Lesley A. Martin – An Interview

New Black Avanguard

by Luca Fiore

They call it the ‘golden age of the photobook’. And we are right in the midst of it. Over the last two decades, photo publishing has experienced a real boom – both quantitatively and qualitatively. In complete contrast to the print market, the interest of authors and the public has only grown. The number of publishers has multiplied and the practice of self-publishing has spread. And the goal of many photographers, rather than exhibiting their work in an exhibition, is above all to see their images take the form of a book.

The onset of this phenomenon was made to coincide with “Fotografía pública. Photography in Print 1919-1939”, the exhibition curated by Horacio Fernández in 1999 at the Museo Reina Sofia in Madrid – an unprecedented attempt to consider the photographic image from a publishing standpoint. In the meantime, first attempts were made to historicise the phenomenon, giving it a centrality that had never been acknowledged. Andrew Roth started with his “The Book of 101 Books: Seminal Photographic Books of the Twentieth Century”, published in 2001. This was followed by the three volumes of “The Photobook: A History”, edited by Martin Parr and Gerry Bedgere, published by Phaidon between 2004 and 2014. But the revolution had already begun in the early 1990s, especially with the books designed and produced by the Swiss Martin Keller who, with Scalo Publishers, had shaken up the field with masterpieces such as Richard Billingham’s “Ray’s a Laugh”, in which editorial form and content reached unprecedented standards.

In the late 1990s, Lesley A. Martin became an intern at the Aperture Foundation, the most prestigious photography institution in the United States, founded in 1952 by Ansel Adams, Minor White, Dorothea Lange, Nancy and Beaumont Newhall. Today, having become the creative director of Aperture, having founded and directed The Photobook Review and having established the Paris Photo-Aperture Foundation PhotoBook Award, Martin is the most powerful woman in the world of photobook publishing. A female figure that stands out in an environment dominated by men, even if, after all, it was a lady who produced the first photography book in history: English botanist Anna Atkins, who in 1843 published a collection of images of the algae she was studying. Martin has lived and worked in Japan, but makes use of Italian book printers – her favourite is Trifolio in Verona, which also serves MoMA in New York. This allows her to brush up on her Italian, which she learned in Casal Palocco, between Rome and Ostia, where she lived with her family between the ages of 5 and 13 (her father was employed by Firestone).

Lesley A. Martin

If you ask her what the purpose of publishing a paper book today is, in an age when images are the engine of the digital world, she employs a culinary metaphor: “I love junk food. So do social networks, to which I am as addicted as anyone else. I read books on my smartphone and, for certain content, I think it makes sense. But slow food is something else. The paper book experience manages to bring together images, text and graphics in a way that best conveys the photographer’s intentions.” And it’s also a matter of quality: “For music, vinyl is back in vogue, which has a better sound quality than streaming. The same applies to photographs on paper. It’s true that nowadays most images are created digitally on a screen and it’s changing the way we approach visual storytelling. Some people may be working on discovering new ones, but I have yet to see technologies that can show complex narratives in the way that the traditional book can.”

For Lesley Martin, when it comes to photography exhibitions, however, the matter is entirely different. The metaphor she uses is again musical. “When it was allowed, I loved going to concerts. You listen to live music in a certain place at a certain time. And you can do it with others. But then, back home, I want to listen to the record once, twice, a hundred times. The recording is the ‘canonical’ form of the musician’s work, to which we return as a reference, in contrast to all the variants there may be in a live performance.” In this sense, she explains, the two forms of presentation of the work are complementary and necessary. “There are cases in which, even for books that I have edited, it has happened that, looking at the images on show, I have noticed details that I had not noticed during the editing process. Then, however, the photographers tell me that for them it is the book that matters. But maybe they just say that to me just to please me… [she laughs].”

Aperture is a publisher with a long history and has contributed to building the canon of American photography. Books such as “Diane Arbus: An Aperture Monograph”, Steven Shore’s “Uncommon Places”, Joel Meyerowitz’s “Cape Light” and Nan Goldin’s “The Ballad of Sexual Dependency” are must-haves and best-sellers. But the challenge today, Martin explains, is to revise this canon and fill in the gaps. “We are working hard to right certain wrongs done in the past. The main objective, therefore, is not so much to find the new artist to publish, but to look back and introduce our readers to figures who have so far remained on the margins.” The most important example is Kwame Brathwaite, an African-American photographer who worked in the 1960s and 1970s. Fiercely independent, he set up an agency to distribute his images and only worked with black models. “He made really extraordinary portraits. He was an expression of the Black is Beautiful movement, which is also the title of the book that came out two years ago and was edited by Tanisha C. Ford. We had a travelling exhibition and the book, which cost 50 dollars, was reprinted several times.”

The visibility of black photographers is a topic that, according to Martin, applies to the past as well as the present. “Voices like Brathwaite’s are still there today. And, perhaps, with social networks, they have more tools to make themselves known. But I am very interested in identifying certain phenomena and going to meet them. Thus in 2019 The New Black Vanguard was born, a collection of 15 young black artists from the UK, Nigeria, South Africa and the US.” When you try to point out that it is a very ‘American’ topic, Martin replies, “No, it’s not. So much so that we will take the exhibition that was born from this project to the Arles Festival this summer, but we have asked the curator Antwaun Sargent to add European artists as well. For example, Silvia Rosi, Italian of Togolese origin, will take part.”

In addition to her work with books, Martin is also in charge of the Paris Photo-Aperture Foundation Photobook Awards, which she helped found in 2012 and which has now become the world’s leading award for photo publishing. It is presented every year at the Paris fair held at the Grand Palais. “It was like a second degree for me. Every year I have the opportunity to look at about a thousand books from all over the world. Of course, I don’t get to look at them all with the same attention, but over time you start to notice patterns, genres, trends, both from the point of view of themes and production choices.” It is not the Prix Nadar, which rewards the best book published in France, but has the ambition of monitoring the global market. The prize awarded to Paris Photos is divided into three categories: best PhotoBook, first PhotoBook and best exhibition catalogue. The short-list consists of 35 books in total, which are exhibited during the week of the Parisian fair attended by 70,000 people each year (“At the end, the books are completely worn out…”). The selection then tours several festivals in eight cities in the United States, Japan, Australia, Lithuania and Ukraine. “This gives great visibility to these books, which usually end up sold out. It is a great opportunity for their authors to take important steps in their careers,” explains Martin. “But above all, the prize serves to give an idea of the higher level at which the game of photography publishing is being played. And, as the rules prohibit the participation of Aperture books, it also allows me to see what standard of quality I should be aiming for in my work.”

Lesley A. Martin’s other creation, born in 2011, is the PhotoBook Review, the magazine that comes out twice a year as a supplement to Aperture, the flagship magazine of the Aperture Foundation. Circulated in 15,000 copies, it is the only trade magazine in print and with international circulation. “It is a fascinating space for debate on the ecology of our world. It is interesting because we try to bring together the various people involved in the production of photobooks: photographers, graphic designers, editors and book printers.” In recent years, Martin has chosen to present monographic issues with guest editors. “They are a plunge into a particular area of interest related to the key themes of our work. This happened, for example, with the issue on the relationship between text and image, which we entrusted to the Italian Federica Chiocchetti, founder of Photocaptionist”.

And how has the publishing world handled this year of the pandemic? “We learned a lot of things. For example, that people still love books, especially if they can’t go to museums and galleries. I myself, not being able to go to Paris Photo or the New York Book Fair, was able to order books I was interested in online. It was beautiful and important. But now we also know how dependent we have become on internet communication. What does this mean? What legacy do we take away from these months?” This is a question that many people are asking themselves, and no one seems to be able to answer it yet. “But I am optimistic because I see many interesting and intelligent people who are working to find new ways forward. I am confident that we can find the right balance between real life and digital life. If only for the fact that the photobook boom would not have happened without the advent of the internet. It would be unimaginable without digital processes, which have lowered production costs and thus consumer prices. Many questions remain open.”

“But Still, It Turns”, the exhibition curated by Paul Graham at the International Center of Photography in New York, which tries to propose a new canon for documentary photography, has been the subject of much debate in photography circles. According to the British photographer – and not only according to him – this type of research has been penalised in museums and galleries in favour of images shot in a studio or heavily modified on a computer. But the issue, according to Martin, is what is meant by “documentary photography”. “I am old school and I love photography because it captures something that is in the world. Between me and reality there is this medium, film. It is something wonderful and poetic. That kind of research, if done well, is the best you can ask of photography. Yes, many photographers, like Graham, feel marginalised by the space given over to more experimental forms. But I think the world is big and there is room for everyone.” Many artists, she explains, are reflecting on that part of our lives that takes place in the digital world. “I think photography made in the analogue world is just as important as photography that investigates digital reality. If we didn’t take both aspects into account, we would have a much poorer understanding of the world.”

Il Foglio, 20th June 2021

Dana Scruggs, Nyadhour, Elevated, Death Valley, California, 2019, from The New Black Vanguard (Aperture, 2019) © Dana Scruggs
Arielle Bobb-Willis, New Orleans, 2018, from The New Black Vanguard (Aperture, 2019) © Arielle Bobb-Willis
Daniel Obasi, Moments of Youth, Lagos, Nigeria, 2019, from The New Black Vanguard (Aperture, 2019) © Daniel Obasi
Nadine Ijewere, Untitled, 2018, from The New Black Vanguard (Aperture, 2019)© Nadine Ijewere, for Garage magazine
©Kwame Brathwaite
©Kwame Brathwaite
©Kwame Brathwaite

Michael Mack – An Interview

by Luca Fiore

The photography exhibition of the moment – and the current moment is definitely not insignificant – is “But Still, It Turns,” which opened last February 4 in New York at the International Center of Photography, managed by Englishman David Campany. Curator of the exhibition of the works of eight American and European artists is fellow Englishman, photographer Paul Graham. Galileo’s phrase “Eppur si muove”, which acts as the exhibition’s title, already provides a value judgement on documentary photography, which has fallen into the background after the splendour of the last twenty-thirty years; yet, it’s still vital to the work of those whom Graham defines as photographers interested in life “as it is”. The days of rhetoric about the objectivity of the medium of photography are certainly over. The illusion that film or image sensors can record “the” truth, without technical or cultural filters, seems to have vanished. And yet, there are still those who have not given up and have not lost interest in what Roland Barthes called “intractable reality”. Graham’s choice fell upon Vanessa Winship, Curran Hatleberg, RaMell Ross, Gregory Halpern, Kristine Potter, Stanley Wolukau-Wanambwa and Italians Piergiorgio Casotti and Emanuele Brutti. The ambition is to write a true manifesto of a new way of doing photography, which the New York Times has compared to the enterprise undertaken by MoMa in 1967 with “New Documents”, launching three authors – almost unknown then – into history: Diane Arbus, Lee Friedlander and Garry Winogrand. The most astute observers have noticed that the names involved in the exhibition – Campany, Graham, and two of the artists in the show, Winship and Halpern – are also linked to someone else, similarly an Englishman: Michael Mack, founder of MACK publishing house, which has published work by the other four. If there were a campaign to write a new page in the canon of the history of photography, he would undoubtedly play the role of an authentic Pygmalion.

Michael Mack


Born in London in 1965, Mack worked for 15 years at the court of the German Gerhard Steidl, undisputed king of art and photography publishing. After an interlude of a few years, in which he published under the label Steidl/Mack, he set out on his own in 2010 to set up his own publishing house. “The only regret I have,” he explains, “is that I didn’t have the patience or imagination to come up with a brand name other than my surname.” Known in the industry for his charm, Mack is considered a businessman who knows what he’s doing. His boldest move was his decision to break with Distributed Art Publishers, the American art publishing distribution giant. Today, a direct relationship with bookstores grants him greater profit margins on the retail price. Eleven years later, MACK has perhaps become the most significant organization in the world of photography publishing. In its catalogue, in addition to big names such as Paul Graham, Stephen Shore, Michael Schmidt, it also presents now established artists such as Taryn Simon, Alec Soth, and Alessandra Sanguinetti, Jason Fulford, as well as artists not exclusively related to photography, such as Thomas Demand, Tacita Dean and Torbjørn Rødland.
One of the most surprising things is that among the bestsellers published by MACK, we find two great Italians: Luigi Ghirri, whose complete collection of essays it has published – the only one in the world –, and Guido Guidi, who has produced eight titles with the English publisher. His love affair with Italian photography began in the early 1990s. “I was in Germany and there I came into contact with the German and Swedish tradition. I realised that beyond the canon of photography, which is all American, national stories have incredible depth and richness. They are very sophisticated.” The same thing happened in his discovery of Ghirri’s work: “I had the impression that he was contributing to the definition of the photographic medium as such.” And he still remembers the impression he had the first time he went to Ronta, on the outskirts of Cesena, to Guido Guidi’s studio: “Every box of prints he opened was a finished book. Incredible. It’s a privilege to be able to collaborate with a master like him. He still has an unexplored archive and very clear ideas about how he wants to exhibit his work.” Both Ghirri and Guidi, he explains, are rooted in their world that is Italy. “Even photographers under the big name of Magnum, coming from America and passing through Italy for a few weeks, cannot do what they did.” They are two artists who, in generation and interests, are very similar. But they also have different approaches. “Ghirri is very much influenced by personalities like William Eggleston, who is an absolute genius of the single image. Guidi’s eye, on the other hand, has the ability to penetrate the fabric of his environment and works more often with sequential shots.”


Mack is always on the hunt for talent and new authors. He is also looking for them in Italy. But he doesn’t just come to Italy looking for photographers. His books, in fact, are almost all printed by Italian companies. “Your printers and bookbinders have an extraordinary sensitivity and a special ability to understand what we need. And this allows us to be more daring.” His latest news, decided upon in recent weeks, is that Mack will open an Italian office to better follow work on new projects and to respond to his own great following, including sales, in Italy. “One of our two graphic designers, after months of lockdown in London, asked us to return to Trieste. This offered us the opportunity to open our own operational headquarters.”
When asked if his intention with “But Still, It Turns” really is to contribute to the writing of a new canon of photography, he answers indirectly, but the impression given is that “the short answer” is yes. “It was Paul Graham’s proposal. It is very precise and touches upon two very contemporary issues. The first is that in our time, which is dominated by moralism, privacy laws make it very difficult to create works of art based on photographs taken of people without their consent, like the greats Robert Frank, Gerry Winograd, Lisette Model and Henri Cartier-Bresson did.” The second point, explains Mack, is that in recent years, the museum and gallery world has favoured photography shot in a studio, and has been promoting heavy image manipulation. “Graham, on the other hand, goes back to offering a model of work that takes a part of life – something that actually happened – and turns it into a work of art. Having said that, I have to admit that if you go and look at the books I’ve published so far, it’s actually the kind of photography that I also prefer. My personal taste, out of necessity, greatly influences the type of books I publish. I don’t simply cater to packaging ideas by letting the market decide what works or not. I start with the artists’ thoughts and choose based on my own tastes. Then my tastes don’t always work out.” The flop that still burns him the most dates back to 2005, when he was still collaborating with Steidl. It involved “Jens F,” by New York-based photographer Collier Schorr. “It’s still my favourite book. It had no visibility and we didn’t sell. You can console yourself with those four experts who tell you it was a masterpiece… but it remains a commercial failure.” But the life of photography books is very strange and, over time, they may not improve like wine, but often increase in price – even significantly. The remaining copies of “Jens F” can today be found for sale on the publisher’s website at a thousand pounds each.


But MACK’s policy is not restricted to limited edition art books, even though there are signed Special Editions with numbered photographic prints; the ambition is to reach the general public. “Many publishers in our world today speak to a small fraternity of insiders. We, on the other hand, do produce artists’ books, but we try to do large print runs, keeping prices low and reprinting successful books, because we believe in the democracy of the publishing process.” For Mack, the photography publisher’s job is like that of any other publisher: to offer a platform that facilitates the dissemination of ideas. “We select, package, produce, promote the authors we like and try to get them out there as much as possible.” The point is that it’s not complicated to produce a book that looks good, Mack explains, “the hard thing is to find the form that best fits the content and to be able to circulate the work around the world.”
It may be the sense of challenge, but when selecting projects to produce, the publisher always tries to start from the idea. “I’m not really attracted to the famous name that hides behind its fame. The work that gives you the most stimulation is that with young people who have a fresher approach, and more direct involvement with today’s world.” His implicit reference is to the MACK First Book Award, which grants an artist the publication of their first book. “Then of course, I’ve also produced books by fishing in the archives of great photographers. Also because I end up breaking all the rules that I try to impose upon myself.” Another rule is that the design – the type of printing, the paper, the type of binding – should not overpower the artist’s work. For Mack, everything must be at the service of the idea. “I still see too many photography books that are solipsistic exercises in style. A successful book is an object that the reader holds and feels as something that was made for them. The challenge is to establish a dialogue with the audience. We try to offer content that anticipates people’s needs. In front of a great book, my consciousness meets the explosion of the author’s art. Something new is produced in my body and mind. It becomes an experience.” The success of these types of books, he explains, “is probably due to the fact that they ask you to do the opposite of what you do when you hold a mobile phone.”


The subject of print is important to Mack. “One of the characteristics of the photographic medium is its malleability. It lends itself to countless uses. But I am convinced that the book allows the artist to achieve the ideal presentation of their work. For me – but there are many others who also think so, especially among photographers – the book coincides with the work of art, more so than an exhibition.” Some books simply reproduce a series of photographs. And there would be nothing wrong with that. But the work of art is something else. This becomes clear when we ask Mack what he thinks of texts that accompany books of this genre. “There was a period in the 1980s and 1990s that I call the ‘Sontag-Berger era,’ when every photographer wanted at all costs to have text written by Susan Sontag or John Berger. They are two brilliant writers, but when they worked for photography books they wrote mediocre things.” Unless it’s for an exhibition catalogue, or in other special cases, Mack says that he flatly rejects such texts. “It’s like declaring that the work needs authentication through the name of a great writer, critic or curator telling you how the images should be read. As if they weren’t already able to speak for themselves.” From time to time he also tries to commission texts, asking authors to write about topics tangential to the content of the book, in an attempt to create connections. “I’m embarrassed to say this, but almost half of the texts I’ve commissioned, even from great writers, have turned out to be disappointments. Maybe it’s just me not being able to explain myself, but I can see that the temptation to describe the content of the photographs is too great.”
What about the future? What’s whirls around inside Michael Mack’s head? “Last year, in addition to starting to publish short essays, I began contacting many writers, particularly poets, and musicians. I would like to broaden the field in an attempt to make connections between the various artistic fields. Our field is in danger of becoming a bit of a ghetto; I’d like it to open up and create more exchange. This also means widening our public and being able to introduce authors like Ghirri and Guidi to a wider audience. After all, I’ve always conceived of myself as a publisher of art books, not necessarily only of photography.”

Il Foglio, 10th April 2021

Gregory Halpern – An Interview

by Luca Fiore

Gregory Halpern is one of the new things of American photography. New because he is young (born in Buffalo, NY, in 1977), and new because his images and his books seem to have an extra gear: an energy, vitality and capacity of touching on life’s biggest questions which are hard to find among his peers. He publishes for leading photography publisher, Mack; he was the recipient of the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship in 2014; in 2016, his penultimate book, ZZYZX, won the award for publication of the year at the Paris Photo-Aperture Photobook Award. From next year, he will be a Nominee Member of Magnum Photo. A few weeks ago, his new work Omaha Sketchbook came out, presented at Paris Photo in early November. It is here, at Europe’s most important photography fair, that we met him. Sitting on the steps of the Grand Palais, amid a coming and going of photographers, collectors and fans, he answers questions posed by those wishing to understand the secret of his images. “Like all my books, Omaha Sketchbook has a central through-line alongside which there are many other concepts. But the book was born with the idea of the average American Midwest male. It is a project that began during George W. Bush’s presidency, and ended in that of Donald Trump. In the meantime, I have moved, had two daughters, and begun to reflect on the idea of masculinity, gender identity, and the stereotypes of the American male, still closely linked to the image of the cowboy. Then, around this group of images, which the book is anchored in, I tried to transmit the sensation one can experience by being in a particular place. Light, landscape, animals, trees. It is in the midst of this flurry of sensations that the images of men return”.

The book looks like an anastatic copy of a sketchbook, where the photographer has posted the contact sheets of the photographs, in 6x7cm format, taken in the Nebraskan cities the author lived in for several months. The small photographs (they are each only 6×7 centimeters) are grouped into short sequences. On each page, there is one, or, at most, two photographs. The color of the paper changes, accompanying the different tones of the photographs: beige, green, red, pink. A trick which stops one yearning for the full-page photograph.

“The theme of masculinity is linked to something personal. In America, and I think in Italy too, though maybe in a different form, vulnerability and weakness are considered negative traits in men, a problem. We educate our young men to be hard, teach them not to show insecurity. I was interested in examining this hardness, to see where it fails. I think that awareness of one’s own weakness enables connections to be created between people. So I looked for the cracks in this hardness”.

Gregory Halpern
Gregory Halpern (photo Luca Fiore)

He indicates the portrait of a young prisoner in an orange jumpsuit, crouched beside the bed in his cell. He has a tattoo on his arm and another on his neck. “He is a prisoner, and may have done something very violent. But he is a kid. He wears his hair back a bit like James Dean. He is a hardman, but here he has a vulnerable expression. This is a bit of a contradiction”. Then he shows me three images of a man with a beard and a wide-brimmed hat, first with a rifle in his hands, then displaying his long hair which reaches his backside. “He’s the same: he has a gun in his hands, he is a hunter, but from behind, he looks like a woman”. Then he pauses over the portrait of an African-American football player: “American football players are men used to physical impact. But look: he seems very vulnerable. He looks like he needs a hug”.

Vulnerability, Halpern explains, is a form of force: “When we are too certain, our errors can lead to wars. We feel threatened by what is different from us, and we feel the need to respond in the same way. Like the US’ reaction to 9/11: Bush was itching to react; today, the entire world is paying the price of that haste. But I think that this totally masculine need of needing to appear tough is the origin of many other problems”.

Yet the book, by Halpern’s own admission, speaks about other themes as well. Though it is difficult to say exactly what. Yes, there is hunting, sport, automobiles, wrestling. But what is that ladder leaning against a fir tree doing there? Where does that lead? And what about those three photos of the same barn, in which the grass of the lawn in front of it appears in three different tones of green? Do they speak of the passing of time? And what about that snake moving menacingly?

Yet it is also a question of style and direction of research. Halpern appears to be completely immersed in the American documentary photography tradition, yet, at the same time, seems to distance himself from it. “It is not easy to explain what is different about my photography compared to the great masters I look up to, Walker Evans and Robert Franck above all. Maybe it’s that I wish to explore situations in which fiction and documentary can co-exist. I don’t know what to call it; maybe “’magical realism’”.

In the summer of 2017 he spent a month between North and South Carolina, during which time there was a total solar eclipse. Explaining that project, Halpern said: “I was fascinated by the idea that the entire nation was looking at the sun, enjoying the apocalyptic excitement of seeing the moon temporarily extinguish our source of life, all of us together”. Those images were published in 2018 in a book titled Confederate Moon. “The eclipse is a phenomenon often studied by photography lovers who, usually, take pretty basic photos. I tried to consider not only what people were seeing in the sky, but also what was happening behind them. I finished the project in little over a month, and I was interested to see what would happen if I put together a series of such contradictory photos. Ultimately, we photographers say that we document reality, but all we do is freeze whatever enters our frame. If you think about it, that is a fiction. So, I tried to include what may not usually be in the frame”.

Made with images taken over a five-year period in Southern California, ZZYXZ (this is not a typo, the title is the name of a village between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, on the border of the Mojave) presents not only landscapes and still lifes, but also portraits of people encountered on the road, and images posed by actors: “it is a mix of documentary and science-fiction”. The book was initially going to be entitled Babylon or Kingdom. It attempts to be, the photographer explains, a journey into a post-apocalyptic future, and, simultaneously, into a biblical past. It opens with the photo of an arm stretched out towards the sky: the hand is open and there are seven stars tattooed on the palm. It is a present-day image of the Apocalypse of St. John: “In his right hand, he held seven stars, a sharp double-edged sword came out of his mouth, and his face resembled the sun shining in all its glory”. Halpern does not consider himself religious; he read the Bible as a work of literature. He explains: “It is a text which I loved. It is such a strange form of story: crazy, apocalyptic, sci-fi. It is strange that this type of narrative, so modern, should be the source of such conservative values. For me, religious art is surprising. I don’t know much about it, but when I went to Italy, I understood that I was more interested in it than in contemporary art. It contains both magic and horror. It is dark. But the beauty of the sun is very important: it points towards heaven. I like the light of magical things, shining in the darkness. Literally and metaphorically”.

Thinking that an image can truly become a metaphor, and speak of the biggest things in life, requires belief in the language of photography. “Yes, life and death. Hope and desperation. And light serves to trigger a certain type of feeling. The light of the sun…it sounds a bit stupid to say it like this, but it is so beautiful…it is so simple, but it is what keeps me going. Seeing the sun balancing in the lens is something magical. I am not religious, but that is the closest thing I can think of to spiritual feeling”.

Before sending ZZYXZ to print, Halpern sent a draft to Robert Adams, one of the fathers of American photography, author of the essential Beauty in Photography: Essays in Defense of Traditional Values. In response, Adams wrote: “Beauty, and its implied promise, are the metaphor which gives art its value. It helps us to rediscover some of our best intuitions, those which encourage us to care”. For Adams, Halpern explains, the search for beauty is not a pursuit of the past. “In the American art schools, its considered something for losers. Adams hates people like Jeff Koons, who bases everything on irony and on business. In that type of art, there is no hope. For him, finding beauty in the world is a form of home and spirituality”. What about for Halpern, a forty-year old liberal? Does beauty still have a value? “Nowadays, it is so easy to have no hope. Ugliness is everywhere. We all know how evil the world, and people, can be. Finding beauty is important. But Adams says that we have to do it without lying. Because some photos of a sunset or a flower lie, and don’t say much”. The next project in the pipeline is a book on Buffalo, his birthplace. It is a project that has been ongoing now for twenty years. It is a difficult piece, because speaking of places where one grew up is to speak of oneself. There is a real risk of working on it for one’s whole life.

“But I decided that I want to finish it. I’ll give myself another year, then I want to publish it in 2021”. It is a project he has been speaking about for a long time. As early as 2010, in a conference in New York, he was dropping hints about the project. Describing it, he said he wished to show the extent to which ruin is “inextricably linked to grace”. Much time has now passed, and today, he says, he cannot recall what he meant on that occasion. It is another theme linked to hope? Why, despite ruin, can there still be hope? “Because if we don’t think like this, all that is left is desperation. I don’t know, maybe that’s the reason for getting up in the morning and carrying on. We all need a reason to start our day. Many feel they are on a precipice, overlooking a disaster. But we must keep believing, even if hope is so fragile. We need it, otherwise we are just animals. Maybe what distinguishes us from animals is the faith that there might be, I don’t know, something greater out there”.

Omaha Sketchbook
Gregory Halpern Omaha Sketchbook
Gregory Halpern Omaha Sketchbook
Gregory Halpern Omaha Sketchbook
gregory halpern ZZYZX
gregory halpern ZZYZX
gregory halpern ZZYZX
gregory halpern ZZYZX
gregory halpern conderate moon
gregory halpern conderate moon

“Family car trouble,” by Gus Powell

family car trouble gus powell

by Luca Fiore

Family Car Trouble, Gus Powell’s latest book, is a photographic novel. It is about family photos taken in the months leading up to the death of his father, Peter, in 2015. At the same time the photographer sees his daughters, Townes and Maude, as they grow up, play and learn about the world. Peter is portrayed in bed or sitting in an armchair, with the signs of a throat operation that made him dumb. The two little ones run around the house, having fun in the snow or walking in the woods. Then the family’s events intertwine with that of Jimmy, the nickname of the 1993 Volto 940 Turbo station wagon that goes in and out of the workshops for never-resolving interventions.

family car trouble gus powell

The girls sleep with their heads resting on the door, dance standing on the roof, play with a pinwheel moved by the wind coming in through the window. Peter turns off little by little, with dignity. From the pillow he seems to be looking up at the ceiling. Then, as you turn the page, his eyes seem to point to the image besides, where Townes and Maude move carefree in the living room. The light innocence of the granddaughters softens the gravity of their grandfather’s slow decline, while the red lights on the dashboard of the Volvo light up like a Christmas tree. At Lucky’s Automotive, the local garage, they do what they can with Jimmy, who has once again arrived with a tow truck.

It’s hard to linger on the funeral portrait of Peter, whose lifeless face is illuminated by the red light in the funeral parlor. Then we see the colours of a sunset from the rain-soaked windshield. Then, still through the glass, a green light. And again a road through the woods. The book closes with Powell from the driver’s seat portraying his daughters sitting on the hood looking out to sea. At a certain point the older one opens her arms and leans forward, as if she wants to embrace the world.

Powell (New York, 1973) made a name for himself in the Street Photography community in the 2010’s, participating in the In-Public collective (which included Joel Meyerowitz and Richard Kalvar, among others). His first images (collected in “The Company of Strangers”, 2003) he called them “Lunch Pictures”: he shot during his lunch break while working as photo editor for the New Yorker. Shots that fit perfectly into the genre that, par excellence, focuses on the “decisive moment”. Over the years, however, his approach to street photography has changed, becoming less narrative and more poetic, as evidenced by “The Lonely Ones”, his 2015 book.

With “Family Car Trouble” (TBW Books) Powell seems to go one step further, taking the narrative vocation out of the single image. If in Street Photography the single shot is a story in itself, here it ends up poured into the sequence of moments that take on strength as a whole. Editing, like editing in cinema, generates the story and enhances the single image by linking it to the previous and the next one.
It cannot be said that it is a photographic diary: Powell does not show his daily life. Or, at least, he doesn’t show it all: rather, he uses elements of his biography as narrative lines for an interweaving of symbolic themes (death, childhood, the unexpected). This allows the story to present itself, at the same time, as personal and universal. And Powell succeeds, inventing the image of the car that loses its shots, in a rare feat for a photographer: he knows how not to take himself too seriously.
A book, as Alec Soth described it as the best photographic volume published in 2019, “as humble, robust and adorable as his 1993 Volvo”.

Il Foglio, 6th May 2020

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family car trouble gus powell
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family car trouble gus powell
family car trouble gus powell
family car trouble gus powell

“Pleasant Street,” by Judith Black

judith black pleasant street

by Luca Fiore

Pleasures and Terrors of Domestic Comfort was the title of the exhibition with which, in 1991, Peter Galassi inaugurated the direction of the photography department of MoMA in New York. He had a heavy legacy on his shoulders: that of John Szarkowski, the most influential critic and curator of the 20th century.

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In contemporary photography, at least until the mid-seventies, the story of public life visible along the streets had prevailed. Galassi explained that in “The Family of Men”, the historic exhibition of 1955, which Edward Steichen had always curated for Moma, few images were taken inside the houses. Over the years, however, attention had increasingly focused on the story of domestic life, where “pleasures and terrors” intertwine, often remaining invisible to classic street and documentary photography.
That exhibition, in addition to confirming some great names such as Lee Friedlander, William Eggleston or Joel Sternfeld, consecrated authors such as Philip-Lorca diCorcia, Nan Goldin and Cindy Sherman. Other photographers, especially women, have struggled to stay in the spotlight. Over time, however, thanks also to the publication of quality books, artists such as Sage Sohier, Sheron Rupp, Jo Ann Walters and Mary Frey have returned to being talked about, confirming Galassi’s intuition. The last in chronological order is Judith Black who, thirty years after the MoMA exhibition and 71 years old, publishes her first monograph: “Pleasant Street” (Stanley / Barker, 2020).
Black, in the short introduction page, tells the story of the book: in 1979, a single mother of four, she moved to Cambridge (Massachusetts) to enroll in the MIT photography master, founded and directed until recently by Minor White. She quickly realizes that she could not have traveled or spent much time on the street taking pictures. Her commitments as an assistant at MIT, the courses to follow, and the housework to attend to prevented her. She writes: “Our apartment was dark, but it became my studio. Sometimes the morning light was inviting. There were occasions that asked for a photo, such as a birthday, a graduation, a holiday. Sometimes we ventured to the outdoor steps when the weather got hot. The photos have become my diary, labeled with dates, places and memories.”
Pleasant Street is the name of the street overlooked by the house rented by the photographer, in which Rob also lives, who becomes the stepfather of Laura, Johanna, Erik and Dylan. The book opens with a self-portrait taken ten years earlier, in 1968, in which Black shows herself naked, pregnant with her first-born Laura. The story, if you can call it that, proceeds above all with individual and group portraits from 1979 to 2000.
Johanna in pajamas. Dylan disheveled. Erik sulking. Laura with long hair. Laura with short hair. All blond with mom’s blue eyes. Rob has a seventies mustache, even in the eighties and nineties. Judith notes that the photo of the four children sitting on the steps of the house was taken on July 9, 1982, before leaving for the holidays. On May 29, 1984 Dylan showed Laura’s haircut. On November 6, 1988 Erik is almost 18 years old. Children grow up. Parents grow old. The last shot, which gives the book a moving circular sense, shows Laura, on May 14, 2000: she has her son Malcom in her arms and is pregnant with Cadie.

Black is not so interested in telling family life in terms of “pleasures and terrors” that are consumed within the walls of the house. Yet from the faces of her loved ones both shine through. The innocence of childhood, the restlessness of adolescence, tensions, melancholy. It is, on the one hand, a common family album where we see the passage of time change the features of the faces and the shapes of the bodies. On the other hand, the sequence has the systematic nature of the documentation projects, as well as the technical skill of the professional photographer. Add to this the grace and feminine balance, which here is also a maternal gaze, which knows how to be patient, when you need to be patient, and severe, when you need severity. Speaking of these photos, when not all of them had been taken yet, Peter Galassi wrote: “Seen together they seem to say that true tenderness begins when sentimentalism ends.”

Ilfoglio.it, 3th May 2020

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“Lunario,” by Guido Guidi

by Luca Fiore

Recently, the frequency of publications (two a year) which Guido Guidi has accustomed us to, along with his publisher Michael Mack, might seem a little excessive. In the space of ten years, the photographer from Cesena has emerged from the shadows and become considered, for all intents and purposes, a master on the international stage. This is certainly, in part, thanks to the platform granted him by his English publisher. In 2018, his Per Strada was ranked in the list of the best ten books of the year by the New York Times. In 2019, it was the turn of In Sardegna, with the great exhibition at the Man in Nuoro, and of In Veneto. In the meantime, the Californian publisher Tbw Books has included Fuori Casa in its prestigious annual series, which includes stars of the photography world such as Gregory Halpern, Jason Fulford and Viviane Sassen. Such volumes collated works that Guidi created within the last fifty years, and which today are emerging from his drawers in more complete form; or even, in some cases, as unpublished series. The more time passes, the more his work is appearing in all its generous vastness and depth.

2020 has begun with Lunario, a collection of images shot between 1968 and 1999, which asserts, perhaps definitively, the impossibility of classifying Guidi as a ‘genre’ photographer, linked solely to architecture or landscape.

Guido Guidi Lunario

The book moves in numerous directions. On the one hand, the moon is shown as a mysterious element of the landscape which marks the passing of time, like a clock. On the other, we see everyday objects, themselves presented as lunar metaphors: a pruning knife hanging on the wall; the projection of a semi-circular light source on a wall; a ball which Anna, his daughter, throws repeatedly against the wall. Then there are the images created through experimentation with the photographic medium; the 1967 triple portrait of Mariangela Gualtieri, whose face initially appears only lit from the left, then from behind, and then only from the right. Or the landscapes of the Po delta shot with a fish-eye lens, which, with their circular contours, appear as solitary moons comprised of land and sky.

Yet the hidden gem of this book is its final series, shot during the solar eclipse of August 11, 1999. Guidi captures his wife as she observes the darkening of the sun with 8”x10” photographic film. As he turns, he notices on the wall of his Ronta home (the same against which, in the 80s, Anna bounced her moon-ball) a phenomenon never seen before. For a moment, he is confused. It is the phenomenon Aristotle once questioned in his Book of Problems: “Why is it that during eclipses of the sun, if one views them through a sieve or a leaf – for example, that of a plane-tree or any other broad-leaved tree – or through the two hands with the fingers interlaced, the rays are crescent-shaped in the direction of the earth?”. This is what is happening on the plaster in front of Guidi: on the wall, the shadow is no longer leaf-shaped, but takes the sickle shape of the eclipse. Guido Guidi turns his tripod around and begins to shoot. Five black and white photos. Then four in colour. The sequence captures the appearance and disappearance of Aristotle’s phenomenon. It is one of the moments in which Guidi considers himself “measurer” of time and space. “I was not so interested in the atmosphere”, he explains in the interview with Antonello Frongia which concludes the book, “as with the physical-optical fact of the crescent moon”.

Yet, looking at that plot of light and shadow animated mysteriously on the wall at Ronta, it is difficult not to think of the sky, the solar system, the universe, and the immensity our small eyes find themselves in. An immensity of which we cannot help but ask ourselves the meaning. These are topics which, in a more or less explicit manner, emerge in the interview with Frongia. It is a text which presents the scope of the cultural horizon Guidi is capable of, and has the power of a lectio magistralis.

Il Foglio, 22th January 2020

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“01:20,” by Bastiaan van Aarle

Bastiaan Van Arle 1:20

by Luca Fiore

Ólafsfjörður is a fishing village in northern Iceland, at the mouth of the Eyjafjörður fjord. It is home to 800 souls. In summer, in this region, the sun does not set: it approaches the horizon, but never disappears fully. This phenomenon reaches its peak on July 1; then, gradually, darkness reconquers the night. In summer 2017, the Belgian photographer Bastiaan van Aarle – class of 1988 – went to Ólafsfjörður and took 31 photos; one of each day in July, all taken at the same time: 01.20 at night, the least lit moment of the day. With these images, he composed his first book, published a few weeks ago by the German publisher Hatje Cantz, entitled “01:20”. The minimalist but elegant design, with a paperback cover, befits the profile of the newcomer van Aarle, who required an online crowdfunding campaign to help cover publication costs. The book’s subjects include typical Icelandic houses with corrugated sheet roofs, a church by the port, the village’s shops, a gas station, a fish processing factory, a swimming pool and a school. Next to the homes are parked cars; all around are mountains with the last snow of the season, and rivers running through the valleys. The streetlights, needlessly lit, are the only hint of the nocturnal hour. There is not a single soul on the streets. At that time, even in Iceland, the world is asleep. Everything seems to resound with a complete silence, perhaps broken only by the wind.

Bastiaan Van Arle 1:20

Leafing through the book, one sees days pass, and the sky darkening continuously: it is as if we are complicit in a sunset which, in reality, never happened. In the first photos, one perceives an unreal atmosphere; yet this is fruit of the mind’s short-circuiting, informed in advance as we are of the time of shooting. As light progressively leaves the images, page after page, so too does the village itself, with the collection closing with shots of almost night-time countryside.

This collection calls to mind the series of photographs of white nights shot by Joel Meyerowitz in Saint Petersburg at the start of the 90s. Images which cannot help but recall us to Dostoevsky: “It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and capricious people could live under such a sky”. The American photographer lingered upon the decadent beauty of the mansions along the Neva river, the classical columns, the reddening clouds, the reflections of monuments in the fountains. The white night was a place of dreams. Unlike the story Van Aarle is telling in Ólafsfjörður.

The melancholy of the Icelandic nights appears more bitter. Symbols of daily life – the simple geometry of the houses, the small and austere Nordic settlements, the odd crumbling wall, rust attacking the sheets of metal on the roofs – this all suggests a shadow of solitude. Any road, seen at night and void of any human presence, offers a similar impression. Yet here, the light gives a definitive note to this sense of abandon.

In a passage in the volume, the Belgian poet Bob Vanden Broeck writes: “The power of this artist lies in uniting two contrasting elements in a single photograph: beauty and sadness. This is poetry, and is what makes Ólafsfjörður a fascinating place. Here, in a single day, one can weep both from seeing a stunning landscape, and for a future void of hope, resting here like a rusty shed”.

Yet this book also offers something else. A white night – the surprise of light which, by all accounts, should not be there. Where we expect darkness, light fights back. Each of us can contemplate our own darkness and shadows. Those which we might prefer to keep hidden. It is a small yet great lesson. To learn it, someone needed to take the trouble of travelling to Ólafsfjörður. To take 31 photographs.

Il Foglio, 5th November 2019

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Bastiaan Van Arle 1:20
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“Rooted,” by Henk Wildschut

Rooted Henk Wildschut

By Luca Fiore

The Dutch photographer Henk Wildschut, 52, has been photographing refugee camps for 15 years. His latest book is the final instalment in what he defines an “unintentional trilogy.” He began in 2005 by depicting the makeshift living conditions of those who had fled their home countries (“Shelter,” 2010). He then focused on the history and social dynamics of the settlement that has emerged on the coast of the English Channel, baptized The Jungle (“Ville de Calais, 2017–awarded the Arles Prix du Livre). “Rooted,” published a few weeks ago and–like the other works–produced by Wildschut himself, depicts plants sown and cared for by refugees next to tents and makeshift homes in France, Tunisia, Jordan and Lebanon.

rooted henk wildschut

In plastic bottles, tin jars, makeshift containers, or flower beds protected by improvised fences, spaces are made for small plants, colourful flowers, bunches of spices, and entire allotments. The book opens with a quote from a young Syrian boy: “When I see green, I remember home.” It continues by alternating between colour photos and something approximating the pages of a diary, kept by the Dutch photographer in order not to forget the circumstances he found, the conversations he overheard, and the changes witnessed in these strange dwellings over the course of time.

The photographs depict only the plants themselves, never the people who planted them. Great attention is paid to this, adding a particular potency to the images; as if to show, if ever it were needed, that the humanist photographer is not necessarily he or she who always includes humans as subjects–a woman in tears, or a child with a dirty face. Here, in its simplicity, the photographic language is more sophisticated. It moves the viewer, but does so in an honest manner, appealing to various stages of thought. Thus, a deeper, more visceral reaction is solicited; but one that is more stable and less prone to manipulation.

This is the power of true documentary photography, shot in large format with a tripod, which requires different shutter speeds–and speeds of thought–to those necessitated by the snapshot. At first glance, as in “Rooted,” one feels faced with mute images. The framing is rather ordinary; the colours and tones are flat; there is no momentarily arrested action. The photographer’s hand is here at work to remove any artifice; yet artifice is nevertheless there. Every effort is made to render, on the film, the scene as it is. What is sought is a naturalism which, far from scientific, suggests that the world, in the way it presents itself, speaks to the viewer already.

In “Rooted,” an ancestral gesture is portrayed; human beings themselves sown into the earth. It is a metaphor not only of the historical plight of these individuals uprooted by the storm of destiny–often families and entire villages–but of mankind as a whole. It foregrounds the need for stability that was already felt at the beginning of modern civilization, by the first nomads who settled as farmers. A shift from nomadic to sedentary which set the preconditions for the development of civilization. It is a metaphor of roots, of the earth itself that is both mother and father; the homeland. Yet the images of roots in these photographs are contrasted with what resides beyond the frame: the refugee, the fugitive. These are themes which even we, despite our modern comfort in peaceful Western democracies, can empathise with. Some years ago, Father Mauro Lepori, General Abbot of the Cistercian order, said: “This miserable humanity arrives with the tide to show us our own situation, as if in a mirror. Refugees, ultimately, reveal to us the very lack of stability that does not allow us to offer them a home.”

Il Foglio, 5th September 2019

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“Driftless,” by Jason Vaughn and Brad Zellar

Drifless Jason Vaughn

by Luca Fiore

The opening of Driftless, a photobook created by Jason Vaughn with the journalist and writer Brad Zellar, seems lifted from a Raymond Carver novel. Zellar tells us “I once set my GPS to take me to a trout stream that bubbled up out of a series of springs back in one of the valleys. Instead it led me up to a flat, treeless plateau, where the road dead-ended at the trailer of an old man who told me his family had been up there for 75 years. I told him I was looking for the stream, and he said he had a handful of confused people end up at his trailer every year. ‘Even the fancy machines get mixed up when they get off the State highway and onto these gravel roads’, he said.” The man then led the disappointed fisherman to the fence line at the edge of his property. Zellar continues, “the land suddenly plunged several hundred feet down into a hidden and heavily-forested valley. ‘It’s down there’, he said, ‘but there are easier ways to get to it’. Back at my car, after he gave me a complicated series of directions to get down to the stream, he said, ‘Ain’t nobody know where I am but people who don’t know where the hell they are’.”

“Driftless,” by Jason Vaughn and Brad Zellar

The book, published by the independent American publishers TBW Books, includes images shot by Vaughn in a very peculiar period of his life. Having just overcome the nightmare of cancer, and awaiting the birth of his second child, the photographer rented an apartment next to the Mississippi river, going on to live there for a year. The location is called the “Driftless area,” a region in south west Wisconsin, seemingly preserved from the last ice age, and characterized by particularly rugged terrain, void of any residue from glacial retreat (in English, “drift”). The verb “to drift”, however, can also mean “to wander”. The photographs taken during daily walks in this small area of the Midwest attempt to capture “the process by which people wander in a space, sometimes deciding to stop, perhaps forever, sometimes disengaging and moving elsewhere.”

Black and white colours are alternated in a poetic and unrhetorical style, itself contrasted with Zellar’s non-didactic captions. A nest amid branches. Different types of reflection on the surface of a stream, webs of branches, a hydrangea bush at different times of the year. A child walking. An adult walking. An old man walking. A waterfall of ice. Flocks of black birds. Photographs that, very slowly–requiring patience–become metaphors, and improvised thoughts. They open and close like the action of an accordion, alternating epiphany with riddle.

Next to an image of a section of frozen lake, its rippled surface illuminated by a ray of light, Zellar writes: “Some people would just as soon leave the jigsaw puzzle pieces scattered on the table.” Next to a night shot of some branches lit by the camera’s flash: “The voice of one more exhausted foreigner: ‘There are so many reasons’.” Or elsewhere: “Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt. Oh, the cold stone panic of never…”

The last photograph is of a sheet of ice floating on water, a large stone on top of it, seemingly suspended on the surface of the water. On the page to the left of the image is the quote: “We are alive. We are burning. We are libraries one fire.” Under the photo, meanwhile, the Italian of a music score: “Con fuoco. Con brio. Deciso.”

The book concludes with three quotations; one from the American poet Robert Hass, one from Samuel Beckett and one from Sophie Scholl, the German dissident murdered by the Nazis in 1943, aged 22. This last quotation reads: “A little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does.”

Il Foglio, 18th July 2019

“Driftless,” by Jason Vaughn and Brad Zellar
“Driftless,” by Jason Vaughn and Brad Zellar
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“Driftless,” by Jason Vaughn and Brad Zellar
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“Driftless,” by Jason Vaughn and Brad Zellar

“Slant,” by Aaron Schuman

Slant Aaron Schuman

By Luca Fiore

Amherst is a New England city with a population of 38,000, in the state of Massachusetts. It is the birthplace of Aaron Schuman, photographer, writer, curator; a man with a CV befitting his 42 years. The city is known above all for being the home of Emily Dickinson. Schuman now lives in Bristol, England, and every now and then returns to visit his parents. It was during one of these visits that he developed an interest in reading police reports from the local “Amherst Bulletin”. “CITIZEN ASSISTANCE: 4.14am–A man shovelling snow on State Street told police he saw a strange orange glow coming from the eastern sky that might have been something on fire. Police determined the glow was probably the sun coming up for the day. Or: “SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY: 5.53pm–A woman called police after being approached by a photographer in downtown who asked if he could take pictures of her feet. The photographer was not located”. And so on: “NOISE COMPLAINTS: 7.19pm–Residents at The Boulders reported a loud argument between a man and a woman and banging on the walls that caused a painting in their apartment to fall to the floor. Police determined that the neighbours were engaged in what was described as “overzealous copulation”, and were not arguing”.

Slant Aaron Schuman

Schuman was, at first, struck by the comic quality of these short snippets, and decided to collect more Police reports. However, the more he read, the more he became fascinated by the contrast between the bureaucratic style of the reporting, and the mundanity and irrelevance of the events described. The clippings began to evoke images in the style of Walker Evans, Lee Friedlander or Diane Arbus: “ANIMAL COMPLAINTS: 6.30pm–Police took a report that four dogs were sitting on top of a vehicle parked on Pray Street. Police were unable to find the dogs or the vehicle”. Two years later, Schuman returned to Amherst with his Yamiya Rz67, but left his clippings in Bristol, on purpose; he did not want his images to be solely their faithful visual projections.

The book generated by this work (Slant, Mack, €35), collates 46 photographs and 50 clippings, and opens with an Emily Dickinson poem which says: “Tell all the Truth/but tell it slant”. For Dickinson, “slant”–also the title of Schuman’s book–is the term for half rhymes which lack a perfect coherency between sounds, and toy with assonance or consonance. In English prosody, the term is generally considered to offer an effect of disharmony. Similarly, Schuman’s images of Amherst become a black-and-white poetic account of a city afeared, where neat whitewashed villas harbour an underlying tension–of which the police reports are but one manifestation.

A barn on which someone has scribbled “In Border Patrol we trust”; a child’s slide erected on the roof of a house overlooking a street; dark skid marks on an asphalt road in the middle of a wood; a giant spider’s web among trees illuminated by sunlight. These are all oblique references to the text of the police reports, and the relationships between the images offer an outlook which is, by turns, ironic, concerned, sarcastic or empathetic. Why is that child dressed as a policeman? What are we to make of two gravestones in a cemetery, one engraved with “Helen” and the other with “Helen’s Mother”? The book concludes with a police report about people sleeping in their cars, pretending to look at the stars, and with a photograph of a “drive-in” sign surrounded by stars. The very final image looks like a starry sky, but cannot be; perhaps, it shows the last remnants of light from a firework.

Il Foglio, 7th June 2019

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