If what Grounded presents in pencil sketch is important, why not photograph it? Perhaps to say that a photograph can cut short clarity like it can bisect body parts and for better or worse we sometimes have to sketch in what is not there.
Category: Photobook/Printed Media Reviews
If Wipe Your Nose Sugar Boy is situated within Southern Gothic themes, Albain wastes no time getting directly to one of its most central themes—religion. […] Vanity plates and discarded signs indicate that Wipe Your Nose Sugar Boy is set at least in part, in Tennessee. A dead bird, tattered things covered in tarps, and overgrown fauna that follow suggest that in Albain’s South, the gospel is less about prosperity and more about the realism of muted gray tones.
Each short chapter of Maximum Sunlight is an account of an encounter with a resident of the town—anecdotal stories of drunkenness, lost jobs, skin heads, juke boxes, the government, and resilience. Each chapter is like the edges of a photograph—sometimes abruptly dissecting and at times cutting short what happened outside the frame or the rest of the story.
A place like Ohio leaves enough space for Ohio Country even if unintentionally, to be political—not necessarily about politicians and constituents but rather, regarding public affair. Like the subject matter in the context of the camera frame, Ohio Country exists in the context of political turmoil in America.
Macau 5.0 acts as summative detail of a place and its people as reported with about as much straight forward clear purposed objectivity as a camera can muster.
Photographs are product of seeing—another circle with an ephemeral horizon. McCarty’s instant film images like Emerson’s Romantic perspective, are a collective approximation uncertain of our individual existence whose perspective changes and creates a duality of what was and what is—a doubling back on reason.
[E]mpty plastic chairs and the photographs that conflate NYC urban with Texas rural suggest, even if lacking self-awareness, that adversity is universal and a rural to urban relationship has existed for a long while in America. Bleak and self-examining is in many ways, contemporary American photography. Muddy Waters by Jamie Brett wants something more—a good place to begin a journey when it is your own.
If a blast began all that transpires throughout the approximate 25 years that make up Half Life, then the photographs depict uncertain forced dispersing and settling of matter in its wake.
Early in Fortieth Parallel is included a photograph of Humboldt Sink in Nevada with the word “NOW” etched across the smooth sloping, sun-bleached plain. The difference between the nonpermanent quality of newsprint on which the image is printed versus photographs made by O’Sullivan to be included in a photographic archive is not lost while looking at this photograph and I consider what in fact it means to live in the present.
The quite photos of gentle sea side escarpments throughout most of A Silent Place lead from one landscape to the next and a rhythm—much like a causal walk—paces the series of thirty photographs.
Oui, Nous Avons La TV Française by Jeffrey Déragon is an account of senior citizens in a Florida beach town that holds at least some French influence, be it a population of French residents or the town itself.
The sincerity of subjects intimately holding various foods might otherwise be difficult to believe if not for the relationship between photographer Lydia Panas and sitter. Her subjects hold near to their chests with both hands a variety of foods: eggplant, fish, blueberries, an intact pig’s head against no more than a black background.
Sad Things by Rachael Banks is everything that makes up a photograph but in sum, not photographic. A camera was utilized and the resulting objects were photographs — depictions of heartbreak, loss, violence, possible addictions, some love and some anger as the content conveys. But Sad Things is not about the photograph as an object nor the objects captured as photographs. Rather, it is all these things as they are — unsorted memories and that which might inform a photographic dialogue — reproduced, printed and bound.
Zora J. Murff’s Corrections considers a problem of looking — a societal shortcoming — as evidenced by portraits of individuals with faces obscured and photographs of things and places that regard our willful neglect to look not just at individuals subject to criminal prosecution, but also our own vision in need of correction. Corrections presents the reader with a problem — how to look at portraits of people without identity — that without faces, feel incomplete. And in turn then, poses the question of how to correct our ability to see objectively when looking at that at which we do not know how to look.