Sally Mann: Some Food for Thought #2

As I mentioned in our first ‘food for thought’ post, this second version looks a little more at ‘Immediate Family’ than Mann’s other works and publications.

Firstly, as this book is easily available at a good price in a re-edition, I will be not be creating a video for the book in it’s entirety. And so you can either look to purchase the book here (or here for US), or look at what Mann features on her own website.
It is by no means a substitute for the book but it does give a taste for the work and as often as possible I will feature other images also.

1. There is a fantastic introductory article on the book over on American Suburb X authored by Valerie Osbourn. This article takes a look at Mann’s unflinching camera as well as some of the controversy that surrounded the book when it first came out.

2. Another fantastic piece here, this time about Mann’s provocation both in relation to the images of her children, and of more recent work with the dead.

3. The Smithsonian magazine writes about Mann’s images of her family here.

4. And… even though it was featured in the earlier posts, it is most certainly a must watch in relation to this specific book:
This video offers a great insight int Mann’s mind, and process as well as hearing from her children about their mothers image making and use of them as subjects.

Sally Mann: Some Food for Thought #1

As we look at Sally Mann’s ‘Immediate Family’ this month it is worth acknowledging the artist beyond this single publication. And so below are some useful links and resources to find out a little more about one of America’s most important female artists. You can also see the links below for other publications by Mann.

We will feature another ‘food for thought’ post shortly looking more closely at resources linked to ‘Immediate Family’.

1. Perhaps the best resource is the film ‘What Remains: The Life and Work of Sally Mann‘, directed by Steven Cantor.
Sections of the film can be found on Youtube or you can buy the complete film here.

2. In this interview from American Suburb X, Sally Mann speaks with Steven Cantor (director of ‘What Remains’) about the process of making the documentary, and in particular about the relationships between Mann and her children.

3. This next video is not nearly as in depth as ‘What Remains’ but it still offers a great insight int Mann’s mind, and process as well as hearing from her children about their mothers image making and use of them as subjects.

4.From Lens to Photo: Sally Mann Captures her Love‘, in this video Mann speaks of her ‘Flesh and the Spirit’ body of work in which she photographs her husband Larry Mann.

5. And if you enjoyed that, NPR also feature an insider conversation between Sally and Larry Mann which is interesting, touching and sobering in equal measures.

6. In this text interview Mann talks about her ‘Deep South’ body of work

7. And, luckily for fans of Mann’s work, her website, unlike so many other big-gallery photographers is good!
You can see selections of images from most all of her series, hit the links below to get a taste for the different bodies of work:

Early Work
At Twelve
Family Pictures
Southern Landscapes
Battlefields
Body Farm
Faces
Proud Flesh
Ambrotypes

– Matt

Nan Goldin: Some food for thought #2

As mentioned in a previous post, there is an abundance of online resources for those looking to learn more about both ‘The Ballad of Sexual Dependency’ and Nan Goldin herself. A few of the many great videos/slideshows are shown below: (And if you think we have missed a key piece, let us know.

The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, Nan Goldin and The Tiger Lilies, Les Rencontres d’Arles, 11 July 2009 (Slideshow)

Nan Goldin: Contacts Vol2 slideshow/narration

Nan Goldin: I’ll be your mirror (Documentary)





Nan Goldin: Photography and Love (Extract from BBC series ‘Genius of Photography’

Nan Goldin: Some food for thought #1

There is an abundance of online resources for those looking to learn more about both ‘The Ballad of Sexual Dependency’ and Nan Goldin herself. I have compiled just a few of these together, firstly looking at interviews:

Nan Goldin interviewed by Adam Mazur and Paulina Skirgajllo-Krajewska
Quote:
“I went to school and there was a teacher who showed me Larry Clark. It has entirely changed my work. I knew that there had been somebody else who had done [photographed] their own life.”

‘The Dark Room’: Nan Goldin interviewed by Sheryl Garratt
Quote:
“The music we were brought up on, the TV, the movies, the images our parents gave us aren’t of what relationships are really like. They didn’t prepare me, at least, for the ambivalence that’s normal in any real relationship”

Nan Goldin interview: Madonnas, skulls and a lamb with seven legs by Celia Walden
Quote:
“I’ve been called narcissistic, self-centred and voyeuristic but there are a lot of things in between, like compassion and love.”

I’ll be your Mirror: Interview with Nan Goldin by Kathy High
Quote:
“The most important thing about this film to me is that unlike slide shows, you can’t update them, and that everybody’s life has changed so much since that film. Greer is dead. David broke up with his boyfriend. Sharon and her girlfriend broke up. Both David and Sharon have lost about forty pounds. Bruce is back on drugs. There’s no way to update it, so it seems like historical fact, where it was only true for that year.”

Nan Goldin on the 80’s: Interview with Tom Holert
Quote:
“The text I wrote for The Ballad of Sexual Dependency was about what family meant to us. Perhaps I was idealizing what had gone on, but there was a solid basis.”

©NAN GOLDIN

And bonus:
Nan Goldin interviews Nobuyoshi Araki
“We met for the first time at Dug, his regular jazz bar in Shinjuku, where he presented me with a bottle of I.W. Harper Bourbon (his favorite drink) with my name on it. Now it’s stored there next to Robert Frank’s.”

– Matt

 

Aya Takada on Cafe Lehmitz

Our thanks to Aya Takada fro producing this text on Anders Petersen’s Cafe Lehmitz which is featured here in both a Japanese and English translation. As well as checking out her website, you can follow Aya Takada on Twitter.

It is in the photo exhibition “Rat Hall Gallery” in Tokyo in 2007 that I first met Cafe Lehmitz. The first impression I saw reminded me of the book jacket from ‘Weegee’s people’, the production and typography were splendid. However it is the latest Cafe Lehmitz by Schirmer/Mosel that exists in my hands now.

If the book is opened, it is possible to put your own body to Cafe Lehmitz.

“It seems this is not work that a young person produced.”
There are times when you hear that kind of opinion, but on the other hand, it is through a young photographers eyes that this very pure and straight style could emerge. It seems like a conventional approach was chosen, simple and lacking in sensational images with a rustic feel.  The work is not dissimilar to that of Daido Moriyama in this respect.

©ANDERS PETERSEN

The characters are seen not as supportive as if the heart and mind, body and mutual support the body, sometimes they show a winsome look for the photographer, and
with each passing page, the subjects seems gradually to release themselves to Petersen. I feel a deep affection for the subject from the photographer.
I feel a line of vision near the sense that parents watch the child in a word to which family’s photo album is concluded. This will be able to be seen from the portrait of the photographer in the back book cover. The family is indispensable for Cafe Lehmitz.

©ANDERS PETERSEN

You might also understand the reason why this book keeps being resold as many as ten times, and being loved well.

Cafe Lehmitz is one book that a young photographer must see.

– Aya Takada

 

わたしが、Cafe Lehmitzに出会ったのは、

2007年東京のラットホールギャラリーで行われた写真展です。
ここから出版されたCafe Lehmitzの最初の印象はまさしく「日記帳」でした。
「Weegee’s People」のブックジャケットと似たタイポグラフィーを使った見事な演出。
しかし、現在、私の手の中にあるCafe Lehmitzは、「schimer/mosel」の最新版です。
中身を開けば、Cafe Lehmitzへ自分の身を置く事が可能です。

©ANDERS PETERSEN

「青年の撮影した写真ではないようだ。」
そのような意見を屢々聞くことがありますが、むしろ、まだ写真を始めて間もない若い写真家であるから完成できた作品群であると感じます。
とても純粋でありストレートな写真が多く見られます。
それは、写真の古典的なスタイルのようです。
センセーショナルな印象は少なく、とても素朴さを感じます。
森山大道に代表されるような(または筆者の後期の作品郡に近いような)、撮影時や暗室内での「マジック」をこの本で見ることはありません。

写っている人々は心と心を支え合うようかのように、肉体と肉体を支え合い、時折、写真家に対して愛嬌のある表情を見せることもあります。
ページを追うごとに、徐々に被写体は写真家に心を解放しているように見えます。
撮影者から被写体に対しての深い愛情を感じます.。
家族のフォトアルバムが完結されたような、つまり親が子を見守るような感覚というものに近い目線を感じます。
したがって、背表紙の著者のポートレートは、この本になくてはならない一枚であるように思えます。

©ANDERS PETERSEN

皆さんも、この本が10回も再販され、愛され続けている理由がよく分かるでしょう。
若い写真家にぜひ見て欲しい一冊です。

高田 彰

The Valley: A Summary

Thanks to all who have contributed to the discussion on Larry Sultan’s ‘The Valley’. We have compiled an archive of the posts below for future reference and will also be listed under the reading list page.

Larry Sultan: Video Obituary
Synopsis: Larry Sultan, The Valley
Images from ‘The Valley’
VIDEO: Full book video
‘Nature is Strange in the Valley’ Essay by Larry Sultan
Erik Saeter Jorgenson – The Valley is my favourite photobook

Chris Timothy on Larry Sultan’s ‘The Valley’
Larry Sultan – Katherine Avenue
Larry Sultan interview with Terri Whitlock
Out of Sorts in ‘The Valley’ – Matt Johnston
The Valley – Exhibition Catalogue

July’s book is ‘Cafe Lehmitz’ by Anders Petersen. If you would like to contribute to the discussion, just let us know on mail@photobookclub.org

VIDEO – Larry Sultan’s ‘The Valley’

Here from cover to cover is Larry Sultan’s ‘The Valley’ for those who do not have access to a copy, and due to it’s limited number, this may be many of you.
An extensive excerpt of the text that accompanies the book ‘Nature is strange in the Valley’ is shown below and gives a little more insight from Sultan.


We would love to hear your thoughts, especially if this is the first time you have seen the book. Get involved in Twitter by using the #photobc hashtag, on Facebook here or in the comment section below.

Nature is strange in the Valley by Larry Sultan

It’s time for lunch. The sounds of clattering plates and muffled conversations drift upstairs. In cool, dark rooms, amber light glows through shades drawn in the middle of the summer day. Someone is napping fitfully. He’s bored rather than tired. He wakes up with a feeling of dread. In those first moments of confusion, he tries to assess which house he is in and what he’s doing there.

Downstairs, everyone has gathered in the large two-car garage. Folding tables have been set up with an array of cold cuts: stacks of wheat and rye bread, potato salad, paper bowls filled with cashews and M&M’s. There is a large platter of jumbo shrimp arranged in a circle around a head of lettuce. A tall woman wearing a T-shirt and thong spears one with a toothpick. Balancing paper plates filled with food, people drift into the back yard, a large grassy area with uninterrupted views of the San Fernando Valley. They look like friends and lovers having a Sunday picnic as they lie about in small groups in the few areas shaded by sycamore trees. To the far side of the yard, crew members are beginning to set up movie lights and a stand with a large silver reflector. On the lawn is a huge wind fan, and next to it Michael, the director, is talking with his wife, Julie Anne, who’s wearing a flowing pink dressing gown with a white fur collar. Her clear acrylic high heels are sinking into the grass, and he offers her his arm as she reaches back to pull off her shoe. Directly behind them, near the edge of the yard where the lawn ends abruptly in a vertical drop, stand 5-foot-tall letters cut from plywood, painted white and anchored in the ground with diagonal supports. DOOWYLLOH. It takes a moment to make sense of it, but then it’s as clear as the day: Facing out toward miles of subdivisions and malls, a miniature version of the sign — Hollywood in the Valley.

The house is a big, two-story “old hacienda”–style place, built sometime in the 1970s. When I called to get the location for today’s shoot, the production assistant assured me that I would like it. “You’ve really got to see this house: high ceilings, enormous rooms, a spiral staircase. It’s a real mansion with an incredible view.” In the past 10 years, homes in the Valley have become the preferred locations for adult-film companies, which rent them from their owners for the two to three days that it takes to make a porn film. In reality this house is just an oversize variation of a tract home, with sliding glass doors and cottage-cheese ceilings. It’s been customized with dark wood paneling, overbearing stonework, marble counters and other features that give it the appearance of the “good life,” of wealth and taste. Wandering from room to room, I get the feeling that something went wrong, that the owners have left suddenly in the middle of the night. They’ve abandoned the entertainment center with their mega-TV and sound system, the exercise room that has been converted into an office, the bleak master-bedroom suite with its Jacuzzi and statuary. They’ve left behind some evidence, personal effects, notes by the phone, shopping lists and “things to do” stuck to the refrigerator. In the living room there hangs a formal portrait of the family standing in the back yard in late-afternoon light. It’s been printed on textured paper and framed in gold to give it the appearance of an oil painting. Throughout the house there are more casual photographs, 8-by-10s of smiling sons and daughters, the family dogs, the big anniversary party on the cruise ship. They cover all available surfaces and stare down at us from nearly every wall in the house.

A few years after we moved from our first house in working-class Van Nuys into a new house in Woodland Hills at the far western edge of the Valley, my mother hired an interior decorator. With marble-tile floors, Formica kitchen counters, and 12-foot fireplaces in the den and living room, the house felt cold and needed to be “cozied up.” The decorator was from South Carolina, and, as my father would say, she was “quite a dish.” She had piles of brassy red hair and wore tight white pants that revealed faint traces of either beige or pink panties. I remember my fascination with her lipstick, which covered her mouth well beyond its natural borders. She had my mother completely under her spell.

It didn’t take long to see the results of her handiwork. She painted a grape vine on the kitchen wall and attached real rubber grapes to its tendrils. She was crazy about gold leaf and applied it freely, on the upholstered footstools, the end tables, the oversized candleholder standing next to the sofa, and on a big wooden box that sat on the coffee table with no discernable purpose. She brought in bright green shag carpets and a massive coffee table adorned with gold and black paint, and she filled the gaps on our bookshelves with Reader’s Digest compilations. But the real pride and joy for all of us was the painting she made that hung over the length of our flesh-colored Naugahyde sectional: a sweeping panorama of an Italian landscape. In the foreground jesters danced with bare-breasted women in the courtyard of imagery Florentine villa. It was bold and magical — too bold, it seems. After a year or two my mother had it cut into two parts and each was reframed. One piece appeared in the dining room and the other in the living room, where no one ever ventured.

The entire house vibrates, shaking as if a dozen overloaded washing machines were stuck on the spin cycle. Exaggerated moans, groans and screams erupt from the back rooms. From the crescendo I can tell that the director has called for the FIP (fake internal pop) shot. I half expect the next-door neighbors or the police to rush over and bang on the doors to see if everything, everyone is all right. But then it grows quiet.

The talent get up from their positions and reach for bottles of cool water and dry towels. The cameraman is distracted and forgets to turn off the camera. It dangles from his arm, relaying a series of random images of the interior landscape of the bedroom over to the monitor in the next room: the junction of wall and ceiling, the corners of dressers, a chair and parts of bodies, under the bed. It’s as if someone, overcome by excitement and intense desire, is crawling around the room on his hands and knees interrogating every object and surface for its secrets.

Being on a film set is a bit like those endless summer days of high school: hanging out, waiting for something to happen; snacking, even when you’re not hungry; napping in the middle of the day. Invariably I end up standing around in the back yard.

Nature is strange in the Valley, a chaotic mix of unrelated trees and plants that share the same space. Palm, spruce, eucalyptus, poplar and pine, all in neighboring yards, each seeming to generate its own microclimate. There is a peculiar quality of silence that hovers over these streets, like an invisible dome that insulates it from the noises of the working life of Los Angeles. It filters the light and softens the edges of things, giving them a glow like a landscape seen through a thin layer of gauze. The heavy air becomes a medium for amplifying the small sounds that occasionally reverberate throughout the neighborhood. A car door closes; someone wheels in the garbage can; a few kids yell at each other in a back yard; a roofer off in the distance hammers for a few seconds, stops and then starts up again. Standing in the back yard listening to these sounds has the effect of slowing down time, elongating the space between the random sonic events.

The cord to the refrigerator is pulled from the wall socket; the air conditioner is turned off in the heat of the day; toilets go unflushed; conversation stops. Everything is still except the wild knot of bodies writhing on floors, couches and tables.

I walk around on tiptoe, stand in hallways and lean against walls. I want to see but don’t. I pretend not to look. Like an argument or a fistfight, the scene grabs my attention, pulls me in.

The event of filming creates a sexualized zone in which the gestures, rituals and scenes of suburban domestic life take on a peculiar weight and density. The furnishings and objects in the house, which have been carefully arranged, become estranged from their intended function. The roll of paper towels on the coffee table, the bed linens in a pile by the door, the shoes under the bed are transformed into props or the residue of unseen but very imaginable actions. Even the piece of half-eaten pie on the kitchen counter arouses suspicion.

The production assistant comes in and tells everyone on the set that we’re not allowed to park on the street in front of the house. She tells us to park farther up the block or on the next street over. As if in a fire drill, we pour out of the house and stand somewhat dazed in the glaring light that bounces off the driveway in front. In the minute or two it takes to walk to our cars, the sidewalk hosts a brief spectacle: a parade of women in 6-inch heels and tight, skimpy clothes and men with shaved heads and tattoos, all laughing, talking loudly and smoking cigarettes. I look across the street to see if neighbors have come to their windows or out onto their front porches to watch, but they haven’t. The few people who are at home stay deep inside their houses.

I park way up the street, and as I walk from my car I meet up with Claudia, a woman in her early 20s who is just getting started in porn films. It feels slightly strange to be walking the street in the middle of the day, like we’re either intruders or a father-daughter team of Jehovah’s Witnesses. She tells me that she grew up in this neighborhood and that her best friends lived just a few blocks away. She tells me that they would hang out together all summer long in the pool house in the back yard, watching TV, getting stoned. They were known as the Big Titty Committee. I ask her if she went to the local high school, Taft High, where I went to school. “Yeah,” she says, “but only for a year. Then I was sent away to school in Colorado, one of those survival-type programs. I was a bad girl. I guess I still am.”

There was a girl my age who lived in the corner house at the end of the street and who went to the same high school as I did. She had a remarkable body and a very bad complexion. To solve some of the social problems caused by her acne, she reportedly gave sexual favors to the jocks and the more popular guys at Taft High. Late in the afternoon when school was out I would see all these guys milling around her house and lining up at the front door. There was Gary H., the quarterback, and Barry A., the big overweight linesman. I would endlessly imagine what these guys got to do with her. I pictured them in all possible combinations.

Once while we were waiting at the corner for the school bus, she glanced over at me and made an obscene gesture: Her arms at right angles to her body, she began pumping them in and out. It confused me and I had no idea how to respond to her. But I took it as a sign and later that day I got up my nerve and walked down to her house. I was worried that in order to have sex I might have to kiss her. All I could picture were her blackheads and enlarged pores, a troubling image and an omen of a bad performance. But it was too late; I was already knocking on her front door. When she opened it, she was taller and more imposing than I had remembered. She was wearing a flower-print dress that lent her an unexpected air of modesty as well as maturity. She stared at me for a few seconds, like she didn’t know who I was. Then a strange smile or smirk appeared on her face. “What do you want?” I just stood there feeling the blood drain from my face into my hands that were dangling at my sides. I couldn’t begin to find the words.

It’s Wednesday, the middle of the week, and everyone is taking the day off. Men and women return home from work early, bringing carloads of friends with them. The streets are lined with black SUVs, Cadillacs and Corvettes. There’s no place to park.

It looks like an interracial block party, with Latinos and African-Americans wheeling suitcases filled with sexy costumes up driveways and into back yards. Deliverymen, saleswomen, and neighbors who have lost their dogs or who need a cup of sugar come to the door and are invited in for lunch. There’s nothing like a good, hot lunch in the middle of the day, pasta with sausage and peppers and chicken and plenty of sauce. The television is on, but the volume is turned way down. In the back yard, the automatic pool sweeper drifts around the pool making a swishing noise, almost like a muffled rain bird: sh sh sh sh. The pool looks like a blue oasis sparkling in the heat. People sit around in small clusters and joke, make small talk and eat. Slowly they lose their inhibitions. A young woman leans over and asks if her breath smells; a man stands up and casually takes off his clothes. Someone is nibbling on someone else’s neck.

What could be better? A lazy afternoon in the suburbs with all the time in the world to enjoy the small things and to spend a day in another’s arms. A day that is punctuated not by noisy children and errands but by the urges and fantasies of the people gathered together here. They raid the refrigerator and put whipped cream, butter and even mustard on each other’s naked bodies. They rub one another into a frenzy. They crowd into the master bedrooms and spill out onto the kitchen floors and onto the patios and into the pools that look just like our neighbors’ pools, like our pool, and do the stuff of daydreams.

It’s a day when no one turns away from another, when tentative glances and awkward first moves are met with passionate approval. Everyone is seen, and held, and longed for. One’s clumsy body knows exactly what to do. It is a day when betrayals are overlooked or are mutually forgiven.

But at the end of it all, these people do not retire to the living room to watch their favorite TV programs together. Nor do they go upstairs to bed. Instead they pack up their high heels, fancy underwear and sweaty T-shirts, and they carry them to their cars. They pat the backs and kiss the cheeks of those who earlier in the day were such intense lovers. Exhausted, they drive across the Valley to their apartments.