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November 11 2011

The month in photography

Audio slideshow: Our guide to the month's best photo exhibitions and books – featuring Walker Evans, Terry Richardson, Bruce Davidson and Diane Arbus

September 03 2011

Drive-by shooting

Timothy Taylor Gallery, London

In 2005, I spent an afternoon in the Museum of Modern Art in New York wandering though a vast retrospective of Lee Friedlander's work. It was a rewarding, if sometimes disorienting, experience, not just because of the number of images (around 500), but in the range of subject matter and the avid restlessness of his visual imagination.

Friedlander has photographed everyday America in all its quiet strangeness for 50-odd years now, turning his camera on streets, cars, passing strangers, buildings, gardens, trees, highways, shop windows, signs, parking lots, canyons and cows. He has made great formal portraits of jazz musicians and busy, brilliantly composed, street photographs. He has photographed Miles Davis at his most brooding and the young, yet-to-be-famous Madonna nude in her untidy New York apartment. He has even chased – and caught – his own shadow in a series of often eerily brilliant self portraits in which his silhouette looms over pavements or passers-by and is reflected back at us in a windowpane.

Now 77, and still working, Friedlander first came to public attention when the great American curator, John Swarkowski, included his work in the groundbreaking New Documents exhibition at MoMA New York in 1967, alongside equally iconoclastic photographs by Garry Winogrand and Diane Arbus. Friedlander called his photographs "social documents", but they were also challenging and often playful investigations of what photography could be; a slap in the face of the high seriousness of the American landscape tradition.

Like Walker Evans and Robert Frank before him, Friedlander went looking for America by car but he photographed it through his windscreen, creating a set of images that look like film stills from some lost American new wave film.

At Timothy Taylor, two bodies of work, both car-related, illustrate the strange cumulative power of Friedlander's approach, as well as his singular sensibility. This is photography as a kind of constant improvisation on a theme and, though separated by more than three decades, both series bear Friedlander's unmistakable signature.

The first, and most recent, is called America By Car, and comprises a selection of the photographs he took through his windscreen or out of his car window on road trips made in the past 10 years or so. The second, called The New Cars, is a portfolio originally made for Harper's Bazaar in 1964. It's a good place to start, not just chronologically, but because it gives even more evidence of his mischievous spirit and formal iconoclasm.

Back then, the high-end glossy magazine commissioned him to photograph that year's new car models – Chryslers, Buicks, Pontiacs and Cadillacs – for their November issue. Friedlander photographed the sleek and gleaming vehicles against the most downbeat backgrounds: shabby storefronts, drab inner-city car parks, and, most provocatively, a used car lot.

Rejected by Harper's Bazaar, the photographs lay forgotten in his storage space until recently, and this is the first time they have been shown outside America. They are brilliantly subversive, not least because the cars are often half hidden by other objects in the foreground or glimpsed in reflection in a store window. In one, a car is parked behind a huge pile of tyres; in another, a hood is just visible though the window of a public phone booth. You can see Harper's Bazaar's point but, as evidence of Friedlander's precocious photographic imagination, the New Cars series is revelatory.

It is also the perfect compliment to the America By Car series, in which he uses the windscreen or side window as frame within a frame, and then plays with the possibilities of that simple technique. Not that there is anything that simple about Friedlander's photographs: some are visual puzzles, others are just plain puzzling but often in a witty – or wilfully skew-whiff – way. Is that car really perched on a pole? Is that a reflection of a shop mannequin or a reflection of a reflection of a shop mannequin?

For the America By Car pictures, Friedlander stuck to black and white, but used a Hasselblad Super Wide camera, which allowed him to capture a wider vista that is often bisected by the vertical frame of the windscreen or includes a huge swath of dashboard above which buildings and telegraph poles loom. The results can be disorienting but, after a while, you start seeing America though Friedlander's eyes: how much it has changed and how much it has stayed the same.

The road signs seem oddly timeless, as do the desert motels, but the words speak volumes about today's America. A huge billboard advertises Hot Babes Direct To You. A motel sign carries the warning: Don't Take Cheques. A suburban fence bears the message: We Support Our Troops.

Recognisable skylines – Manhattan, Chicago – give way to anonymous suburbs and then the big skies and flat plains of another America of wooden houses, tall trees, cows and crows. Friedlander even traps a laughing highway patrolman in the democratic frame of his car window. In another picture, the white-haired figure on the roadside next to Friedlander's tripod is the late John Swarkowski, his first, and most important, champion. The final shot in the series is a self portrait in which the famously elusive Friedlander scowls at the viewer as if taken by surprise by his own camera.

Then again, Friedlander was often surprised by what his camera captured. When asked about his approach, he once said: "I only wanted Uncle Vern standing by his new car (a Hudson) on a clear day. I got him and the car. I also got a bit of Aunt Mary's laundry, and Beau Jack, the dog, peeing on a fence, and a row of potted tuberous begonias on the porch and 78 trees and a million pebbles in the driveway and more. It's a generous medium, photography." Or, perhaps, as these wonderfully strange and evocative photographs attest, he made it so. © Guardian News & Media Limited 2011 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

July 08 2011

The month in photography

Our guide to the month's best photo exhibitions and books – featuring Pieter Hugo, Vanessa Winship, Elliott Erwitt, Taryn Simon and Walker Evans

December 03 2010

Monochrome man: William Eggleston

As these rediscovered prints reveal, the man who made colour photography into an artform worked brilliantly in monochrome – and his eye for unsettling detail is every bit as sharp

Eggleston in black-and-white? It seems a contradiction in terms. But here, finally, is the evidence that even the most famous colour photographer of all once saw the world around him in monochrome. It is quite a surprise.

A new book, published by Steidl, is called simply Before Colour. It's a great title: specific to the arc of William Eggleston's development, but suggestive of the wider impact that his first colour images had on photography in general. We now often divide the history of photography into before and after colour – a shift of consciousness that is often put down to Eggleston's ground-breaking show at MoMA in 1976, which shocked critics with its dramatic, heavily saturated dye-transfer prints. In fact this wasn't the first time that colour photography had appeared in a major American gallery: photographer Stephen Shore exhibited colour images of America at the Metropolitan Museum of Art four years earlier, and also caused something of a critical storm.

Eggleston's exhibition is now regarded as the moment that colour photography became an art form in itself. Ever since, he has been regarded as the most dramatic colourist in American photography.

Hence the surprise of these prints, which were found a few years ago in the offices of the William Eggleston Artistic Trust in Memphis, in a box containing his earliest photography. They form a kind of Egglestonian photographic prehistory. More intriguingly, they also show the beginnings of a style. In the late 1950s, Eggleston wandered around the suburbs of Memphis shooting whatever caught his eye on high-speed 35mm black-and-white film: people, usually unaware or only just aware of the camera's gaze; and places, including supermarket interiors and exteriors, roadsides, barbecue shacks, shop windows, garages, diners, hotel rooms, crossroads, bushes, trees and fences.

The images here are the first examples of Eggleston's now-famous democratic gaze: everything, even the most banal-seeming subject, is given equal importance in the unfolding visual narrative. This might seem a scattergun approach, but in his short introduction to the book, the southern writer and cultural critic Dave Hickey sees in them echoes of early photographs of the British Raj. There is a "dissonance" in Eggleston's photographs, Hickey notes, suggesting the tension of the moment that America, with all its "mass-produced banality", began to colonise the old south.

This is an interesting analysis. It sheds new light, too, on the so-called "snapshot aesthetic" that the likes of Eggleston, Shore and before them Robert Frank deployed. Hickey argues that, in Eggleston's work, there is "no other honest option" but "to make 'bad' pictures of bad places". (The quotation marks that frame the word "bad" are of the utmost importance.) Eggleston, Hickey writes, "abandons composition for a world with no composure. The truth of formal arrangement, contrast and atmosphere would be a lie imposed on these settings. It would deaden the acidic essence of the subject matter."

There is a great deal of truth here, but I'm not sure it's the whole story. In fact, you can see composition, contrast and atmosphere aplenty in Before Colour. Many of the early photographs here recall Walker Evans's vernacular gaze or Robert Frank's bleakly poetic vision of the other – sadder, poorer, stranger – America. The very first image in the book – a herd of mules and their drivers on a dusty road at twilight – is a shock, so painterly and old-fashioned does it look. Look harder, though, and you see a very Egglestonian sense of dark surprise: the leading rider, head bent, is a black man dressed in what looks like striped prison garb. The tone of the photograph shifts into more ominous psychological terrain, the whole dark history of the south hoving into view behind a single telling detail.

More than once, Eggleston turns his eye on lone figures, often daydreaming women in empty, ornate diners. In one deftly composed image, a stylish woman taps her cigarette into an ashtray. It is an image of considerable formal and atmospheric beauty, and one that possesses the kind of romantic, Edward Hopperesque undertow not often associated with Eggleston's work.

In another almost perfectly formed image, Eggleston freeze-frames a sleek American car swishing though the teeming southern rain, catching it brilliantly, and ironically, between two striped roadside sun umbrellas. There's a hint here of what is still to come: you can sense how different this image would be had he shot it in colour; but perhaps also that it would be less atmospheric too. The same thought occurs while looking at his many supermarket interiors, the cartons of milk and juice arranged in Egglestonian rows, but bled dry by the mysterious power of monochrome.

Part of the power of these photographs rests in the fact that we know what is coming, and where it will take photography. Yet even though it's hard not to return to the question of what these images would look like if only they'd been shot in colour – let alone Egglestonian colour – this is an important work both for students of photographic history and in its own right. Before Colour tells us what we already know: that the greats do not suddenly become great, but work hard to establish a style and signature. But it also shows something more – the great iconoclast, honing his democratic vision before he found the perfect medium for it. The future is just around the corner, but it will take some time before the world catches up with William Eggleston's brilliant – in every sense of the word – vision.

Now see this

Flash Projects specialise in what they call "iconic vintage photographs of popular culture from the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s". Their current exhibition is a pop-up show called Canned Candies: the Nudes of Jean Clemmer, which runs at 8 Kingly Street, London, WC1 until 18 December. Clemmer was Salvador Dali's close friend and personal photographer. This series of glamorous (semi-)nudes, a collaboration with the fashion designer Paco Rabanne, shows off his more mischievous side. It was first published in Paris in 1969, when things were altogether more swinging. © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

October 02 2010

Photographing the American South

De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill-on-Sea, East Sussex
These photographs of the American south offer widely differing views of the same elusive subject, writes Sean O'Hagan

The American south has been mythologised in literature, film, popular music and photography. From William Faulkner to Muddy Waters, Tennessee Williams to William Eggleston, Gone With the Wind to Huckleberry Finn, it has colonised our collective imagination as a place apart, even a state of mind.

In photography, the American south has been viewed from the inside by native southerners such as Eggleston, William Christenberry and Eudora Welty (who was a very good photographer before she became a great writer) and from the outside, most famously by Walker Evans in the 1930s, and by the likes of Carrie Mae Weems, Alec Soth and Susan Lipper in more recent times. All of the above, with the exception of Welty, are included in Myth, Manners and Memory, a relatively selective, but nevertheless illuminating, group show at the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill.

Walker Evans's photographs of the American south, taken between 1935 and 1938 during the Depression, for the Farm Security Administration, are among the most celebrated images of the 20th century. You could even say that they made the south synonymous with poverty and struggle in a way that it was once synonymous with segregation and slavery. They changed the way America viewed the south, and the way the south saw itself.

In 1936, while Evans was photographing in and around Hale County, Alabama, William Christenberry was born in nearby Tuscaloosa. In 1960, aged 24, he came upon a copy of Let Us Now Praise Famous Men by Walker Evans (and James Agee), which had been republished that year, in a bookshop in Birmingham, Alabama. It changed his way of thinking, helped him see the south anew as a place he could rediscover though photography. Soon after, he began to photograph the places and sites he recognised in the book, many of which were now crumbling remnants of another time.

In 1973, Christenberry persuaded Evans to accompany him on one of his regular road trips to Hale County, which Evans had not visited for 37 years. "Walker kept his distance," Christenberry would later say. "The place is so much part of me, I can't escape it and have no desire to escape it. I continue to come to grips with it… the place is my muse."

One could say the same of the south that William Eggleston, another friend of Christenberry's, depicts. From Memphis, Tennessee, Eggleston also looks with an insider's eye, but his south is a stranger, darker place even in its everydayness. As a southerner, Eudora Welty implicitly understood Eggleston's democratic gaze and its artistic and mythical resonance. "In landscapes, cityscapes, street scenes, roadside scenes," she wrote in her introduction to Eggleston's book The Democratic Forest, "in dreaming long view and arresting close-up, through hours of dark and light, he sets forth what makes up our ordinary world. What is there, however strange, can be accepted without question; familiarity will be what overwhelms us."

In their separate ways, Carrie May Weems, Susan Lipper and Alec Soth have also subverted the mythology of the south in their photographs. In Sleeping by the Mississippi, Soth created an American south that, however much it has changed socially and politically, remains essentially the same. There are echoes here of the old south of plantations and slow-flowing rivers, but also traces of the work of other, older photographers, including Evans, Christenberry and Eggleston.

Weems, the most political photographer here, confronts the turbulent racist history of the American south, placing herself in a series of resonant locations and contrasting the barbarity of slavery with the refined social etiquette that held sway among rich plantation families. Here, photography becomes a kind of still theatre as well as a repository of memory, suffering and struggle.

The most wilfully problematic photographs in Myth, Manners and Memory belong to Susan Lipper. A New Yorker, she spends several months every year in Grapevine Hollow, a remote rural community in the Appalachian mountains. She calls her photographs "collaborations" and curator Celia Davies describes them as "much less documentary, far more cinematic in character".

Lipper's characters are real, but her scenarios are often staged. She plays with stereotypes of the Appalachian south –rednecks, white thrash, the ominous backwoods – while simultaneously portraying a place – and a community – where the often alcohol- or drug-fuelled violence and poverty are very real. It is a long way from Walker Evans but that, perhaps, is the point. The American south is not so much another country as several overlapping, and often contradictory, narratives, all of which continue to tug on our collective imagination even as they elude our understanding. © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

May 21 2010

I'll be watching you

Blake Morrison looks at the history of voyeurism, from Actaeon to paparazzi hounding the Princess of Wales. A new exhibition shows how technology has given us fresh ways of satisfying our desire for a secret glimpse

As Actaeon was the first to discover, snooping is a serious offence. In Ovid's version of the legend, Diana is bathing in a spring of clear water with her nymphs when Actaeon comes upon her at the end of a day's hunting. He doesn't intend to pry, but he can't help staring, and she's outraged by the intrusion on her privacy. As Ted Hughes retells it, Diana "Raged for a weapon – for her arrows / To drive through his body. / No weapon was to hand – only water. / So she scooped up a handful and dashed it / Into his astonished eyes, as she shouted: / 'Now, if you can, tell how you saw me naked.' / That was all she said, but as she said it / Out of his forehead burst a rack of antlers . . ." Transformed into a stag, Actaeon is hunted down and torn to pieces by his own hounds.

The man who spied on Lady Godiva, and who gave the term Peeping Tom to the language, was punished by being struck blind. As for the Elders who gawped at Susanna bathing, then tried to blackmail her, they were put to death. The paparazzi who spied on Diana's namesake, the Princess of Wales, got off more lightly. But in the aftermath of her death they were accused of brutally hunting her down: insidious stalkers who'd destroyed their innocent prey. It was said in their defence that the princess, unlike her predecessor, hadn't minded being looked at – that she enjoyed bathing in the limelight. But there was blood on their hands nonetheless.

All art involves looking. But some looks are more invasive than others. Where's the line to be drawn? What's allowable and what's exploitative? Is it OK to portray people without them knowing? These questions come up in regard to life writing and documentary films. But it's with photography that they're most contentious, and a major new exhibition at the Tate, Exposed: Voyeurism, Surveillance and the Camera, raises them in relation to images of sex, war and celebrity from the past 150 years.

Modern technology has made voyeurism more sophisticated, through zoom lenses, camera phones and CCTV. But as the curator of the Tate show, Sandra Phillips, argues, the desire to peek into the lives of others is basic to the human species. The pioneers of photography recognised that, using the camera to gain access behind closed doors. Some of their subjects were complicit. In the 1860s, the countess of Castiglione, mistress of Napoleon III, revelled in performing for a professional photographer. But by the end of the century, the fashion was for something less contrived. "Taken Unawares: Snapshots of Celebrated People" was a page in the tabloid Penny Pictorial. Readers welcomed it as proof that the rich and powerful are no different from the rest of us; the rich and powerful disliked it for the same reason.

To take a shot in secret was no easy thing in those days. But from the start photographers proved resourceful. Early portable cameras – known as "detectives" – were disguised as books and parcels, or hidden in canes, umbrellas and shoes. More practical was the vest pocket camera, with a shutter release cable dangling down the sleeve into the hand. Later came false lenses and right-angle viewfinders, with the camera pointing in one direction while the shot was taken in another. Walker Evans used this ploy in the 1930s, while photographing the poor in New Orleans and Mississippi; so did Helen Levitt, on the streets of Harlem. Later, the two of them prowled the New York subway, with Evans's camera concealed inside his overcoat. Uneasy about his sneakthief methods, Evans waited 25 years before publishing the results: "The rude and impudent invasion", had, he hoped, "been carefully softened and partially mitigated by a planned passage of time".

Some photographers justified their furtiveness as a ploy to secure an un-self-conscious pose or as an exercise in social reform. Jacob Riis's photos of the New York underclass in How the Other Half Lives (1890) were intended to highlight hardship and injustice. Lewis Hine tricked his way into mines and factories in order to expose the scandal of child labour. Tom Howard secreted a camera in his trouser leg in order to photograph the electrocution of the murderer Ruth Snyder. Another American, Paul Strand, took photos in the Bowery: his famous portrait of a blind woman – with a number pinned to her dress and a sign denoting her disability hanging from her neck – inspired Evans to take up photography as a career.

Strand's photo is disturbing because it highlights the helplessness of photographic subjects, who can't see what the camera is seeing (and in this case can't see at all). Those accustomed to public scrutiny are more streetwise and can spot a lens almost by instinct. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, caught canoodling in swimsuits by Marcello Geppetti in 1962, may not have cared that they were being filmed; by then their affair was in the open. And Margaret Thatcher (ousted from office) and Paris Hilton (on her way to face drug charges) were too distraught to worry about hiding their tears when snapped in the back of their cars. But even celebs sometimes crack when their privacy is intruded on – in the Tate show there's a photo of Anita Ekberg's husband Anthony Steel angrily pursuing paparazzi down the street.

Rather than lurking out of sight, some photographers remind us of their presence. When Gary Winogrand snapped a snogging couple in New York in 1969, he was echoing Robert Doisneau's famous shot of a "spontaneous" lovers' kiss in Paris in 1950. But there's an onlooker in the image as well, a girl staring at the camera as if to challenge its presumption; the woman being kissed is staring, too; everyone knows what's going on (whereas Doisneau's couple are professional models pretending not to know). An earlier New York photographer, Weegee, is more surreptitious; his shot of lovers kissing at the movies in 1940 is taken from above. He's as remote as God or Google Earth, and they've no idea they're in the frame.

With pornography, most subjects knowingly perform private acts for public consumption. But an imbalance of power remains. If the models hadn't fallen on hard times, or weren't addicted to hard drugs, would they be willing to expose themselves? Degas both painted and photographed working women as they dried themselves after taking a bath. His models were seamstresses and ballet dancers as well as prostitutes, but all were conscious of their inferior social status; portraying them nude was his droit de seigneur. To judge by the Tate show, most early porn is peekaboo stuff of this kind – the thrill of the illicit. One model stares boldly back while touching herself; others are masked, half-clothed or reflected in mirrors. Either way, the viewer is a guilty voyeur.

A more recent trend has been to show voyeurism in action, with those watching, rather than those watched, the centre of attention. Kohei Yoshiyuki has a series of photos taken in Tokyo parks with infra-red sensitive film and filtered flashbulbs that show spectators sneaking up on couples while they have sex under cover of darkness. In similar vein, Susan Meiselas examines the faces of men leering at a stripper in a bar. These photos echo pictures of Susanna and the Elders, as painted by Rubens, Rembrandt, Tintoretto, Van Dyck and Gentileschi – a story of innocence falling victim to unscrupulous male desire. They point a moral, but they titillate as well.

With violence, as with sex, viewers don't always respond as the artist intends. Just as erotica can fail to arouse desire, so images of death and mayhem can fail to incite revulsion. Included in Exposed are photos of a burial party in the American civil war, the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy, and assorted lynchings, firing squads, murders, electrocutions, suicide leaps, self‑immolations and mass graves. With war photos (whether Robert Capa's of a soldier falling in the Spanish civil war, or Eddie Adams's of a Viet Cong officer being shot in the head) there's often a suspicion of something being set up or over-elaborately composed. As Susan Sontag puts it: "People want the weight of witnessing without the taint of artistry, which is equated with insincerity." By this measure, Weegee emerges as the major figure of his day, because his photos of New York murders and tenement fires are so brutally frank – artful only in their literalism. Weegee grasped that to move the viewer the photographer must himself remain unmoved. For 10 years he took shots of murder and suicide victims, often arriving at the scene before the police did and noting details with icy clarity (when a woman jumps from a window and lands on the street, he reported, there won't be a mark on her face but usually one of her shoes comes off).

With murder victims and the war dead, permissibility is a sensitive issue: these people haven't consented to be shown as corpses. Press and broadcasting editors may decide that such photos deserve to be shown because they expose the realities of crime or battle and are therefore in the public interest. Photos from the Vietnam war – of the My Lai massacre, for instance – undoubtedly influenced anti-war sentiment. But as Sontag points out in her eloquent essay Regarding the Pain of Others, while images of distress "may spur people to feel they ought to 'care' more", they may also feel "that suffering and misfortune are too vast, too irrevocable, too epic to be much changed". The image of an Iraqi soldier, hideously disfigured after burning to death in a truck, caused a strong reaction when published in the Guardian in 1991, and prompted a long poem from Tony Harrison. But it didn't prevent the 2003 invasion. And it's only enemy soldiers (safely foreign, with families too far away to know or object) who are depicted so starkly; to show the corpses of British troops in current conflict would be deemed disrespectful and in shockingly bad taste.

The camera can't change the world, but there's an idea that it can protect us – hence surveillance, which promises to watch over us, and watch out for us, rather than merely watch. The idea of surveillance has already produced a sizeable body of literature, film and music – Huxley's Brave New World, Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, Hitchcock's Rear Window, Coppola's The Conversation, Henckel von Donnersmarck's The Lives of Others, even the Police song "Every Breath You Take" ("I'll be watching you") – and it's central to photography, too. Some of the first photos were police photos. And it wasn't just convicted criminals whose mugshots were placed on file but anyone who might pose a threat – anarchists, suffragettes, anti-war demonstrators, foreign spies whispering in the street.

The extent to which the state is watching us today would shock even Orwell. And while some photographers have hijacked advances in technology for their own kind of snooping (such as Alair Gomes, training telephoto lenses on muscled young men on the beach, or Merry Alpern taking a videocam into a women's dressing room), others have used old-fashioned landscape shots to depict the insidious spread of surveillance cameras in our suburbs and streets. To the photographer, CCTV is an affront, because it records at random, without human agency; it doesn't know it's bearing witness. And yet, as Sandra Phillips says, certain photos taken for security reasons – aerial reconnaissance shots of missile sites, for example, or the green glow of buildings seen through night-vision goggles – have a strange abstract-expressionist beauty.

Modern surveillance techniques look like the stuff of science fiction. But there's nothing new about the desire to watch someone without them knowing – and nothing unnatural about them being furious if they find out. If Actaeon happened on Diana today, he'd use his camera phone. But if he tried to post the photos on the internet, she'd have her lawyers rip him apart.

Exposed: Voyeurism, Surveillance and the Camera is at Tate Modern, London, from 28 May to 3 October. © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

The week's art shows

From Picasso's anti-war art in Liverpool to voyeurism in London, find out what's happening in art up and down the country

May 08 2010

March 06 2010

A month in photography

A guide to the 20 best photographic exhibitions and books, from Henri Cartier-Bresson to Don McCullin

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