imperfection

tomorrow morning i leave for a short trip to the end of the road to lurk around in the darkness of the Deadhorse industrial complexes, and the surrounding vast cold nothingness. it will, most likely, be my last trip of the year.

in between packing this afternoon i found inspiration in these absolutely beautiful photographs of the aurora from 1933. these images reminded me that a moving photograph, at times, has little to do with perfection.





all photos from the UAF Rasmusan Archives

Janne Lehtinen's Night Shift

i relate to this time of year, and i embrace the slowness that is to come. in July i would have killed for a night with stars in the sky, but of course in another month i will be daydreaming of a high noon sun. living in the northern regions is about embracing place, and not succumbing to thoughts of the color of grasses elsewhere.



Janne Lehtinen's Night Shift stirs me to sit up and embrace the darkness of the Northern latitudes. the Finnish photographer's book is comprised of unsettling artificially lit photographs of his native town, Karhula, on the coast of Finland. the landscapes are tightly effective, but it's the portraits of his father that get me in the gut. the weary, almost dazed, look on his face consistent through many of the photographs speak so acutely to life in the North to me. my appreciation for this book actually strays from the literal story at play. Lehtinen made photographs of his father, at home, early in the morning after cycling home from overnight shifts at the local paper mill. a wonderful story. however, i can't shake seeing self portraits in his work. these could so easily be photographs of the artist turning the camera on himself after long nights roaming the streets of Karhula. those are the eyes of someone yearning for light, being sucked dry by the cold and sunless days, and disorientation of working the graveyard shift. waking from a deep sleep, and after looking outside, still not knowing whether the clock reads 3:00 am or pm. without the text, this is how i would read it. frankly, right or wrong, it's how i choose to read it.

seeing a photo of Lehtinen on seen.by, and the resemblance between him and his father leads me to believe that one day this work could age into an autobiographical piece.








all images © Janne Lehtinen

listening to Graham Lindsey

a musical interlude

it's been snowing here, full on, for two days. finally. i was beginning to feel like i had woken to a sort of Groudhog Day scenario of a never ending September.

as i tromped through the snow on campus today, under fresh flakes, i couldn't stop thinking of this Graham Lindsey video:



this one's for you Cob.

happy Alaska Day (a day late)!

yesterday was Alaska Day, and i almost missed it. on October 18th 1867, we purchased this choice piece of land from Russia.

i feel so fortunate to be able to call Alaska, and specifically the Interior, home. this landscape, these people, and the overwhelming desire to see deeper here is what has made photography so much more for me than just pointing at things. this place makes me want to act. it makes me want to give something. it feels corny writing it, but it resonates when you say it, when you hear others say it. i spoke to my good friend Jennifer Boomer today. of course, she's been making photographs in Alaska for a few years, but this winter made the decision to stay on - to live in Alaska. be a resident. brave the winter and dig deeper. her enthusiasm over the phone made me smile, knowingly, and go out and make better photographs.



© Jennifer Boomer

thanks Russia. everybody wave.

last month

burn, mile 36, 2009

listening to the The Felice Brothers

i mean what had i been looking at?

lately, i've been thinking a lot about editing and books. ever since Dennis and i sat with denver, i've been thinking about sequences of photos, and history, and how things evolve. in October, Summer Nights is re-released as Summer Nights, Walking. i'm infinitely interested when a new issue of a classic book comes out, as it poses so many questions. the extended edit always excites me, but confuses me in equal measure. i guess, what i want is for there to be one right way to do it. and, i suppose, the fact that there isn't a right way is what makes it art. however, i want to believe that there is a magic algorithm of light, and form, magic, balance, and sequence that informs a great book. i want to believe that the original edit is it. that the other images, while beautiful, don't speak to the whole the way the original selection does. i want to believe that the first edit is history. unequivocal history.

i want all of this because the converse seems impossible to do without error. again, art.

having said that, i count Stephen Shore's new edition of Uncommon Places one of the most important books i am fortunate enough to own. yet, i found the following excerpt from the book Stephen Shore (from a conversation with Michael Fried) interesting:

MF: let me ask you a question about American Surfaces. did you make way more photos than are collects in the book?

SS: yes.

MF: so the book represents a significant winnowing.

SS: yes, it does, and the same is true of Uncommon Places. although the edition is called 'The Complete Works" it isn't. i have come to realize i am probably a terrible editor of my own work and there are many more pictures from the years of Uncommon Places that are just wonderful.

MF: i believe it. last year there was a show at a gallery in New York of vintage prints from, as it were, Uncommon Places, and i remember being surprised when i got to the Hammer that some of the images i liked best in the New York show weren't in Los Angeles or in the book. are there many such photos?

SS: yes, a significant number more. i regret it being called "The Complete Works"

MF: there will be a revised edition.

SS: or the catalog raisonné. or "The More Complete Works". i'm having a show at the end of this month at 303 Gallery, and i just could not believe the pictures i found that hadn't previously been shown. i mean what had i been looking at? maybe i just hadn't opened the right box or had completely forgotten to look in it.


U.S. 97, South of Klamath Falls, Oregon, July 21, 1973 © Stephen Shore

i think often about the wonderful images that get cast off. i wonder, with time and reflection, if the great works of today will be reissued as larger edits? will Alec edit an Insomnia by the Mississippi, or Dubois' a More Days and Nights?

in time, i secretly hope so.

Mitch Epstein's Power

this month's Granta magazine has an inspired teaser for Mitch Epstein's new book America Power. i've always been impressed by the print quality of Granta, and with each issue am pleased that they continue to fly the flag for good photography.



i'm looking forward to pulling the shrink wrap off of a copy of Power. the few images, and his own text, in Work have left me wondering, and wanting, for some time. the concept of making a document of "what powers America" is daunting to say the least - its such a fine line to walk visually to illustrate climate change, power, and humanity across the country within the confines of photographs - even 63 of them. a region, or city would be difficult enough, but the entire country? makes my head hurt - then again, i'm not Mitch Epstein. the few images i've seen of the work so far, tell me that he paints with fairly broad strokes, and maybe that's the answer. i hope to find beneath the cover the accessibility, and intimacy, that i love so much in his work.

BP Carson Refinery, California 2007 © Mitch Epstein

Amos Coal Power Plant, Raymond West Virginia 2004, © Mitch Epstein

in gathering images for this post, i was none too surprised to find images from Alaska. it looks like he was here in 2007. i have to say, though, that the images i see on his site made in Alaska leave me underwhelmed. at 72x90 inches, his prints are imposing, though i've always thought of him as a book photographer. his strength is in his sequencing, and the narrative possibilities that 64 images in a book can accomplish. i'll reserve judgment of single images until i see them in context. although, i do hope he didn't come all the way to Alaska and not make it up to Prudhoe.

Trans-Alaska Pipeline 2007, © Mitch Epstein

the last hurah

september is my favorite month in the Interior of Alaska. our true nights are back, the air is crisp, and the tundra is on fire with color.

i'm heading south the the Denali Highway with Dea and some friends for a three day excursion into the Alaska Range. 30 miles of hiking, 30 miles of floating, and a 10 mile run back to the car. this will be the last trip taken for the true pleasure of it for some time.

i am starting the MFA program here at UAF in a couple of weeks, and with the full time job, free time will be a rare commodity. i've always been prone to biting off more than i can chew, but have found that i work best when a little frayed at the ends.

i'm going to relish this three day weekend of playing. i might even bring a camera. i gave up lugging gear around on trips like this years ago, but seeing the intense purple sky tonight while i drove home from the grocery store has me packing up the holga.


back to a more regular blogging after this reset.

community

i've been back from Homer nearly a week, and have tried to tap out a blog post about my experience several times, but have been unable to pull it all together. the week exceeded my expectations in so many ways, but i've been unable to tie it all up - to find a thread that was satisfying.

tonight i hosted a long overdue dinner with Adam and Dennis, and it became clear. over plates of pasta, and too much wine, we talked passionately about what we hold dear. we raised our voices at times. conceded at times. got to the crux of matters and spread it all out on the table.

in the end, we all make photos in relative anonymity. it's crucial to be able to come in from the weather and get to the bottom of things with friends. i take community for granted often, and when it comes on like it has the last couple weeks it can be overwhelming.

i need more of this kind of discussion. if you can't make it to Fairbanks for pasta and wine - drop me an email.

a week in Homer

Adam and i leave tomorrow for a week in Homer, thanks to this years Photo Fest. it's going to be a crazy week of all photo all the time, and i'm so stoked to spend some time on the coast.

i have a show opening on Thursday at the Pratt Museum, a box of new work, and the 4x5 and Mamiya packed up. i don't get the chance to sit around and pontificate on the finer points, and struggles, of photography with a group of like minded folk often, and i'm looking forward to it. i'm hoping for some spirited, challenging, discussion. in addition to many Alaska photographers whom i've never met, i have the honor of meeting, and reviewing work, with Keith Carter, Ted Orland, and Amy Scott of the Autry Center in LA.

to be honest though, i don't know if i'm wired for this much photoness. i'll be looking for a few beers at the Salty Dog, some good trail runs in the morning, and most importantly, to find the site of this photo...

A Blind Man in His Garden, Homer, Alaska, July 1984
© Joel Sternfeld

damn this photo breaks my heart every time. more on this later.

denver (x2)

the majority of my education in photography has come through books. not technical books, but monographs. pouring over great (and not so great) work at every opportunity. i would guess that i'm not alone. with every image i make, every piece i assemble into an eventual whole, i realize that the book is the end all. it's what all of the fussing is about.

over the past few years, i've seen many books that have taken me a while to see clearly. i wasn't ready for them, and the benefit of their worth didn't come immediately. didn't come easy. initially, i felt this way about Robert Adams. i came to photography late, and sadly, Adams even later. first, Cottonwoods and Turning Back confused me. i knew there was something powerful there, but i couldn't put my thumb on it. i couldn't explain it. i wasn't ready. it wasn't until i first saw Summer Nights and shortly thereafter The New West that it all came together. crashing. it took those vastly different bodies of work to see the similarities clearly, and therefore see what i was missing.




a couple weeks ago, Dennis and i sat at his kitchen table with the first, as well as the most recent, editions of Adams' denver. it was the first time i had seen either edition. over a drink, we went simultaneously, page by page, through both volumes in order to experience the new edit that Adams had assembled so many years later. lingering, every time a new image, or spread was introduced. double checking for stuck pages when an image was omitted. going back and forth to make sense of it. he is generous with his rationing of information this time around.



the printing quality of the new edition is unquestionably superior as well. there are details that are simply lost in the original. a lamp here, the view through a window there, and the edition of a handful of night photos give the work considerably more depth. i imagine they weren't an option with the earlier printing. Adams' work is light.



having lived in Colorado for ten years, there is no mistaking where he is standing, or what time of day it is, or that (regardless of the subject matter) he is taking the utmost of care in every image.

in October, Summer Nights is being reissued by Aperture, with an extended edit. the education continues.


© Robert Adams from Summer Nights