Do you consider these approaches valid as ‘art’? 

Art, like culture, society, nature, self, is a slippery term with multiple meanings. Art has a perennially contested, perennially shifting social meaning. Matisse’ breakthrough work was dismissed as ‘decoration’ rather than art by the French establishment, and the phenomenon of ‘outsider art’ shows how creative work overlooked in one era can become celebrated art in another. This being the case, all the photographic works in this presentation can be considered ‘art’ simply because establishment figures have considered them as such, often stressing the validity of the work as ‘art’ in financial terms.

However, and this is of much greater interest to me, art has a personal dimension, and I believe we each have our own subjective working definition of what art is – and perhaps just as important, what it isn’t, as seen by the ongoing popular antipathy to Tracy Emin’s bed. My working definition is a creative piece that is both intellectually and technically rigorous, whatever medium is being used (and this can include beds), and that has the ability not just to engage the viewer, but to involve them. Art might involve me in ways that I don’t enjoy – such as the work of Francis Bacon – or in ways that I do – such as the work of Georgia O’Keefe. Where something considered ‘art’ leaves me cold, as with the paintings of Rothko, I defer to a respect for technical proficiency and personal vision (more on that later). Where none of these apply, I will grudgingly go along with the fact that it’s ‘art’ because other people say it is. As, I’m afraid, with the work of Cindy Sherman (more on that later, too). 

How important are the principles of photographic craft skills?

I think that depends on what you define as these skills. Art, for me, is the understanding and use of the medium to communicate. Eggleston’s understanding of dye, Adams’ understanding of chemistry, these are irrelevant if you’ve chosen to use the Polaroid as your camera, and yet Wim Wenders’ understanding of the limitations and possibilities of this mass-market device, never intended for artistic production, is arguably as skilful as either of these. And, anyway, are the craft skills the same as technical skills? Mise en scene is adopted from theatrical via cinema and yet crucial for much postmodern photography. I think the question should be ‘How important is the ability to match intention with image outcome?’ To that question, I would answer: essential.

How important is the idea of the photographer as subjective author?

While there are numerous critical positions on this, I am, again, answering personally as I think this is the most productive for my practice. For me, the idea is incredibly important, although it needs to be said adding ‘subjective’ to author is somewhat redundant – there could never be such a thing as ‘objective’ author, even were that author to be the author of the most empiricist of science reports. I look to photographers whose work I know will give me pleasure, educate me both technically and politically, and inspire my own work. I will be drawn to specific styles, themes and experiences; that their work carries their name as author’s helps me do this. In a world drowning in images, this is perhaps now more important than ever.

That said, I’m of course aware that there can never be any ‘sole’ author – every photographer is borrowing from their own experience of culture, and with photography in particular there are other agencies inherent in the image itself, whether of the camera, lens, film etc, or the articles which enter through the lens, signage, facial expressions, and agents beyond human culture. I am also aware that I will bring my own subjectivity to bear, that I will recreate the image myself each time afresh – there can never be an accurate reproduction where factors such as light, screen warmth, paper type, differences in eyesight, personal experience, and psychological cognition. Nevertheless, I will be drawn to a book of Stephen Shore’s photographs because through his authorship, all these factors are able to mix in a largely reliable way that will chime with what I wish to find.

Where do you position your own practice with regard to the ideas of postmodern photography?

I flirted with the postmodern as a writer, and spent considerable time exploring the postmodern novel. The postmodern has its potentials and its charms – but also its pitfalls. It lends itself to solipsism and needless difficulty. While claiming to embrace the popular and commonplace, much postmodern art – from literature to architecture to photography – needs explaining to be appreciated, and often feels like an intellectual and exclusive in-joke. If you don’t get the joke, it’s hard to appreciate on its own merits, and this is perhaps why it often falls flat outside of intellectual circles. I thought the film clip from Zoo (Salla Tykka, 2006) was awful, frankly: without notable aesthetic merit nor with anything particularly interesting to say for itself. At its best, the postmodern is joyfully playful: here the play was in deadly earnest. I feel similarly, though less strongly, about the work of Cindy Sherman. As for Richard Prince, my feelings are – yes, I see what you’re saying, very clever, but so what? Who cares? 

Calling attention to artistic constructedness and the motives behind creation is nothing new – it’s traceable at least back to Don Quixote – but has been a prevalent force since Marcel DuChamp. Personally, I find it a spent force. Creative activity can be turned towards a great number of things, and self-referentiality feels to me an unnecessary weight. I believe it’s long been time to move on to other things. In short, in relation to my practice I don’t care about the postmodern – I’m simply not interested in those conversations any more. 

Do we simply live in a world of recycled images? 

Yes, of course we do. We live in a world of recycled everything. Surely nothing is more recycled than language – and yet we each find our own distinctive position in relation to it. We each of us use language and the power structures inherent in it in our own way. This is why I find Bakhtin’s theory of dialogism a more open, less cynical and ultimately more empowering account of the constructedness of culture. 

Can we be original any more? 

That surely depends on what one means by original. In Joel Sternfeld’s On This Site (1996) there’s a picture of a kitchen and on the fridge is a quote from Carl Sagan: If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the whole universe. In other words, the idea of true originality is a myth. It’s how we combine the elements we find that counts, even if the alterations we make to a pre-existing set of circumstances and materials are very subtle. One might also say that striving above all for originality is simply another expression of the worship of individualism. If that’s the case, it’s perhaps not such a great thing to strive for. I’d much rather get on with making the apple pie. 

Sternfeld, J. 1996. On This Site. San Francisco: Chronicle Books. 

Zoo [short film]. Dir. Tykka, S. Finland. 2006. 12 mins.

I’ve been keen to see both these photobooks for a while as each is expressing something specific, and quite different, about place: Morris’ personal, bittersweet documenting of contemporary Wales, Sternfeld’s exploration of sites of a range of violence, including land theft, industrial negligence, spree shooting, abduction, assassination, police brutality and rape. 

Sternfeld is a photographer working in a manner more akin to my inclinations. This is not a peopled landscape and Sternfeld uses a variety of framing strategies. His images are composed with a keen eye for line and leading the viewer through the image, often abruptly throwing the eye across the frame and out the other side, at other times drawing the eye into the frame through perspectival lines. Some objects – a bus stop, a decaying store, a pile of rubble – are centred and the image largely flat. Specific motifs recurr – gates, snow (sometimes very deftly used) and golden light. Sternfeld often uses long exposure times, blurring water, trees, a bird, and distant people, and this provides a gently surreal touch without calling too much attention to self-reflexivity. The images by themselves are quiet, suggestive and often beautiful. 

The role of text is indispensible. Sternfelds language is plain and unemotive, though not cold, and a dialogue between image and text emerges, each re-enforcing and developing the other. The use of space and the lack of people allows space for the viewer to pause and imagine for themselves, while the strong use of coherent style communicates Sternfeld’s role as witness – and fellow traveller, fellow imaginer. The strong contextual details – time of day, season – give a sense of the place as a living place, not simply a stage. This abstracts the event – even where there is evidence of it such as memorials, the collective effect of the empty places bleeds through. The series is chronological, with events largely taken from the 10 years prior to the 1996 publication date. I believe I have much to learn from this work. 

I had previously only seen large format photographs from Morris’ book, which reminded me of the work of John Davies. The large format photographs form a coherent group here, and are glorious. However, I felt the range of styles was too wide, and in particular I didn’t find Morris’ more documentary images, many of the Welsh seaside, to communicate much, nor to be aesthetically interesting. This is perhaps simply a matter of personal preference, but having loved the documentary seaside work of Tony Ray-Jones and Marketa Luskakova, I’m not so sure. Morris does not somehow seem to establish a coherent style as does Sternfeld, something I’m addressing in my own work, although where there is consistency, such as the large format views or – particularly – the street views, which sometimes flirt with abstractions – these are a joy. 

The sequencing is interesting, however, and I think something I can learn from. Morris makes thematic links running between double spreads, leading the viewer through Wales, so it feels, and dividing the experience unobtrusively into segments through the occasional use of a blank white page. Many of the double spread pairings are inspired – particularly that of Popton Refinery and Caerfilli Castle, both structures filling an identically sized band of structure in the middle of each shot, each separated from the viewer by infrastructure such as gates and lights. Indeed, this pairing could be said to sum up the Wales that Morris is trying to demonstrate – contextualising heritage and industry amongst contemporary crass banality, celebrating the persistence of culture while critiquing myth-making. 

Morris, J. 2010. A Landscape of Wales. Stockport: Dewi Lewis Publishing. 

Sternfeld, J. 1996. On This Site. San Francisco: Chronicle Books.