Review: Murray Ballard, The Prospect of Immortality.

The unmistakable and unavoidable aspect of survival is the understanding that our time, and body is limited and should ultimately end. The notion of death is something that quite rightly produces a natural fear, which has actively kept the current species of the world alive. To be alive is to understand the concept of death - it is understandable therefore that many people live a large portion of their life in fear. 

The concept of ultimate survival is a seductive one; it is that primordial, unquestionable success of both species and individual – so, as technologies become more advanced, and natural lifespans are at their peak, it seems to make sense that people are inclined to go about extending their time here. 

In 1962 a man named Robert Ettinger published a book on a subject that would become ingrained in the lore of modern fiction and in the pursuits of contemporary science: cryogenics. This book would later be translated into nine languages and in several editions.  The work of Ettinger has been reduced by some to simple romanticism, and whilst it would be hard to describe the ideology of cryogenics as anything unromantic, it cannot be said that the theories and experiments put forward are unimportant - be that in terms of science, theology or ethical debate.

Today, one is more likely to be talking about cryogenics in works of fiction or thought experiments as available technology lags behind somewhat from the technological utopia cryogenics heralds.. However, as with all revolutionary thinking, there is somebody, somewhere experimenting with the foreign concept and pushing theories into popular systems of thought. These are the people that UK photographer, Murray Ballard has sought out and whose stories feature in Ballard’s first book published in 2016 with GOST: The Prospect of Immortality. Where Ettinger’s book of the same name introduces the significance of, the then unnamed, cryonics – Ballard’s serves as more of an unofficial history, the collective memoirs and journals of those involved.

Nine years and three countries in the making, The Prospect of Immortality is a sizeable yet tightly edited tome of more than 80 photographs that bears the weight of it’s content; the stories of love, desperation, faith, comfort and despair of very mortal humans attempting to covet the ownership of the very last possession any person has. Murray’s work does not glorify cryogenics, nor does it attempt to quash the experimental nature of the processes involved. Ballard remains respectful and inquisitive without forcing any particular views, instead acting more as an interested archivist and allowing the stories to be understood dependent on each individual viewing, making more of an object for discussion instead of the altogether more common religious or scientific propaganda.

Reflecting the title, The Prospect of Immortality, although relentless in its scope and understanding, is not necessarily about the endeavours of Robert Ettinger, or even cryonics in a wider sense. Ballard’s work successfully describes the very human way a group of dedicated people come to terms with the ever-present and universal fear we all have to face.

Originally written for Open Eye Gallery


Review: ‘Beyond the Battlefields’ at Grosvenor Gallery

A classically posed portrait of a young boy, smiling into the lens; he clutches an almost comically large white rabbit in his lap. This is the image chosen to advertise ‘Beyond the Battlefields’, an exhibition of images made by Käthe Buchler around the timeline of World War One.


At a glance, the image could very well be a school portrait or even a family snapshot, the careful preservation made by mothers and fathers dutifully carried out in an attempt to elongate the unknowing delight of youth. Upon closer inspection, the boy’s smile is made up of twisted teeth. A rabbit’s claw appears extended. Accompanying wall text placed at intervals throughout the show introduce the boy as ‘Collecting King Willy von Hinten, the most diligent collector of 1915’. The title was most likely given by Buchler. The rabbit, however, was in fact awarded by local German authorities in exchange for his metal scavenging abilities. The text presents an altogether more harrowing image of food, labour and material shortages – Willy’s portrait was taken only a year before the ‘Turnip Winter’; the young scavenger’s previously unclenched grip appears much closer.

Käthe Buchler’s depictions of German civilians in wartime are tender, composed, and do not appear entirely out of place next to her early autochromes of flower arrangements; these are images of stillness in a time of agitated uncertainty, where any degree of normality suddenly becomes poetic. Read in the context of a gallery, the photographs are heavily symbolic, common visual metaphors such white rabbits, collected shoes and oversized soldier’s uniforms repeat through frames. A group of children in costume as goats and sheep kneel as a large figure dressed as a wolf looms, pantomime-style, towards the edge of the frame. Buchler’s images dissolve the expected male-centric spiel covering the glory, and tragedy of war – the gallantry of Buchler’s narrative comes from the prevailing sense of humanity of the women and children left behind. Those who, malnourished and tired, continued raising families, took on gruelling jobs and maintained society as husbands and fathers were fighting a failing war. As much as rabbits, wolves and empty shoes become poetic emblems of innocence, hunger and violence, a strictly historic reading of the images still offers a touching reality of theatre performances and small trophies continuing to exist during an impoverished time – revealing perhaps a more tangible romance.

Insulated by her position as a partially deaf woman of considerable wealth and status in a very disciplined society, Buchler approaches the everyday civilian as something of an outsider, a woman who can command sitters to pose and has the obvious technical ability to capture a striking portrait. Despite this, Käthe Buchler was described as an amateur; a title weighted with negative connotations, of incapability and lack of professionalism, an assumption that Buchler was of no threat. It was this degree of translucency, which allowed her to carve out a creative agency, challenging the regimented and established hierarchy of the time and recognising others doing the same. While the expectation of men was to fight for their country, it was left to women to take up roles usually denied to them. Buchler began a series of portraits recognising women pushing the boundaries of stereotype entitled ‘Women in Men’s Jobs’. There are images of female conductresses standing side by side in sharp uniform, a ‘Carrier’ hunched double under the weight of her cargo, grinning. The various backdrops of ladders and ascending stairs in each photograph appear to be specifically chosen.

‘Beyond the Battlefields’ exists as an exhibition caught between document and sentiment, this sense of duality lies in the contrasting voices of historian, Melanie Tebbutt and visual artist, Jacqueline Butler. As co-curators of the show, Tebutt and Butler manage to balance two very different disciplines, neither does the show feel cold and factual nor does it belittle difficult subjects with whimsy: downfalls very much possible if approached from a singular angle. The accessibility of the show does not have to rely on an audience’s ability to read the nuances of symbolism, nor does the viewer have to have a wide knowledge of the First World War. ‘Beyond the Battlefields’, which runs until 2nd March at Manchester’s Grosvenor Gallery, exists as a point of dialogue that actively confronts usual gender and generational boundaries with an authoritative level of quiet all too often forgotten. The exhibition shows the faces of survivors and the impact small gestures and moments of ingenuity have in an otherwise desolate and unsure time.


Originally written for Open Eye Gallery.


In response to the I-1


© The Impossible Project

The last five years has heralded some truly innovative technology that has really pushed the boundaries of what consumers can come to expect from the visual market. 2016 is the year of 4k video being produced on a phone, mirrorless, full frame cameras that can compete with DSLRs and ridiculous quality 100-megapixel, medium format behemoths being the trend. Gone are the days when photography, or rather the photographer, is reliant on having the best kit. Brilliant digital cameras capable of producing professional results are available from amateur level price-tags on the high street. These ‘entry level’ DSLRs do not vary much between brands in terms of their rather impressive picture quality, especially when in their respective automatic modes to the point where to be entrusted with an old manual camera today would be simply too slow and inaccurate in unfamiliar hands. When digital cameras made their first appearance, the quality of the image, although revolutionary and exciting, was completely redundant in terms of what a film camera could produce. Since it’s conception, digital technology has had to prove itself within the existing market of camera users in order to stake its claim of superiority. In order to do so, modern cameras had to be able to surpass celluloid relatively and in their own field- this is why the top end DSLRs today are called ‘full-frame’. The term ‘full-frame’ relates to the physical size of the sensor plane able to record an image- that is: 36mm x 24mm, or, in other terms: the exact size of a 35mm film frame. The sensitivity of the instruments and of the algorithms used within DSLRs today can indeed rival and at times surpass 35mm film in terms of scientifically representing an environment. Teamed with highly intelligent auto modes and a seemingly endless amount of space to record multiple images – photography has never been easier or more consistently able to produce impressive results. The question, then, if digital photography is in its prime, is this: why is experimental, analogue, chemical-based photography becoming increasingly popular? 2016 will see both Kodak and Impossible bring out new cameras to herald the “analogue renaissance”, the first of which being released only last month: Impossible’s I-1. This camera will feel familiar and nostalgic, as would anything using such an iconic and recognizable format known as a Polaroid. At its core, the I-1 is a Polaroid camera and can be used as such. Essentially, this is a point and shoot camera that produces chemically volatile images that are at the very edge of the spectrum of visual reliability. The creation of this camera in 2016 is interesting enough but what comes in the box is only half of the creature. Whilst the I-1 appears to belong in the 20th century, the second half of the I-1 exists in app form (iOS) and very much belongs to the smartphone generation. The app connects the camera to an iPhone and completely transforms the ‘Polaroid’ into the real I-1. The original automatic point and shoot is left behind as you are handed the controls to the first ever fully manual digital instant camera. The app allows the use of manual shutterspeed, aperture and double exposure, to but name a few.

© The Impossible Project

The I-1’s manual mode opens up a whole range of creative options akin to what one would expect from a more traditional camera body- Impossible have given the user and the machine the ability to attempt consistency but also the film stock to completely destroy that illusion. By no means should the I-1’s audience be able to know exactly what is going to spit out of the camera’s belly. Impossible, like Polaroid before them do not create precision tools- they make a photographic toy box. What is produced from the I-1 and its 8-frame film cartridge should be unexpected and exciting. Still, the question of why technically inferior methods of making an image are causing such a stir has to be raised. The history of photography is a brief one that began in a kind of alchemy- it was a very unstable process that resulted in a skewed vision of our world on glass and paper. What made the images magical were that they did not represent the world at all but instead showed very human mistakes towards making a perfect rendering of the external scene. These same ‘mistakes’ are present within the painter’s brush strokes or the poet’s vocabulary; it is what characterizes authorship and also what is lacking from the algorithms used throughout most digital cameras produced today. The I-1 is by no means perfect- it simply shouldn’t be. The I-1 is a novel, experimental and refreshing break from the automatic nature of 21st century media.


Originally written for Open Eye Gallery. 02.06.16.

Images courtesy of Impossible’s website and Impossible’s Instagram.


Cyanotypes: Art and Science.

The British are well renowned for our obsession with the weather, being a small island whose climate is heavily influenced by the tropical Gulf Stream and the biting Atlantic that surrounds it. Being both British and a photographer, the colour blue is an intrinsically important aspect of my interests. Blue harkens the end of Winter as the skies gradually clear upon a usually grey England; a speck of blue on the horizon from the passenger seat of a car as the warmer sea reflects the unusually vivid Summer holiday sky is a memory that must be inherently part of the British psyche.

Another enthusiast of the shorter wavelength area of the spectrum, and an intrepid inventor, ‘Horace Bénédict do Saussure’ is known for his ingenious temperature measuring machines but Saussure is also the father of a very interesting contraption called a ‘Cyanometer’. Like many before, and after him, Saussure pondered the skies above him which translated into a scientific visual language of sorts; a kind of category system used to document the “blueness” of the sky at different altitudes. The Cyanometer may seem like a romantic notion by today’s scientific standards but in 1786 such a thing was at the forefront of academic exploration albeit a disarmingly beautiful endeavour.


The boundaries between art and science have always been somewhat blurred, that is depending on how one subscribes to the concepts of both entities - both can be described as searching for, or indeed recognising something unseen. The colour blue is also very important within the history of photography; amongst some of the earliest methods of light sensitive forms of printing are a deep, prussian blue. The process and the resulting print is called a ‘cyanotype’ - invented by Sir John Herschel in 1842 and made popular by English Botanist Anna Atkins from 1843 onwards. A botanist in theory but also hailed (if not disputed) as the first female photographer, Anna Atkins used the reproducing quality of the cyanotype to categorise certain species of Plant matter, the first and most famous publication being ’Photographs of British Algae’. This made Atkins not only the first ever female photographer but also the creator of the first book ever to be illustrated with photographs. The images are not only grandiose in vibrancy but there is a real sense of conviction that is lent to the work due to it’s inherently scientific nature of collecting and searching. The ‘Official Descriptive and Illustrated Catalogue of the Great Exhibition’, of which Atkins took part in, describes the work as “illustrating the burgeoning art-science of photography”. The double barrel “art-science” may seem an oxymoron to those who distinguish the two but in a different breath, one can see the beauty of both pursuits and the wonders that lie at the beginning and end of both endeavours. There is a poetic element to photography that I find completely encapsulating as it manages to capture physical objects in a chemical reaction or a digital reading that appears to be purely documentarian but whilst doing such, rendering them anew as a separate icon in a way similar to a painting or a dream. 

The aesthetic of cyanotypes are rather ethereal as the viewer is presented with a recognisable object yet it appears as a negative shadow ‘sans-object’ which makes the image look suspended or submerged in some way. The reality is, we do not recognise the object itself but the absence of something that casts that shadow, similar to the way in which scientists discover black holes. The three things that are a necessary part of both art and science’s foundations are mystery, exploration and experimentation; all lead into the unknown and can result in something never-before discovered.

I am going to take part (and help manage) a cyanotype workshop at Open Eye Gallery tomorrow with the help of Rachel Brewster from Little Vintage Photography. The workshop is part of BBC Get Creative Day and will take place in the outside area of the gallery so I am hoping for good weather! The event is free so feel free to drop in and take part if you happen to be in the city. You can find us by the water.




Further reading, if you are interested:


http://www.openculture.com/2016/01/first-book-to-use-photographic-illustrations.html


http://unblinkingeye.com/Cyanomicon.pdf


http://www.rsc.org/chemistryworld/Issues/2010/October/SaussuresCyanometer.asp


http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/p/photographic-processes/


Official Descriptive and Illustrated Catalogue of the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations, Vol 1 (London: Spicer Brothers, 1851), p441


Masahisa Fukase and Animal Symbolism (first post!)

So I now have a blog! Hopefully, this will serve as an outlet for my thoughts on photography and visual art that I usually frantically scribble onto an old receipt and quickly lose. I want this platform to act less like that of a diary and more of a personal archive where I can collect fascinations in one place. 

I am very much interested in post-war Japanese photography such as the likes of Daido Moriyama and Shomei Tomatsu, that is; I am hoping on going to see one of the masters’ works; Fukase’s ’Solitude of Ravens’ at the Michael Hoppen Gallery before it ends (on 23rd April, this year). I managed to find a rather battered edition of ’Solitude of Ravens‘ in a university library some years ago and have been since awed by Fukase’s jet-winged manifestations and the connotations they hold not just for the artist but towards the inherently animistic Japan itself.

The use of animals in symbolism is not rare with the Chinese (or Oriental) zodiac still playing a large part in the history of Japan- for instance the year of the ‘fire horse’ (1966) is a very unlucky year to be born- a curse that stays with the family so “The birth cohort of 1966 was appreciably smaller (around 25%) than those either side of it.”. (Hodge and Ogawa 2008. p. 5) This dramatic change in birthrate in a technologically advanced country is due to widespread superstition- something one may imagine a less developed or rural country to express- this possibly gives a reason or at least an insight into why people like Moriyama feel nostalgia towards a more rural life as aspects of this way of existing have carried on in at least 25% of the country even though four fifths of the country live in very populated, modern cities. The depiction of a tanuki seen in Moriyama’s Tales of Tonō sits outside some sort of shop, enticing customers in to spend money. The racoon dog known as the tanuki still plays a symbolic role in the Japan of today, featuring in films, literature, mascots and video games- most noteworthy perhaps in the well known Mario Bros game series where the character has racoon-like features and is able to shape shift, the creature is named “Tanooki”, a phonetic corruption of “tanuki”. This yokai currently exists as a reminder of a rural past; a furusato.
“In today’s Japan, the tanuki is simultaneously a real animal, a fun-loving supernatural trickster, a nostalgic icon of rural Japan, a commercial mascot, and a mutable character for creative filmic and digital experimentation.” (Foster 2014, p. 529) Therefore it is fair to say that animal symbolism is an important aspect of Japanese history, with aspects of ancient folklore surviving up to present day and therefore; animal folklore or symbolism is also part of Japan’s identity. 

A notorious photographer who photographed around the same time as Moriyama called Masahisa Fukase used animal symbolism in his most well known work, “The Solitude of Ravens” to portray things that can only be explored by looking inwards at one’s self- like Moriyama, Fukase also does this by turning the camera to the urban landscape of Japan. Fukase was most well known for series of portraits showing the artist’s wife: Yoko, whom featured in a project that also took her name. Fukase’s work during his thirteen year marriage with Yoko was rather jovial, very different to other, darker work typical of the Provoke era; one would not expect a photographer similar in time period and aesthetic to Moriyama to hold an exhibition called “Play” but it was this marriage that played a central role in Fukase’s photographic work. This all changed in 1975 when Yoko divorced Fukase, his life took a darker turn.
The idea of a ‘home town’ in terms of how Finnemore understands the concept forms a constant in times of chaos and can provide comfort knowing that this space is where one originates from and belongs, if one knows where it lies. This is where Fukase visits frequently after the separation from his wife and also where the beginnings of “The Solitude of Ravens” took form. (Warren 2006, p. 570) 

On the first visit to Fukase’s home town in Hokkaido, the photographer takes some pictures of the birds through the train windows- this must have struck something deep inside Fukase that formed his obsession with these creatures that manifested itself into a ten year fixation of photographing ravens and crows- even going on to note in the third installation of the exhibition: “I assumed a defiant attitude that I myself was a raven” (Warren 2006, p. 569) Obviously, Fukase did not see himself as a physical entity with dark feathers and a beak but rather, he has become a character that a raven is often personified as: a dark, gloomy character with allusions to the idea of death. This symbolism or personification of an animal is used to express radical states of emotion- something that may have been seen as rather exciting for a country in which, at the time prized traditional, reserved aspects of character.
“For a culture that is traditionally reluctant to expose emotion in public, the expressionistic character of Fukase’s work was, in part, the result of the development of the generation that evolved after WWII.” (Fukase 2001)
This new found importance of self expression and identity that came out of the generation born around 1930’s Japan is perhaps responsible for ‘The Solitude of Ravens’ being called by the British Journal of Photography in 2010, the best photobook of the past twenty five years. (O’Hagan 2010).Fukase’s birds are often shown with what one can only imagine a flash from a camera reflecting in their eyes, giving these animals a demonic presence as their eyes glow bright white in the grainy, disorientating dark- this aesthetic Fukase has chosen to utilise is rather confrontational and make the ravens seem terrifying and almost ghost-like to produce unsettling photographs that are not simply of ravens but of a dark, indescribable and suffocating force. 

Ravens and crows have been used to symbolise these characteristics in plenty of famous work- the obvious instance in which a raven is used in popular literature is the aptly named ,“The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe- considered his most popular work, the poem’s themes of the supernatural, death and fear are embodied by completely normal subjects, of unusual tapping sounds in an empty house- it is perhaps this normality that would make the poem more haunting “Poe invests ordinary objects or animals with demonic attributes, in order to convey emotion and mood” (Foster 2014, p. 139) All of these dark themes, coupled with ever building suspense come together in the form of a raven whom is described as a “grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore” (Poe 1991, p. 28) giving the raven this description not only fits the character this bird seems to possess but are words linked with the concept of fear- this fits the idea of a raven, given it’s symbolic relationship with sorcery and being able to tell the future. The word “ominous” used here is noteworthy as the raven is depicted as a creature expected to foreshadow something, traditionally, death. The artist Vincent Van Gogh’s “Wheat Field With Crows” depicts, as the title suggests, a flock of crows flying over a field, something that is expected in wheat fields that is nothing out of the ordinary in the modern day western world but it is when this animal- crow or raven, is shown in art or literature that it is analysed as symbolic with some critics saying of Van
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Gogh’s painting that “the crows in his painting symbolize the inevitability of his death.” (Hassler 2008, P. 90) with some going as far as calling “Wheat Field With Crows” Van Gogh’s suicide note. The fact that Van Gogh’s painting features crows instead of ravens yet still carries the same connotations is not important as “Discussions of the symbolism of crows and ravens tend to treat the birds as if they are identical” (Werness 2006, P. 105) -something Masahisa Fukase seems to do with ’The Solitude of Ravens’ series “began with a chance photograph of a flock of crows on his native Hokkaido” (ANON 2001) Therefore it is of little importance that some of Fukase’s ravens are in fact crows- the symbolism of the creature far surpasses the actual animal, which is why Fukase’s book is not simply resigned to a typology of crows and ravens but instead epitomises the psychological state of the artist. 

The personal landscape of one’s mind is all the more interesting due to the cryptic nature of symbolism and the promise of travels to “another place” (Moriyama2012, p. 178) to see something strange and new in a world that is arguably growing aesthetically all the more universal, it is important that these fictions exist as they form the isles on which one holidays from this world. One could say that the escape is sometimes the most important aspect of experiencing art rather than the conclusion of the piece, however the conclusion or “moral” is expected to give the work gravity and a purpose- much like a destination is given for a holiday to give reason for the journey there- the exhibition, concert, photograph, painting, prose, album and book could all be seen as answers to “the nomadic instinct”- these temporary escapes satisfy the appetite for travel and in this sense, the art consumer is a nomad in his/her own right, in a constant state of travel in pursuit of experiences outside of the ‘everyday’; therefore in pursuit of a reality differing to the ‘real’- we are Moriyama on the train towards Tonō: unaware of what will come of this journey or even if this place exists but once again, we are travelling- wandering the unknown in search of experience and knowledge of “another place” like Kafka’s “dog”.


All images are screen shots from the Michael Hoppen Gallery website


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