“Photography is exclusion. Looking at photography must be done with an awareness of that fact.”
- Joerg Colberg, setting it straight.
I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I caught a last minute flight to go see the show in Astoria, but arrived too late. Sullen, I walked around all night looking for Robert Adam’s house. The next morning I went to see him. I walked to his door. Knocked.
I say, “Mr. Adams, I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Ben. I just wanted to shake your hand and say Thank You. Thank You.”
He says, “You’re welcome my son.”
He invited me in, and we spent the day building a birdhouse. We both wore tuxedos. Dreams are funny.
Gravitational Pull (w/ David Bram, Michael Itkoff & Kathleen Robbins) opens tonight @ LightBox Gallery in Astoria, OR. I can’t make it down for the opening - if you are in the area, attend the reception, and email me some photos, I’ll mail you a small print. Wish I could be there.
![greatleapsideways:
“Many nature photographs are like fashion photos. This is not to dismiss them; they record and admit pleasure. Mountaintops, waterfalls, meadows, lakes, beech trees in autumn, are asked to stand there, wearing themselves and giving the camera a moody look. And why not? They are reminders of the pleasure of at last arriving after hours in airports. Nature as hostess.
In Jitka’s pictures there is no welcome. They have been taken from the inside. The deep inside of a forest, perceived like the inside of a glove by a hand within it.
She speaks of the between-forest. This is because, in the same valley as her village, there are two forests which join. Yet the preposition between belongs to forests in general. It’s what they are about. A forest is what exists between trees, between its dense undergrowth and its clearings, between all its life cycles and their different time-scales, ranging from solar energy to insects that live for a day. A forest is also a meeting place between those who enter it and something unnameable and attendant, waiting behind a tree or in the undergrowth. Something intangible and within touching distance. Neither silent nor audible.”
— John Berger “Between Forest” in Forest, by Jitka Hanzlová [Steidl]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lxzn6ylU2f1qbqv7no1_1280.jpg)
“Many nature photographs are like fashion photos. This is not to dismiss them; they record and admit pleasure. Mountaintops, waterfalls, meadows, lakes, beech trees in autumn, are asked to stand there, wearing themselves and giving the camera a moody look. And why not? They are reminders of the pleasure of at last arriving after hours in airports. Nature as hostess.
In Jitka’s pictures there is no welcome. They have been taken from the inside. The deep inside of a forest, perceived like the inside of a glove by a hand within it.
She speaks of the between-forest. This is because, in the same valley as her village, there are two forests which join. Yet the preposition between belongs to forests in general. It’s what they are about. A forest is what exists between trees, between its dense undergrowth and its clearings, between all its life cycles and their different time-scales, ranging from solar energy to insects that live for a day. A forest is also a meeting place between those who enter it and something unnameable and attendant, waiting behind a tree or in the undergrowth. Something intangible and within touching distance. Neither silent nor audible.”
— John Berger “Between Forest” in Forest, by Jitka Hanzlová [Steidl]
I love that Gerry Johansson’s site is entirely hung on the hook of the book, as his photos are only viewable as page spreads. In this day of uber-fast consumption, I love that he is slowing it down and forcing us to consider the work in the format that he intends it to be viewed. The book is the object, the art, so why not present it (even in the digital arena) only that way? Genius.
Thanks to Jesse for asking a few questions, and hosting a few of my photos, at the wonderfully eclectic Svarta.
The e-reader will never be this sexy
(Source: brain-food, via brianwiddis)
I planted a small garden in the sunshine on Saturday. Today it rains. And, as I wait, I’m haunted by the work of Wout Berger.
