Some Thoughts on Blindness

1.

On the Belvedere Torso, Stations of the Cross, and Taint

I am siezed by Rizvana Bradley’s comment on an “affect of taint.” It captures something that I’ve been reaching for in my work that I’ve referred to as violence, and sometimes, tension. Taint opens up a new array of associations – of corruption, spoiling, impurity, and toxicity.

With consideration of my political consciousness of the past year, this makes perfect sense. The call to altruism online and from friends, no matter how sincere, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Dima’s visual polemic through his photographs about vanquishing evil (though, yes, cruelty truly is limitless); goodness and its associations with purity; Alyona’s insistence that political messages be clear and direct to an audience (which audience)? Rizvana Bradley reminds us that political clarity is a myth, which is exploited by nation-states through realpolitik for mechanisms of control. From a formal perspective, there is also the altruism of photographs, which is to say, a photograph’s claim to be reproducing reality with integrity.

It occurs to me that my interest in blindness might be connected to an affect of taint. What’s being tainted is the faculty of visual perception, which, I feel, inevitably always fails us in some way. Cortázar likens blindness to the sensitivity of pseudopods (such a delightful name). Some have short tendrils that sense molecules in their immediate presence. Others have long filaments that can feel out into the great unknown, but are oblivious to what is near them.

With Fourteen Stations of the Cross, the taint occurs on the surface of the image. The book repeats a single image of two hands tugging on a piece of string, which, itself, depicts tension. But ultimately, the image is irrelevant because the narrative flow occurs through shifting exposures, and the declining health of the emulsion... so much so that the photograph eventually collapses. The point is not just that images / presences are not static, and transform over time. The point is that in Stations of the Cross, the photography’s integrity (its purity/ altruism) is the subject of the work, and the transformations from frame to frame show violence being inflicted upon that purity.

I was struck by the critical blindness during the colloquium with Edgar Heap of Birds. One of the group questions dealt with our personal relationship to the land and to ideas of sovereignty. Several white students became emotional about their family property (in the South). Another student spoke about the importance of foraging. Another of the fact that we must be stewards of the Earth. While these are all lovely ideas, I realized by the end of the discussion that there had been virtually no engagement with the history and culture of indigenous people in North America. For my part, I lack understanding of what that is (a blindness), which is due to being — I believe similar to many of my classmates, though they would prefer not to admit it – alienated from the land in all its complexity. That disengagement is because I can take sovereignty for granted. It’s not contested for me, it never has been, and probably never will be. My apathy is my freedom, and that freedom is inherited through colonialism. Nowhere in the discussion was there a recognition of indigenous people, or any inkling of collective responsibility. Part of me wanted to ask the group – raise your hand if your ancestors were colonists or slave owners? I think that most people in the room were aware of that stain even if no one addressed it. Blindness does not make what would be in the field of vision go away, of course. The problem is that it’s there but not being seen.

There was another moment of blindness while reading the first chapter of Aisthesis which focuses on Winckelmann’s discussion of the Belvedere Torso. Rancière is describing a pivotal shift in the sensorium when beauty is no longer tied to technical perfection, formal harmony, or anatomical accuracy. The Belvedere Torso lacks arms or a head, which means it lacks formal harmony. Nor can we get a sense of whether it is anatomically correct, the action it may have been performing, or the expression on Hercules’s face. All we can glean, based on the hunched posture and fleshy stomach, is that Hercules is at rest. Wincklemann exalts the Belvedere Torso because of its indifference, which both reflects something about the freedom of Ancient Greece, and also a something unnamable. It occurs to me that this shift in an understanding of beauty must correspond to a shift in attention. Inevitably, something within perception is gained, and something else is lost.

If blindness is sometimes taint, then it also suggests a troubled, corrupted vision — how it is immediately perceived as an image, or how it fuels an interpretation. Does it also suggest that taint is a process? Something becomes tainted, rather than beginning that way. It at least suggests a deviation from a baseline. There was a group photo with Rizvana and the other students in the critique she was leading. Simone and Yanaminah were hugging with such tenderness. Next came Rizvana with her arms in front of her. Next came me with arms behind my back. And then Asé, also with arms behind his back. Simone found the extreme contrast between warmth and stiffness funny, and Rizvana joked about how that’s what happens when you put the two people who hate photography next to each other.

2.

The Blind Man,Ticks, Mayonnaise

A facsimile of the publication by Duchamp, Henri-Pierre Roché, and Beatrice Wood, which I observed at the artist books special collections, and which delivers an aesthetic and political commentary on the state of art in America in inter-war period. The publication includes something like a manifesto in 23 parts by Henri Roché that begins with the line “The Blind Man celebrates today the birth of the Independence of Art in America,” referring to an exhibition that broke from the traditional arrangement of art based on artist or school. Instead, anyone was allowed to participate and the work was arranged alphabetically by artist. I have to remember how radical this was considering that curating, as we understand it now as a conceptually-based organization of works, was not established as practice until the 1960s. To come full circle, these same artists working in the 1960s owe so much to Duchamp.

What was radical about the Independents exhibition which connects to the idea of blindness is that, amid the visual chaos, viewers are forced to choose what to look at. The organizers relinquish their claims to criticism and selection, of judgment and emphasis, handing it over to anyone and everyone in the audience. It is essentially, a resistance to the blindness of uncritical looking, or as articulated in article V., “New York, far ahead in so many ways, yet indifferent to art in the making, is going to learn to think for itself, and no longer accept, mechanically, the art reputations made abroad.”

I grapple with how I might organize and exhibition around blindness without fetishizing the pathology. It’s not enough to show a work like John Dugdale’s, in which the condition reveals some element of the mystery of experience, without, immediately after, pointing to another picture and saying “and this is also blindness.” This is a meaningless jumble that does not ask or answer questions. But the model that the Independents offers is exactly this: it is to admit works blindly into an exhibition (even though the ultimate irony is that they censored Duschamp’s Fountain), arrange them by some more or less arbitrary rule (chronologically, it could also be by birthday, by the artist’s height, by the number of letters in the title of the work), and create a space of disorientation. In other words, a room where everyone starts out blind in an unfamiliar, and unorganized jumble, and push people into a position to try and see for themselves. Whether they make that choice, or how they make it, is a different story.

I’m not sure it’s the right approach, but it does raise questions about how the exhibition space can be used in a way that affects sightlessness, rather than just presents these ideas conceptually with aesthetic sensibility.

An interesting concept came up during colloquium that continues the connections between blindness and politics. It’s the concept of avisuality, which remains muddled in my head. It’s one that suggests what you refuse to see after the catastrophe has occurred. But Deutsche pushes further to say that the object that is being denied is also something that no longer exists. She is thinking about an artist whose family was implicated in crafting the atomic bomb that the U.S. dropped over Hiroshima. It is precisely the shocking blight – the complete overwhelming excess of light – that makes any kind of vision, recognition, confrontation, impossible after everything has been destroyed. I brought up the concept of avisuality to Atticus, and he was immediately gripped because of how it relates to ticks, which don’t have eyes. It’s not that they are blind so much as they inhabit a non-visual (avisual) world. These concepts are slippery.

Over the weekend I went to a beach with fetid water with Alec and Ana, feeling entirely alienated by the interaction. Their relationship is disturbing and has formed an emotional crater in the family. I felt compelled to film the bottle of mayonnaise that Ana brought, as well as the pores on my brother’s face as he wrinkled his brow and eyes because of the sun. I hope I was able to also capture in focus the absurd line from the Guattari article that I was reading – “frozen history, history of a frozen libido. Above all there is no history at all.” It was a dour beach experience. I neglected to use the light meter however so it might all be completely overexposed – also a blindness.

3.

The Prodigal Son, Split Printing, Groping

John Dugdale, Self Portrait with Black Eye, 1996

John Neff strikes me as being strangely attuned to religious suffering and I wonder what his own connections are to it. He suggests that I think about mystics and seers in my research on blindness, a direction I’ve purposely been cautious around because it strikes me as banal. It makes me wonder if I’ve been reaching for the same affects that spiritualism has historically offered, but through a secular framework; that is, relying on non-visual senses to perceive something that is usually associated with optics. It reminds me of the distinction in Russian between sense chuvstvo — intuition/emotional feeling/ — and oschuschenie — physical sensation— which are connected linguistically and also on a phenomenological(???) level. Mysticism seems to me especially tied to chustvo: I think of the American spiritualists who, drawing from William James, Emerson, and Transcendentalism, believe that tapping into intuition would be a means of accessing some essential truth that lies within. Seeing and having insight occurs whether or not actual optical vision is involved. My own foray into blindness; that is, how to create photography that feels its way through the world rather than sees its way through the world, pursues similar goals as the spiritualists. The focus is not so much on ethereal intuition as something that dwells more within the senses, which feels endlessly complex. I want to make photographs that don’t offer any kind of legible message that can be gleaned through vision, but that instead can bring you into a space of sensory stimulation.

Ultimately, this drive toward oschuscheniie (physical sensation) takes us back to chuvstvo (feeling), however, because I am not interested in photographs that can be literally felt, touched, smelled, etc. like John Waters’s Odorama card for Polyester. I’m curious about photographs that helps us imagine an encounter with something haptic. Something like Blue where the blue screen is rippling with the texture of the film stock (I can’t touch it, but I can imagine the grain sanding me down) or John Dugdale’s photographs that feel so erotic and touchable even if we encounter a flat surface. The haptic also suggests a kind of energy that is being passed back and forth which takes the form of physical sensation – an energy that brings to mind the late 19th century / early 20th century entanglement between experiments in electricity and the American spiritualist movements. I’m not sure if these thoughts are helping me make any progress… Even if mysticism were part of the exhibition, what form would it take? Nothing contemporary of value comes to mind, so perhaps this is in fact some avenue to explore rather than to dismiss.

I think it’s worth returning to where this idea of feeling one’s way comes from. For some reason, Tatyana Tolstaya’s interview for sobaka.ru about Rembrandt is still lodged in my head five years later. Going back to the text, the most important word – shupat’ – which means “to grope,” as in, groping one’s way through the dark, is nowhere to be found (It occurs to me that in Russian, the word “to grope” is linguistically related to the word for “physical sensation,” while  “to sense” is close to “feeling.”) But something else surprising does arise from the interview with sobaka. Essentially, Tolstaya was asked by one of the curators to write a text about any piece from Hermitage and she chose Prodigal Son. In my memory, Tolstaya spoke about the sense of touch in the piece. There is a sketch by Rembrandt in which connection between father and son occurs to some degree, on the level of vision. The father looks down at his son who hugs his knees asking for forgiveness. But in the painting at the Hermitage, the three figures in the background are very clearly watching the scene, while the father’s look is far less determined to the degree of suggesting sightlessness. The point of intimacy and reunion after these two figures have not seen each other for so long happens through touch. This is also a moment of profound uncertainty for both father and son, which the embrace seems to ameliorate, and which seems to flicker before our own eyes in how Rembrandt has lit the painting.

Unfortunately, the only interview by Tatyana Tolstaya about her work on The Prodigal Son mentions none of this so I’m worried I’ve completely botched her interpretation. But she does mention something that is intriguing, which is a story she wrote called “See reverse side” (Смотри на обороте)…I realize for the purposes of this assignment its obnoxious to write this in Russian, but I don’t want to forget later…In the story, she tells about visiting a cathedral in Ravenna after her father has passed. It costs a quarter to light a votive candle, which burns out quickly. The faint light, however, is enough to illuminate a painting in blue and gold for just a moment. Tolstaya describes how visitors felt that they had paid their due by contributing a quarter and were waiting for others to volunteer to contribute a coin for a candle. At some point, the flames were burning brightly and, curious as to who was being so generous, she realized it was a blind man who was sitting on a bench and donating quarters so that his guide could describe to him what she saw. Tolstaya understood that her approach in leading a conversation about Rembrandt’s work should be like that of the guide for the blindman. The point is that, like the guide, there is a great deal that she cannot access about the work. She is also faced with the challenge of studying the work in the dark, with only short moments of clarity to try and make out the image and describe it with care and sensitivity. To some extent, she is feeling her way through the dark.

While printing some of the super 8 frames in the darkroom last weekend, I accidentally spoiled a print in the middle of split-printing. Split-printing works by exposing highlights and shadows separately to provide a fuller tonal range. I must have gotten impatient. In making multiple prints at the same time, I exposed one sheet just for the highlights, and then removed it to insert a new sheet. At that point I realized I could no longer return the first sheet to the easel without destroying the image. The impression of the negative would not align! So I exposed the first sheet for shadows, but removed the negative entirely, creating a strange gray silver cast over the entire image of a stone madonna.

4.

Extraction, the moon, glitches, mystics

From Andrea Orejarena’s I Love You Like the Moon

I am still thinking about mystics. Today, Andrea asked me to write a short essay for her book on the topic of the moon and the femme. She is thinking about our conversation at Penumbra about six months ago in response to her book Glitch with Caleb. I was secretly curious about the way that she got caught on these moments of coincidence, and how she treated them as an end in themselves. Glitches like, seeing multiple people all wearing the same clothes, or patterns in the clouds, or government facilities that shouldn’t exist where they are, or photographs where the line between reality and artifice is ambiguous. I wondered if this phenomenon that feels grounded in computer circuits, materialism, and new technologies, was not also imbued with some spirituality. So I asked her just that: if these coincidences coalesce into any kind of spiritual experience. To which she said yes, if with embarrassment. She asked me the same question — how I relate to spirituality, so I told her about the family séances and that regardless of who, or what, or how some kind of phenomenon occurs, the very act of forming connections between different things in our material reality is what generates meaning, and that can be profoundly spiritual.

I am thinking about his because of moon extraction. I’ve spent the past week trying to craft an essay about extraction as it relates to Karin Schneider’s situational diagrams, the labor economy, and Juliana Cerquiera Leite’s film. Extraction, like all of Schneider’s operations, takes from the language of modernism to deconstruct it within the environment of the contemporary art system. Specifically, she created several small sculptures that were extracts of nudes from Matisse’s Nu Bleu III. Extraction recalls the violence colonial histories that underpin primitivism and its fascination with the exoticized body. It is also liberatory as the body, which was never allowed subjectivity to begin with, has metaphorically leapt out of the canvas and takes on abstracted form. The concept is compelling, but the problem is that its physical manifestation is a hideous metal sculpture barely arranged on the floor the gallery.

It feels counterfeit because I come away with a feeling that it is really Karin S doing the extracting; that is, mining for contrived meaning from any sloppily constructed artwork that she puts in the gallery. I don’t find this rigorous so much as exploitative of material. Karin’s terms like “extraction,” “obstruction,” “operation” can mean anything, to say anything, to generate anything. It is unclear to me why extraction should be anymore emblematic to the history of modernism than say “blindness” or “glitch.” In fact, I find them even weaker than Andrea’s relationship to the word “glitch” and perhaps my relationship to the word “blindness.” At least Andrea and Caleb can pin their notion of the glitch to specific objects and words.

 The idea of extraction came up in David Kelley’s work last week as well. For him, it’s tied specifically to deep sea mining. We spoke to some degree about moon mining — Leila’s pop-up show in April dropped me into the middle of the heinous Neue House event on lunar helium extraction. I was shocked, though not surprised, by how the CEO of the moon extraction start-up called Extraterrestrial Mining Company (XMC) emphasized that, UN charters aside, the moon was essentially lawless, which meant that companies could essentially do whatever they pleased. From there, he gave an unironically positive evaluation of the colonial beaver trade in Canada to generate fantasies of wealth and power that might come about by investing in his company. I think back to Andrea’s likening to the moon as feminine, and the enthusiasm with which the sleazebag speaks of seizing its resources.

It leads me to questions about vitalism, which I raised with David Kelley who I think considers these questions with great care and depth. My question was in response to our class discussions about deep-sea mining, in which we focused on the unalienable dignity of non-human life – which I understand as a given. But then, by those criteria, does it make moon-mining more permissible? This was the insidious ethical stance put forward by the start-up CEO: by extracting from the moon, we can slow the exhaustion of Earth’s scarce supply of helium-3 and be stewards of our one and only planet. It seems to me that the prerogative to end deep-sea mining is even more vast than protecting all of the creatures that live on the bottom on the ocean, but also about the water, the sand, the earth, etc., – which are not alive, but that we still have responsibility to protect. The obvious answer is that instead of turning to the moon, we just curb consumption – what David Kelley refer to as an ethics of de-growth. I wonder here about the discrepancy between what is desirable and what is possible, not that this question should ever lead to submission or ethical laziness.

5.

Black Square

I feel strongly compelled to comment on Adrienne Edwards’s reading on Malevich. I find that she didn’t so much read the painting, as much as put forth incomplete research to support an incredibly bold assertion. A discussion of Black Square appeared in her interview with November magazine, and again in a student’s colloquium presentation, which (no fault at all to the student), was even more watered down. The gist was that, during evaluation of the Black Square (Adrienne Edwards frames it as conservators “getting their hands on it”) conservators discovered a new layer of underpainting that bears a racist inscription. The line is pulled from an 1897 Alphonse Allais work for his April 1 Album on April Fool’s Day, which comprised seven monochrome rectangles alongside comic texts – and, evidently in the case of the black rectangle, reflecting the period’s normalized racism. Others included “Tomatoes being harvested by apoplectic cardinals on the shores of the Red Sea,” to accompany the red rectangle and an aphorism about anemic girls receiving first communion for the white rectangle.

In her research and curatorial practice, Adrienne Edwards rightfully pushes against the assumption that abstraction is neutral – that pure form can be relieved of political or social content, and that colors are just colors, and nothing more. For example, how is it that the black figure appears in painting, literature, culture, etc., but is never quite allowed to have a subjectivity in the way that their white counterparts are through the development of Enlightenment thinking, which, of course, emphasized autonomy and subjectivity formed through criticality? Instead, as Rizvana Bradley convincingly argues, the black figure often appears in these works to put whiteness and its social / ideological implications into relief. To further put this in the context of a colleague’s work, to focus one’s research on something like white skin in contemporary art is also, implicitly, to say something about blackness. These colors are not neutral – and this is where Rizvana through Fred Moten and Frantz Fanon begins to make interesting critiques of the phenomenological body, which are rather nuanced and I don’t need to get bogged down in here.

Still, Edwards’s discussion of Malevich rubbed the wrong way. I agree that to say that colors are just colors and that abstraction is neutral is a complete oversimplification. But for Adrienne Edwards to say that since the Black Square had this racist inscription in the underpainting, “My body, your body, was already implicated in the zero degree of painting from day one” AND “you can’t actually talk about abstraction without talking about the body” is also laden with oversimplification. Doesn’t this suggest that Malevich had inscribed figuration into his abstraction despite rigorous working of theory? And Malevich would purposefully undermine this rigor for the sake of a joke? I suppose we can toss aside questions of intention to observe what simply is. But Edwards’s critique isn’t so neutral as to simply state what is, or was – it’s also to impose a schematic, and incredibly politicized certainty on a work of art that, taken on its own, operates by offering absolutely nothing. 

Furthermore, when we do dig into the politics, history, and details of production of the painting, things get quite complicated. I am relying largely on Alexandra Shatskikh for this information who is the foremost Malevich scholar in the world and has also been vocally against the politics within Russian and Putinist-conforming institutions. In other words, someone who also sees the intertwining of abstraction and politics. Shatskikh points out that the inscription was not the only layer of underpainting. There was also a work of abstraction, in color, directly underneath Black Square, which after many years of exhibition, began to peek through the black surface. And yet, nothing about this lost work has led to any kind of re-evaluation of Black Square or its theoretical underpinnings. Furthermore, there is actually no evidence that Malevich was the person who wrote the inscription in the first place. Shatskikh describes in detail Malevich’s repulsion with Parisian cabaret and bohemian lowbrow culture, the milieu that produced the Alphonse Allais racist comic (which, in fact, he plagiarized from another artist). Furthermore, there is documentation that Malevich had written letters to the artist Mikhail Matiushin in June 1915, several months after the original 0, 10 exhibition with ideas on how he might continue to push Black Square from a theoretical standpoint. And furthermore, there is evidence that work by Malevich and Tatlin had been graffitied by visitors hostile to the work. Shatskikh’s absolute certainty that Malevich did not make the inscription himself gives me pause. But still, why should we take for granted that he did? There is even reason why Vakar would have pushed the iconoclastic headline. It is well known and documented that the historical avant-garde has been undermined by Putinist authoritarianism because it’s an aesthetic movement that provoked / provokes and inspired / inspires political instability. The museum’s exhibition to commemorate the revolution, which they called Nekto 1917 [Somebody 1917], essentially downplayed the revolution as a historical abberation. And this the critique that Shatskikh levels against the Tretyakov’s handling of their findings: that it was used to encourage a revised narrative about Malevich as unserious, racist, confused about his own theories.

Shatskikh believes that the work was vandalized at some point in its early exhibition history. To say that a racist philistine may have vandalized Black Square doesn’t lead me to suprising conclusions: in this scenario, the body and abstraction are intertwined in a way that reflects the non-neutrality of color within a larger culture + aesthetic regime. I take this idea, more or less, as a given and I think it would be very difficult to contest. It is far more radical to say that Malevich himself wrote the inscription because this suggests that a racialized body has been flowing through the very conceptualization and metabolizing of ideas within modernist abstraction since day 1. That non-representation never actually happened. This is essentially what Adrienne Edwards is telling us, and I think her argument needs more support.

I don’t think I’m splitting hairs by agreeing with her overall argument, but picking at her analysis of Malevich. I’m reminded of Latour’s essay and his distinction between “matters of concern” and “matters of fact.” I can’t look past the sloppy mobilization of facts in Edwards’s work, however. Once one part of the argument is discredited, I feel a need to very closely scrutinize every other part of the argument as well. As much the intellectual’s job is to not take arguments at face value, there also must be some basis of trust in each other’s work and integrity. I also want to point out that Edwards said incorrectly during her lecture that the curator Irina Vakar is working in Saint Petersburg, which made me cringe. When I want to get to profound matters of concern with disregard to reality, I read fiction and it serves me very well. When I read an academic text, I expect it to be well researched and grounded in facts.

Certainty is blindness. Negativity (as in, negative space) is blindness. Negativity is also akin to an uncertainty – a total lack of information. I think that is part of what attracts me so much to blindness as an impetus for reflection. It demands a humility in my engagement with the world and surroundings because it reminds me that certainty forecloses mystery and understanding. I think Edwards would do well to treat Malevich like Tatyana Tolstaya treats the Rembrandt painting, and like the blindman treats the icon in the church in Ravenna.

6.

The First Homosexuals, Ghost Image, No Nation

Romaine Brooks, Self-Portrait, 1923

I found Winckelmann at Wrightwood 659. His writing was on display on the top floor of The First Homosexuals: The Birth of a New Identity, 1869 – 1939 in a section about homoeroticism in art and culture during the 18th century. Among my favorites was an early 18th century oil painting attributed to Alessandro Magnasco of four friars in an orgy. There are two in the foreground on the left having anal sex. In the background on the right is another friar who appears to be jerking another one off. Scenes like Magnasco’s are quite explicitly gay. Thinking about Winckelmann’s writing as homoerotic is less transparent… not that it didn’t cross my mind when I encountered this passage by Winckelmann in Rancière:

In that powerfully developed chest we behold in imagination the breast against which the giant Geyron was squeezed, and in the length and strength of the thighs we recognize the unwearied hero who pursued and overtook the brazen-footed stag, and travelled through countless lands even to the very confines of the world. The artist may admire in the outlines of this body the perpetual flowing of one form into another, and the undulating lines which rise and fall like waves, and become swallowed up in one another.

It's challenging to read passages like this which were written centuries ago and then translated, and to understand how much of the homoerotics is a matter of baroque convention, and how much of it might actually reflect queer desire. I find the curator’s interpretation of the piece quite compelling. Because regardless of what was stirring for Winckelmann when he wrote the text, it is true that the history of classicism, which Winckelmann was so crucial in re-popularizing and re-framing, did become the adopted historical precedent for many 19th and 20th century queer artists (does my logic mirror that of Edward’s with Black Square here?). The feeling of estrangement, like I felt with Winckelmann’s work, is what I think the exhibition did best. It presented paintings like portraits and interiors, in which I would never consider questions of gender or sexuality, and then showed the ways in which those concerns were very much present when the work was made. This is a play with critical blindness: to lift the viewer from their stable fixed position, and then plop them somewhere else, and then…suddenly we find out that the nude woman lying in bed and looking seductively out at the viewer was painted by her lover, a woman. In another painting, which shows an older matron and young child, we find out that these are representations of the painter’s family. It turns out that the painter and their same-sex partner adopted the kid. In another painting, we find two male gay poets strolling on the sidewalk arm in arm, with a prostitute in the foreground expressing utter disinterest because their sexual desires find no meeting point.

I scanned the paintings for inspiration for the performance at No Nation, in which I was tasked with photographing. I looked for groups primarily, so struck by how natural the intimacy comes across. I wish I could achieve that in photographs. Friends embracing so tenderly with their limbs positioned just in the right place. In others, there is a spontaneity that comes from cultivated freedom. In my photographs, spontaneity comes out of chaotic accidents. All the inspirations I came across – Claude Cahun, Timur Novikov, Blonde Cobra, Scott Burton – went right out the window when the performance started. I couldn’t see anything or focus the image, and I was sweating bullets trying to chase the light wherever I could. It is funny that so many people approached me later saying that regardless of whether the photos turned out, the performance of taking photographs was beautiful to watch. It reminds me so much of my love, Hervé Guibert, in Ghost Image, when he speaks of how taking the photograph of his mother wrenched open a profound intimacy with her that wouldn’t have been possible without the presence of the lens. We find out, though, that his father processed the film poorly and the film turned out blank. Somehow, the physical imprint of the image doesn’t really matter…? The intimacy has already been created with or without the index. This is also a blindness.

Top left: Still from Blonde Cobra, 1963

Top right: Claude Cahun, 1927

Bottom left: Timur Novikov, 1986