brooding, even Gothic, yet it’s also strangely inviting. Do you strive for this duality?
I don’t think I strive to make things inviting, but I always strive to make things interesting, if possible. It’s true, many of my images are dark. I think the darkness comes more from my interest in extremes, rather than my interest in creating a dark, gothic style. I’m just trying to create a more powerful image, and darkness sometimes solves this problem for me. Plus, darkness is a great way of getting rid of extraneous parts of an image and homing in on what I feel is important.

There’s a mesmerizing quality to many of the images. Do you find yourself in a kind of trance-like state when you make the exposure?
Sometimes I do. I have a certain way of putting myself into this state. Very little sleep the night before, very little food the day of, lots of caffeine, and lots of sun. Crazy as this sounds, it can get me into this mood. I’ve done this a few times when shooting in the desert, but in fact, I don’t find that I come back with better photographs. I haven’t done this in a while. I think when I’m shooting, it’s all about the potential I see in the image, and I don’t need to be in that actual state at the time of the exposure.


Neurons

Are you satisfied with your command of the medium, or do you feel like you can improve your technique?
My technique always evolves. If you look at the shots in “g1” on my site, and then “g13” you can see an evolution of sorts. Back in the beginning, my shots were cropped, sharpened, with perfectly straight horizon lines, and I was striving for “perfect” compositions. Now, I often use tilts, blurs, and I usually don’t crop at all. I find that without cropping, I sometimes discover interesting compositions. Just when I think I’ve found the perfect technique, I discover new methods. So yes, I’m always finding ways of improving or changing techniques, it’s all very organic. My actual shooting technique has always been the same though: default settings on the camera, no tripod, shoot quickly and move on, using $300.00 digital cameras. Basically point and shoot.

Your images leave lots of room for interpretation. Is this something you strive for? What kind of reactions does your work elicit?
I think that is something I strive for. I don’t want my shots to be too “obvious,” as in, “Oh, there’s a picture of a rock.” I want to try to give that rock some kind of alternate life, to make it more than just a rock, if possible. So when the viewer looks at the photo, they have to process it a little and think about it, and hopefully, that will bring them back to look again at a later time. As far as reactions to my work, they really have a wide span. From the very same image, I’ve gotten reactions such as “turbulent,” “calming,” “apocalyptic,” “inspirational.” I’m always glad when I create a photograph that brings out these kinds of diverse reactions, because I think then I’ve done my job.


Structure

This comment from your blog seems relevant here: “My idea of a gallery show is to hang the images on the outside of my jeep, drive at least 100 mph, and require the visitors to drive along side me to see the images. Then they would better understand my mindset.” Does the traditional gallery setting somehow impede full understanding of your imagery?
I don’t think it impedes understanding of the final product, but I do think it might impede understanding of my methods of getting these images into my camera, which I suppose, really isn’t all that important in the end. It’s just funny to me how these images can have such rough-and-tumble beginnings, and then end up quietly hanging on a wall in a nice air-conditioned room.

I like how you play with perspective to lend element of unreality. It’s somewhat akin to Bill Brandt’s approach to landscape. And the contrast and abstraction call to mind Brett Weston. What photographers in fact have inspired or influenced you?
Wow, lots, I think. Way too many to mention. I’m not one who dwells on a particular photo for too long, but I’m always looking at other photographers’ work. One influence was my friend and fellow photographer Greg Fisch. The first time he showed me his portfolio was a real inspiration. Another influence in the beginning was the work of David Fokos. His use of minimalism really opened my eyes to what can be done with incredibly simple subjects. Another has been Keith Carter, with his amazing way of defocusing his images. So many others.


Poles

Who or what else do you derive inspiration from?
My mother’s art has been a major inspiration. I grew up watching her paint in a mostly abstract style, and that really taught me to see differently than I would have otherwise. Cinematography is also a big influence. I’m a huge fan of black-and-white movies, Italian neorealism, etc., those old gritty movies that were filmed under harsh conditions with minimal equipment. I try to put some of that grittiness into my images. Modern cinematographic techniques have really influenced me as far as tilting the camera, and thinking in terms of my images being a single frame from a moving sequence. I really hope to break into cinematography at some point. And then there’s music. The expansiveness of the music of Sibelius, Bruckner, many others, has had a huge influence on my way of seeing, and has pushed me to see on a larger scale.

(You can see more of Jeff's unique work at his website: http://www.jeffalu.com.)

Don Bartletti: Spotlight on Immigration
Los Angeles Times photojournalist Don Bartletti (a San Diego native) began taking pictures of undocumented Mexican immigrants towards the end of the 1970s, well before illegal immigration became a high-profile, hot button issue. He eventually expanded his focus to include immigrants from Central American and other countries. Bartletti’s tough, poetic images both comment upon and transcend the myriad social and political ramifications of immigration. His fundamental concern is to depict with unflinching honesty the basic humanity of individuals who feel compelled to leave their homelands in search of a better life in the United States.


Don Bartletti

This body of work originated as a series for the Los Angeles Times, but beyond the imperatives of the assignment, what initially drew you to this subject? And what compelled you to keep expanding it?
As a photojournalist, my job falls somewhere between a scavenger hunt and cultural anthropology. The hunt has taken me to wars, wildfires, earthquakes, funerals and rock concerts. Deadline images are important to provide something for the newspaper reader to appreciate every day. But even the big news events fade away to be replaced by the next buzz-weirdo event. By contrast, the cultural significance of immigration never fades away. It’s everywhere, it’s accumulative and it’s endlessly relevant. Foreigners are the seeds of societal evolution. Through my viewfinder, I’m showing newcomers as they assimilate, segregate, succeed and struggle. The steady exodus from failed Latin America nations is changing the face of America. Frame by frame, my picture stories are additional pages in the photo album of the United States. Although I now photograph foreign workers around the world, 30 years ago I didn’t have to go far to observe subtle beginnings of the greatest influx of foreigners in this nation since the era of Ellis Island. In the late 1970s I recorded undocumented Mexican immigrants on Tri-X film and fiber-based paper. I filed every negative with IDs and notes about the clandestine encampments in the hills around my hometown in northern San Diego County. It was an astonishing subculture of migrant farm workers living in handmade shacks without running water, electricity or sanitation practically in the shadow of wealthy suburbia. Over the years I concentrated on individuals who eventually crawled out of those farm camps to better jobs and, for one man, the road to American citizenship.

Is this an ongoing series?
Yes. One of my goals is to reveal the consequences of illegal migration. It’s not just the “theater” of people jumping over the border fence. For example, I’ve been photographing Willie Ramirez for 17 years. I first met Willie and his dad in 1989. Two weeks after they snuck across the border, they were living next to a tomato field in a hovel made of plastic sheeting and camouflaged with brush. In spite of their hapless circumstances, they were gentlemen. Every year or two I’d catch up with them, make new photographs and hand out prints. My wife Diana and I went to their pueblo in Oaxaca when they were visiting their family back home. After Willie got his papers through an amnesty program, his life changed dramatically. He learned English, became a foreman for a roofing company, and built a little house in Tijuana. In March of 2006 I was with him when he took the oath of U.S. citizenship. I wrote a cover story for the L.A. Times Sunday Magazine, accompanied by photographs from his 17 years of hope, loneliness, determination and, finally, rejoicing.


Underground House, Vista, California - 1991

Do you consider these images all one big series, or several discrete series linked thematically?
The body of work is countless individual pictures and essays that tell the larger story. “The Roads Most Traveled—Photographs of Migration” is a solo exhibit that was curated by Carol McCusker at the Museum of Photographic Arts in San Diego. Ninety-seven images became a photographic narrative in three parts: "Between Two Worlds"—chaos at the border and farm worker living conditions in San Diego. "Bound To El Nórte"—Central Americans en route to the U.S. atop freight trains through "Mexico: A Global Perspective"—six photo essays from a dozen countries around the world.

It can’t be easy eliciting the trust and cooperation of your subjects. What’s your approach?
With cameras dangling around my neck, I don’t blend in. Nevertheless, I choose to be in close with my subjects and working with wide-angle lenses. To those I’m interested in I usually say something like this: “Hello, I’m Don Bartletti, a photographer from a big American newspaper. I appreciate that your dream of a better life is important to you. It’s also important to the people in my country. If you’ll allow me watch, I won’t stop you from doing anything, but I can’t help you in any way either. I want Americans to see and understand your struggle.”

Do your subjects understand and/or appreciate what you are trying to accomplish?
Some walk away, some beg, others sense my sincerity and share their experience. One Honduran migrant on a freight train in Mexico was more revealing than most. He told me, “Usually the only ones who pay attention to us are police and priests. The police hurt us and priests help us.”

Can you relate some of the hazards and difficulties you’ve experienced over the years?
I set a tripod on the U.S. side of the 10-ft-high border fence with Tijuana. Through slits in the steel planks I bantered with men who admitted they would jump over when the moment was right. I stepped away for a few minutes when a passing Border Patrol stopped nearby. When I returned to the tripod 10 minutes later, the camera was gone. “Chingaderas,” I yelled through the cracks. “I can’t believe you guys would do this! You’ve taken my heart, my soul, my livelihood!” “We didn’t see who did it,” they said. “Okay,” I argued, “Keep the camera, just give me the film.” “We don’t know who did it.” God, I was frustrated. I offered one guy $10 bucks to help me. He countered with $40. “Olvida te!” I said. Forget it! Then I countered with $15. We settled on $20. In a few minutes, an arm appeared through the iron barrier with my Nikon FM2. As I grasped the camera I considered keeping the $20 bill. In spite of my humiliation, I passed the money through, preferring to end the standoff on a positive note. I ditched the tripod but hung around. At 1am the time was right and I made the image titled, “Too Hungry To Knock” with the same camera.


Too Hungry to Knock, San Ysidro, California - 1992

Have you ever run afoul of the border authorities?
In the late ’70s and ’80s the U.S. Border Patrol loathed the media. It took weeks to get approval for a daytime ride along. Night ops? “Too dangerous,” they’d say. Nighttime was anarchy. Legions of illegal migrants usually overwhelmed the B.P. and the agents weren’t proud of it. My reporter Pat McDonnell and I wanted to observe this for ourselves. Around sundown one day we went to the infamous “Soccer Field,” a no-man’s land on the Tijuana border where smugglers sold their “guide” services to migrants. We crossed the borderline and walked with a group of young men, a family with two children and three mariachi musicians lugging their guitars. The smuggler was suspicious, so we quipped, in broken Spanish, “We’re Polish.” After a mile walking on trails through the scrub, we crested a ridge overlooking the San Diego town of San Ysidro. Out of nowhere a helicopter roared overhead with a bright spotlight. The young men and the family froze. The musicians disappeared back south. When ground agents careened up in a Bronco they cursed at the migrants and demanded they lay down in the dirt. The little girl wet her pants. A young agent spotted me shooting photos of people illuminated by the spotlight. He went nuts. “Who the hell are you? Stop taking pictures! You can’t be here! You’re in violation of….” and such and such. I asserted my rights as U.S. citizen and a credentialed journalist. We raised our voices above the noise of the helicopter. Clearly the officers were dumbfounded by our presence in no man’s land. The next day the Border Patrol called a press conference, admonishing the media about a reckless and foolish “reporter and his photographer” who risked their lives among bandits and thieves and interfered with law enforcement officials. But they admitted we had the right to be there after all.

How have your photographs been received in Mexico? Have reactions there differed from how your work is perceived in America?
The Mexican council in San Diego lavished praise on me for telling the saga of his people. Emigration has become an inextricable part of Mexican life. During a series of lectures I gave in California farm worker communities, laborers and their U.S.-born children told me they appreciated seeing the things that have become legend in the history of their families. “The pictures were about my life,” one man said.


Interstate Pedestrians, San Ysidro, California - 1990

Can you share some of your personal motivations in taking these pictures?
I have no idealistic notion that my photographs can change the world. At the very least they present evidence of these turbulent days of anti-immigrant hate and pro-immigrant sympathy. I want my pictures to be evidence that the U.S. can be a tolerant nation in a world that often greets illegal immigrants with the muzzle of a gun. I look to show that immigrants are individuals capable of being just like us—some contribute mightily, others are a burden.

What effect do you think your photographs have had here in the United States?
Through the Los Angeles Times I reach policy makers who are in position to make changes. For example, the image “Interstate Pedestrians” was the inspiration for the California Department of Transportation to create warning signs on San Diego freeways alerting motorists to groups of people who run across the freeway near the border and checkpoints farther north. Hundreds were killed and maimed. The yellow signs, drawn from several published and unpublished photos I provided, as well as billboards and posters, helped reduce the carnage.

Do you think your images have helped Americans, even those opposed to illegal immigration, view illegal immigrants with at least a modicum more compassion and understanding?
I have received hundreds of letters and email messages over my career. Most congratulate me for revealing things they didn’t know about. Some say they are writing with tears in their eyes. Others ask how they can help reduce the suffering of hapless farm workers sleeping in spider holes and plastic shacks. Some have sent me checks to give to certain people I photographed. But more than a few have damned me for the essays on Central Americans coming to the U.S. through Mexico. I’ve been accusing of giving “step-by-step lessons on how to break federal immigration laws.”

Do you find it harder for documentary work to make a social impact due to the changed nature of media and the image overload in today's society?
Overload is the operative phrase, that’s for sure. TV, radio, the Internet, podcasts, blogs, docudramas—all provide competition for the print photographer. Ironically, the press is usually the point source for the rest of the media, which lack the investigative commitment of major newspapers and freelance journalists. Busy Americans are easily placated by the truncated talking head TV version, or the car radio personality spin on serious newspaper projects. The Web is a great tool to use more photos, narration and natural sound to tell my stories. The picture that’s worth a thousand words is a rarity, but a picture plus a thousand words is priceless.


Memorial to a Slain Companion, San Ysidro, California - 1992

What makes your work resonate so powerfully for me is its objectivity. For example, one of your pictures depicts a Mexican girl trying to rip the American flag. It’s not a flattering image, but it’s a truthful one. In other words, you don’t set out to make saints of your subjects, or even martyrs, simply human beings trying to cope with difficult circumstances as best they can. Is that how you approach it?
Although I try to be objective, it’s impossible not to formulate opinions when I’m so immersed in an issue. The experience of the protesting high school teen mangling the U.S. flag as her classmates waved Mexican flags still shocks me. It’s an unguarded moment that exposes a hypocritical notion of automatic entitlement for illegal immigrants. My editors declined to run the image. Nevertheless, it’s in my archive. Another image for the photo album of this nation.

Although you have referenced the influence of Dorothea Lange regarding your work, I also sense an affinity with Josef Koudelka’s pictures of gypsies, another marginalized group. You both create images of an unflinching directness and simplicity, coupled with an objective yet poetic visual representation. What photographers besides Lange have you drawn inspiration from?
I really take inspiration from Lewis Hine, who said that when he walked out of his flat, he was determined to make a photograph that would either change something, or make it appreciated. The satisfaction I get from doing documentary photojournalism is translating universal traits that speak to those far removed from the subject. Quite often it’s an unchoreographed dance between the subject and myself. But I’m not cavorting around looking for contrived compositions or radical angles. A powerful image has two characteristics: content and style. My use of lenses, shutter speeds, angle, light and timing all contribute to enhancing a subject of relevant editorial content. Style that’s trendy or enigmatic is unnecessary.

Many of your pictures, such as “Crossing the Tijuana River,” seem to transcend their time, setting and circumstances, and resonate with a universal recognition of our shared humanity. Are you ever conscious of this when you’re photographing in the heat of the moment?
I felt it in a huge way on that particular night. As I sloshed through the fetid Tijuana river channel with the camera smashed up against my face I was shaking with anxiety, sweating, mumbling to myself about what to include and what to leave out. Activity on the borderline is like high drama. It’s infused with uncertainty and hope that “crossing over” suggests. This is where life-changing decisions are played out.


Crossing the Tijuana River, Tijuana, Mexico/San Ysidro, California - 1992

In a similar vein, how conscious are you of the visual aesthetic when you’re making these images? How important is that aspect to you, if at all?
My primary objective is to tell a story with each image. A writer uses his notes, experience, quotes and adjectives to make a point and keep the reader’s interest. The main subject in concert with the background, foreground and edges are my artistic tools. I seldom look for close-ups of faces, as I believe the dichotomy of a person and his environment is a more revealing composition. It’s a jolt when I see that through the viewfinder.

Put another way, do you try to guard against making the images that are too pleasing from an aesthetic perspective?
In a newspaper it’s tough to arrest a reader’s attention long enough to get the message across. The photograph needs to be compositionally interesting. However, I loath techniques like tilted horizons, blurry subjects that aren’t moving, silhouettes, blown-out highlights, symbolic shadows, repeated shapes, chopped-off faces, etc. Those artsy crutches do more to distinguish the photographer’s skill than the importance of the subject. The subject should be the #1 author of the photograph, not the “artiste” behind the box.

The title of your catalog, “Between Two Worlds,” refers to the physical space that constitutes the border between Mexico and America, but also, and in a larger sense, to the cultural dislocation these immigrants must feel as they cope with all the differences between their native countries and the U.S. This cultural chasm seems especially apparent in the image “Suburban Lights.” Do you think this aspect of your work has been fully recognized and understood?
Sometimes my pictures take on a life of their own. Nativists and ultra-conservatives have used “Suburban Lights” as proof that “we’re being invaded” by people from countries that don’t care about the needy. Migrant advocates and ultra-liberals took the same image to preach about San Diego’s shameful policies that neglect the needy among us. As long as we debate in a civilized manner, the truth in polarized opinions is healthy. Like Dorothea Lange said, “I want people to look at my pictures and ask, ‘How can such things be?’”


Suburban Lights, Carlsbad, California - 1988

What have you learned from the immigrants you’ve photographed?
I recognize that migration for survival is as old as humanity, as unstoppable as the wind and frequently misunderstood. I’ve seen that emigration is often the only desperate solution to unpardonable social, political and economic corruption that cripples abandoned nations.

What have you learned about yourself?
In my own community, among people who feel threatened by immigration I sense a helpless discomfort heaped upon all of us. Benjamin Franklin is known to have felt that there were too many Germans here! As a boy, I remember my parents complained about all the Puerto Ricans in south Philly. Then again, when I’m in the cities and pueblos of Latin America, on the trails of migration, or in the barrios in the U.S., I gaze upon those for whom migration is a personal struggle of unimaginable uncertainty. This is not an easy subject. Migration is seldom the easy solution for anyone, but I vow to be tolerant.

(I wrote about Don Bartletti’s work in the June 2007 issue of Black & White magazine.)

Lee Brumbaugh: Metaphysical Investigations
Lee Brumbaugh is one of those lucky souls whose professional gig dovetails nicely with his visual concerns. As curator of photography at the Nevada Historical Society, Brumbaugh oversees a vast image archive that provides a window onto the state’s rich cultural heritage. Much of his personal work is also focused on structures and artifacts of the past—the abandoned press room of the Eureka Sentinel newspaper, ghost towns, historical industrial equipment. However, while his photographic approach is grounded in objective representation, Brumbaugh subverts viewer expectations through his subtle exploration of the transformative effects of time. Like Alfred Stieglitz, he consistently reveals ambiguous thematic fissures lurking within commonplace subject matter.


Lee Brumbaugh

How did you get started in photography, and what formal training did you have?
I started photography as a child, in Hartsville, South Carolina, not with a Brownie, but with a “Blueie,” or blue plastic camera that my parents gave me around the age of six. I have very few memories unmediated by photography. Early photographs of my cat and turtle did not reveal a precocious talent; the process of becoming a photographer in a more substantial sense was very gradual. My father took vacation travel slides, and I started doing the same in high school. I also started looking at creative photography during this time. Paul Strand’s book, “Time in New England,” was among the first to make me realize photographs could be more than factual records. Although I never had the opportunity to meet him, Paul Strand’s work was the first I saw that made me want to become a serious photographer. His images, especially in his early work, capture everything I most love about photography, including its ability to capture not just the facts of scenes, but the essence of places.

I next ordered several Popular Photography annuals, as well as the book version of Walker Evans’ 1938 exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. Around 1966, I taught myself how to develop and print black-and-white negatives in the Coker College science department darkroom. My father was the chair of the art department and would later teach photography as the department expanded. Attending photography workshops with noted fine-fine art photographers, such as Garry Winogrand, Paul Vanderbilt and George DeWolf, raised both my ambition and skill levels. In 1974, I completed a bachelor’s degree with a minor in photography at Coker College. At the time, Coker was attempting to become a progressive Goddard-style school. Although that plan changed with the conservative backlash, I went on to complete a master’s degree in photography through Goddard College. I wrote my thesis on Alfred Stieglitz and his influence on modern photography. In 1981, I enrolled at Washington State University, completing my MFA in 1983. Working with Arthur Okazaki and Francis Ho, I consolidated my current medium-format technique and style.


Window, Goldfield Hotel, 2006

Did your environment influence your artistic development?
My personal style in photography came about from my experiences growing up in the rural South. As a child I collected arrowheads in the cotton fields near my home and along the larger rivers climbed the overgrown Native American temple mounds. Exploring abandoned tenant houses and ruined farm houses, still filled with the dust-covered remnants of their former occupants’ lives, added to a growing sense of the mystery of the past. Observing firsthand the lives of African-American farm workers led to an interest in the Farm Security Administration photographers. Summer vacations in the North Carolina Mountains also led to an interest in geology, mining and folklore. The desire to make photographs arose from my love for the land and ambivalence towards its past. The fact that my parents were from Indiana, combined with my own scientific or non-Christian persuasion, cemented a natural inclination to be an outside observer in small-town America, rather than an uncritical sentimentalist.

The conquest and displacement of the Native American tribes, the heritage of slavery and the subsequent well-crusted culture of denial seem to cast a near-visible pall over the Southern landscape. This guilt-based twisting of the collective psyche may well provide the core of the Southern Gothic style in art and literature, as well as, no doubt, that of the earlier version in New England, where the Native Americans were first betrayed and where the slave ships originated. Similarly, the rapid destruction of the primeval forests and swamps in the name of greed added to this guilt-based foreboding of natural revenge and sinister doom. To this psycho-cultural jambalaya was added the pattern of registering personal and family sins against the template of puritan perfection, all of which moved west with the frontier and was played out on more against a backdrop of remote deserts.


Train Wheel on Lathe, Ely, Nevada, 2006

Your work exhibits a keen understanding of the connection between man and his environment; the beauty and energy of man-made objects; a sense of place and history—all very Strand-like. Yet I sense in your work something a bit more abstract and enigmatic. How would you characterize your work compared to Strand’s? Or just in general?
At one level I agree with Walker Evans’ axiom that there is nothing more mysterious than a fact clearly stated. I am perhaps more like Paul Strand in that I often I find the strongest sense of a place in the smallest details. However, I probably go further than Strand in the direction of abstraction and what Stieglitz termed equivalence, or the capture of personal meaning and mood. The New Topographics of the 1970s and the so-called New Objectivity (1980s to present) have tried to eliminate the photographer from photography, except as a consummate technician. To me, photographs are most interesting when there is a tension between the personal and documentary elements of the image. Like Strand, I want my photographs to create not just a sense of place, but of time. I often use the darker tones and the contrasts of light and shadow to symbolize the passage of time and the fleeting nature of human existence. In this, Wynn Bullock’s images and Edward Weston’s Point Lobos series were additional early influences.

Do you try to communicate certain themes or ideas through your work, or do you feel that the interpretative responsibility rests with the viewer?
I feel that when photographs try to communicate a simple, clear meaning they end up becoming relicts of the past, rather than a commentary on the past and present. For example, Walker Evans’ work, which he personally regarded as a modern expression of Transcendentalism, remains as interesting today as it ever was.

Your approach seems to be one of confronting your subject matter directly and letting it speak for itself, while infiltrating your own perspective through subtle choices in framing and lighting.
Yes, I think photojournalism is the field in which the meaning and intent of photographs must be stated clearly. To me, fine art photography has a different appeal, one consisting of an ongoing and long-term interaction between the photographer, the subject material and the viewer. I agree with Garry Winogrand that photographs should be first and foremost visually interesting. I operate on the premise that it is most interesting for the viewer to discover layers of meaning in factual-looking scenes, rather than being fed simple, predigested visual messages.


Ruined Ceiling, Austin, Nevada, 2005

You have a knack for uncovering the mysterious in the seemingly mundane.
Alfred Stieglitz, in an effort to prove that good photography was not based upon inherently interesting subject matter, made a series of photographs of ordinary clouds in the sky. In these photographs he seemed to capture not meteorology, but the mysteries and moods of human existence. A number of documentary-style street photographers such as Robert Frank and Garry Winogrand found the visual equivalence of mystery in mundane scenes of everyday life. In my own work, I have tried to blend aspects of these two schools of photography. Winogrand saw photography as visual play or wit, while Stieglitz saw it something more profound. I don’t see why it cannot be both. I find photography to be both fun and something akin to my own version of meditation, although without any guruistic notions eternal truth.

There’s an astonishing amount of visual information in the “Eureka Sentinel Press Room” image. In addition to the wealth of purely documentary detail, there are numerous undercurrents of humor, irony, sexuality and representation of self. It’s as if you’re documenting the past, bringing it back to life and interacting with it all at the same time.
The Eureka Sentinel press room is one the most remarkable places I have ever seen. As I looked at the collage of show bills and flyers on its walls I seemed at one level to be drawn into the mindset of people from the past, but at another level I felt they expressed an understanding of the universals of the human condition that speak just as much to the present as the past. The original messages, if any, the Eureka pressmen were sending to the future have been altered by the passage of time. Fragments of text and image are now juxtaposed in ways that create entirely new associative meanings. My own selection of final elements determines the apparent meaning of the images as I have recorded them.


Eureka Sentinel Press Room, 2002

The faces in the show bills evoke a fascinating range of personality types; these “portraits” almost seem more vibrant than images of living people.
In some ways exploring this world of long-dead people may also be more revealing, in that the images can more directly address the issue of how portraits have been used in our society through time. Fine art and documentary portrait photographers face concerns over whether they are objectifying or even causing harm to real people. The people in these advertising images were objectified by American society long ago and are now quite beyond harm. I have the freedom to explore the symbolism of their original portrayal and to add my own interpretations, with relatively little chance of harming living people.

The pipe jutting into the wall has obvious sexual implications, especially given the “interaction” between the male and female figures in the show bills; R.E. Graham seems to be flirting with the young woman in the lower-right corner.
In recent decades, there has been a pronounced anti-Freudian trend in social science and art history. At the same time, the American advertising industry has been quite open in admitting that they study and apply Freudian theory as the core of their enterprise. The idea that sex sells is hardly new. The Victorian advertisements found on the walls of America’s ghost towns are full of sexuality and sexual repression in all its myriad forms. Many of the love themes on the Sentinel walls, both profane and ideal, seem to have been intentionally created by the workers in print shop, no doubt entertaining themselves in their spare time as early-day collage artists. I added my own obviously Freudian juxtapositions in the manner of Garry Winogrand, partly for the purpose of visual wit, and, secondarily, to let discerning viewers consider, if they choose, the possibility that sometimes Freud might have been more right than wrong. In the low light of the press room interior, it is impossible to read every caption and graffiti addendum. Often, juxtapositions not consciously seen or understood at the time end up being the most interesting.

The hyperbole of the printed advertisements is quite amusing, and analogous to current ad-speak, which gives the image a nice sardonic edge. By pushing these to the edges of the frame, are you adding your own attitude towards inducements to consumerism?
It seems hard not to be ambivalent towards consumerism in American society. We have young women literally dying to fit internalized, consumer-based models of perfection. Everyone is taught that they are imperfect unless they posses the right consumer goods to convey success or anti-establishment coolness. Zen workshops are just as much consumer goods as sports cars. The artist or photographer fears both being unrecognized and being turned into a commodity of the art market.


Advertisement, Eureka Sentinel, 2002

“Advertisement, Eureka Sentinel” provides a nice contrast in that you have scaled back the amount of visual information, yet it’s still a very complex image, especially from an emotional perspective. The girl’s expression is direct, almost challenging, yet somehow shy and withdrawn as well. Moreover, she seems to register pride in her beauty as well as resignation at being consigned to commodity status. And there’s something odd about how her face seems to be emerging from the wall, like a print in a developing tray, yet simultaneously be fading into the wall. Are these dichotomies what drew you to this particular advertisement? And do you typically look for these kinds of visual contradictions?
The young woman in this torn and stained poster seemed like the perfect archetype of the advertising model in consumer culture. At one level, she has achieved the immortality of personal fame, if only on a small scale; while at another level, she is not only long dead, but visibly fading from cultural memory. Her message that happiness and beauty can be purchased at the corner market has been belied by the realities of encroaching nature.

The details help support the mood, which I read as slightly mysterious if not foreboding. The dark mass of a cabinet pushing up into the frame and partially obscuring the poster, the torn edges of said poster, the enigmatic declaration scrawled on the wall, the missing adjacent poster. This seems to go well beyond pure documentary.
Part of the modern understanding of photography is that photographs are not facts, but questions, opinions and enigmas. Photographs are neither messages nor mirrors, but messages in a mirror. For me, addressing these contradictions through my work is part of the excitement of making photographs.


Hoist House Door, Tonopah, Nevada, 2004

In your images of a hoist house door and a rotary snowplow, you utilize the recurring visual motif of centrally framed circular objects with strong straight lines radiating outward. The pictures celebrate the functionality and aesthetic beauty of these objects, which is a tribute to the men who made them. But they also evoke an underlying energy and power of their own, apart from their intended use, that borders on the metaphysical.
Carl Jung’s archetypes, as well as the mandala concept found in Buddhism, became a part of American and my own visual iconography in the late 1960s and 1970s. I even took a workshop in Zen photography. Again, my interest was primarily in how such concepts might be applied to making interesting photographs. In the photographs of the carved wood on a door at Tonopah, I saw a tension between the quest for personal wholeness, symbolized by the mandala; and the dangers of totalitarianism and consumerism, symbolized by the radiating lines that reminded my of the computer matrix of movie fame. In my view, archetypes stem from the shared elements of human experience, not from genetic memory.

Again, they bring to mind Stieglitz’ “equivalents.”
The most important single influence on the style of my photographs is Alfred Stieglitz’s concept of equivalents. Stieglitz argued that the best photographs capture not just the facts of a scene, but their emotional equivalents as experienced by the photographer. The viewer then, if the photographer had done her or his work well, can experience not just what the photographer saw, but what she or he felt. Most of the photographers championed by Stieglitz in his modernist gallery, including Paul Strand and Ansel Adams, fall into this category.


Rotary Snowplow, Ely, Nevada, 2006

Has this always been your philosophy, i.e., finding more complexity and ambiguity in a straight rather than expressionistic visual approach?
I have always been drawn to the “straighter” photographic images that still have a sense of seeing beyond the surface, whether the social satire of the street photographers or the broodingly surreal cacti of Frederick Sommer. When I lived in New Orleans for a year and a half, I also discovered the straighter work of Clarence John Laughlin. I had found his more familiar and, to me, hokey double-exposure romances uninspiring if not offensive. Much more interesting to me is his “found” surrealism, such as his photograph of slave-cabin porches receding in the distance, like a tunnel into an alternate reality. My own photographs of a young woman’s face emerging from the press room wall and the seemingly multidimensional door in Tonopah were conscious tributes to Laughlin’s particular technique.

I’m also intrigued by the strong abstract quality of these photographs. Do you consider them abstracts, documents, or both?
I view my photographs as neither abstractions nor documents. A document attempts to provide unbiased facts about a place or subject. My photographs are more about my perceptions of a place. Abstract photography, especially that of the 1950s and 1960s, was about exploring the unconscious mind of the artist. I see my photographs more as details of a place that reveal material facts and my own interpretations of those facts. If the meanings of the images were entirely clear, the work would constitute a photo essay, rather than artistic expression.

In a sense, you seem to have liberated these objects’ hidden/neglected qualities through your photographs. Is this a conscious (and consistent) goal of yours?
The idea of revealing the animate qualities of inanimate objects is quite consciously drawn from the Surrealist photographers Frederick Sommer and Clarence John Laughlin. I personally agree with these photographers that such visual magic is a psychological phenomenon, rather than a matter of mystical revelation. However, I think such illusions of transubstantiation can be read as metaphors for the real mysteries of the universe. After all, when I was a child, physicists were looking for a unified field theory to explain the nature of nature, and of course, today they still are.


Wrenches, 2006

Are you primarily interested in man-made objects and environments, or do you also interact photographically with the natural environment?
I have included the natural landscape in all but my ghost town series. My landscape series on rural South Carolina examines natural areas, but as part of an inclusive study of place, rather than as examples of pristine nature in the manner of Ansel Adams.

As curator of photography at the Nevada Historical Society, how much time are you able to devote to your personal photography?
Being a curator is more than a full time job. I can still only devote occasional weekends and our annual three-weeks leave to my own work.

What are your current and future projects?
I am still working on my ghost town series, “Time in Nevada.” I am planning separate exhibitions and possible books just on the Eureka Sentinel press room and the Nevada Northern Railroad shops in Ely. I recently started taking photographs of burn areas. This series explores the interaction between wildfire, global warming and the human spread into fire-prone former wild lands. I hope to find a publisher for these various projects.

(I profiled Lee Brumbaugh in the June 2008 issue of Black & White magazine. For print information, contact him at leenvphoto@aol.com.)

Nathan Troi Anderson: Shadows of Time
One of the most challenging and thought-provoking photographers on the contemporary scene, the Portland, Oregon-based Anderson frequently traverses time zones and cultures in pursuit of a singular aesthetic and philosophic vision. His book Shadows of Time brilliantly contrasted ancient cave art and modern advertising to explore issues of identity, myth, communication and consumerism. His latest book, Decay (a collaboration with photographer John Putnam), is a visual investigation into what Anderson calls “the living force inherent in every living thing.” Anderson’s richly metaphoric imagery provides ironic insights on our ongoing drive for enlightenment as we march towards an increasingly unstable future.


Nathan Troi Anderson

What was the impetus for the book Shadows of Time?
The publisher Mark Batty approached me to do a book on petroglyphs. I suggested instead taking various images, faces and scenes from our so-called modern world and then throwing the mud of the earth at them, ancient symbols and all. We would create a collage of ruin set among sleek futurity. It took about three months to shoot, four or five to print.

Obviously, the shadow of McLuhan blankets this work. You’re both concerned with the meaning and manipulation of media in relation to the collective consciousness of a society. What other parallels do you feel your work has in common with his?
McLuhan’s work was influenced enormously by James Joyce, in particular Finnegans Wake. This work changes your entire thinking; it is really a dangerous book. It could be described as a writing of all and everything at once. McLuhan commented on that “allatonceness” quality of today’s electronic age. In Shadows of Time I tried to add as many elements, disparate and related, as I thought I could get away with. It’s the influence of Joyce, but also society today, wherein everything is a layered collage of infinite, disparate, chaotic information. We seem to be facing in all directions at once without a linear path ahead, and our approach is now turning in on itself.


Twin Towers

I’m wondering if the writer J.G. Ballard is also a reference point and inspiration? I’m thinking particularly of stories like “The Subliminal Man,” which depicts a society in which advertising assumes an ever more ubiquitous and subliminal (hence sinister) presence in the urban landscape.
I don’t think advertising is subliminal anymore. At the beginning of my book we threw in a McLuhan quote about how advertising seeks to create a collective consciousness among consumers: “When all production and all consumption are brought into a pre-established harmony with all desire and all effort, then advertising will have liquidated itself by its own success.” This is the point where it is no longer “your” world and the world of commercial advertising. The two have become one. We are the advertising. I think the younger generations accept this now. In fact, in the current wired environment, it is completely natural for them to do so. I want to read that Ballard story, though.

The image pairings in your book are unique in that they present simultaneous contrasts and similarities. For example, the ancient petroglyphs and inscriptions find their equivalent in modern advertising symbols and copy; skyscrapers register as modern cave dwellings. The past and present thus seem to engage in a kind of metaphysical dialogue across time and distance that somehow brings both into clearer focus while also deepening their mysteries.
I saw the rock carvings as representation of the unknown. They are symbols of the night, the underworld, of darkness. We cannot define them. And so I wanted to take images from our imagination today and toss them within this “darkness,” like someone calling into a cave and hearing the echo reverberate back. I needed to create an environment in which our “modern” imagination could no longer feel secure.


Birth Spiral

The meaning of the petroglyphs has been obscured by time, yet they seem more urgent and “alive” than current advertising imagery and “inscriptions.” Is there an implied comment that today’s advertising message will be equally obscure to future generations?
I think the petroglyphs seem obscure to us today because we can find no use for them. They speak of things that provide no utilitarian purpose, no means of selling. If in the centuries ahead we lose the vision of materialism, then we will understand these fading carvings again and it will be our current media images that no longer make any sense to us.

It’s interesting that the ancient symbols require natural light for illumination, while much of today’s advertising landscape relies upon artificial illumination.
Yes, the stone carvings are inextricably linked to the sun and the moon. They are carved directly into this light, born of it. The same could be said of our incredible cities, but it is a bit more difficult. We have sort of buried the sun, or veiled it by our own excess. Whose light is brighter? As the children of Prometheus we could challenge the sun, but, no matter, we would still be the children of a thief.


Untitled

Some of the images in both Shadows of Time (and Decay, for that matter) speak to the gradual and inevitable erosion of our individuality and humanity.
I know many people who spend eight, nine, ten hours daily staring into LCD screens. What are we looking at? What could create this kind of living obsession? Is there some promise, something we hope is in this box of light, or is it a Pandora’s box? One of the detrimental effects of our continuing pop culture is the inability for the younger generations, myself included, to look at anything with depth. Yet we stare so much, blankly, into these screens. We flit along like moths right into the burning flame.

Another irony at play in your work: Prehistoric cave dwellers had no alphabet and used symbols to communicate, yet modern city dwellers, despite our alphabet and language, are increasingly reliant on visual, non-verbal communication modalities. We seem to be regressing on some level to a point far back in time.
You’re bringing up McLuhan’s notion of the electronic environment creating a “re-primitivization” of man. It goes to the idea of a prefabricated circle of our own interactive containment, where our sensory stimulation is coming from all directions at once and of which we are all taking part and feeding back into. It is in many ways the creation of a technological womb.


Mist

When you include images of people, they’re usually depicted as figures on billboards and posters. You seem to be referencing the increasing artificiality of human thought, discourse and emotions. It’s as if we are gradually dissolving into some kind of digital matrix in which our obsession with the artificial and inorganic takes precedence over our humanity.
Words like “artificial” and “ inorganic” are perhaps becoming meaningless today as we forge ahead into areas like cloning, genetic engineering, etc. Likewise, I think the images that we surround ourselves with are more real than ourselves. They provide for us a sense of identity. Our images are icons. They are our light; we are their shadows. One can also think of it like a spider spinning its perfect web. We are wrapping ourselves ever deeper inside the myriad folds of our mind. At the present, it seems safer inside there. We know where everything, everyone is. It has all been studied and mapped. We are recording and logging every moment, every angle of it. For me, this is all a symptom of the loss of faith in life. We no longer trust and we refuse to surrender. Our guns are loaded and the fortress is being built.

Are you ultimately optimistic or pessimistic about where we are heading as a species?
Forever optimistic. A world without man would still be a Christmas on Earth. I have not made us the exile we seem to pretend to be, but any return to life would be first met with a great catastrophe. We are following the “cold mad feary father,” as Joyce put it, and we must continue in this direction until not a shred of mystery is left. Everything must be exposed. I think we are intent on going towards the source of things. We shouldn’t turn back now.


Modern Figure

Your work is pretty challenging on philosophical, intellectual and emotional levels. Do you find that viewers generally get what you’re trying to communicate?
Maybe not, but the importance is to speak as sincerely and directly as possible. This is showing faith in ourselves and in each other.

(Shadows of Time and Decay are available through Mark Batty Publisher, amazon.com and other major distributors. For information on Anderson’s books or to order prints, contact info@markbattypublisher.com.)