After returning from a showing of some of Vivian Maier's work in Atlanta, I've been reflecting on what was her engine, her source of momentum. Maier never showed her work and had no known associates or colleagues in any social or artistic community.
But she did have a connection to her subjects. That is strikingly clear from a viewing of her images. Many of her pictures involve people, and most of those were unposed. They reveal a respect for their dignity, regardless of social standing. If any possess pretence or arrogance, those qualities inhering in the subjects are not superimposed by the photographer. And Maier takes the same approach to her own self-portraits. She discloses a personal dignity, self control, and presence in those photographs, even though many of them obscure some or all of herself in shadow or reflections. They portray a kind of stature and presence that is quite independent from her actual physical dimensionality.
Many of her images remained on unprocessed rolls of film. Only posthumously are they seeing the light of day. This means that Maier took countless images without ever personally viewing the results.
Those who now possess her work have been meticulously preparing it for publication and showing, one negative at a time. I am told that what is striking about her work is how few of her pictures are bad images. She possessed a refined and perfected craft with a heightened sense of timing and composition, and took a camera with her everywhere. The equipment seldom left her hands.
She possessed mastery of the craft, sensitivity and empathy for her subjects, and no desire for approval or critique of her images. External acknowledgement appeared to be irrelevant to her. And even the tangible results of her art - the image in print form - seemed to be a low priority to her. For her, the practice was primary, not the product.
I can imagine her walking with perfect posture, making brief eye contact with strangers, relaxed smile, Rolliflex always ready at her waist, open to and anticipating a fleeting moment of the right light, perfect composition, and convergence of textures and lines. She moved through space with the kind of gentle attentiveness masterful photographers and spiritual masters have in common.
I don't know if she actually did this, but I wouldn't be surprised if she continued to compose and "shoot" with her camera even after she ran out of film or money.
I suspect, for Maier, the camera was the portal through which she primarily engaged the world. I can't help but think that without the camera at her waist, her vision would have been diminished. Here practice as photographer was the way she saw, encountered and engaged. She seemed to have little curiosity, in her later years, about what the pictures looked like. The print was a byproduct, something left over after the process concluded, increasingly irrelevant as time passed. It was through the camera's viewfinder that she accessed her world, not through the printed image. I can only speculate. I might be entirely wrong about this. Maybe the reason so many rolls of film went undeveloped was purely financial.
But we can't dispute that Vivian Maier and her cameras were inseparable. Most of us also agree that she articulated the way she saw the world with a voice that was exquisitely gifted. How fortunate it is for all of us that she used real film in her cameras.
Read another related post about Vivian Maier on my general photography blog.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Artist and Viewer
The separation of artist from audience has been something I've been thinking about recently. To what extent do the preferences of viewers affect the kind of work I produce or offer for exhibition or purchase? How have viewers communicated these preferences to me? Do mediators (curators, gallery owners, publishers) affect the choices and decisions I make as an artist? Do I have a role in defining who my audience will be?
In a recent email newsletter from the Shambhala Meditation Center of Atlanta there was .included a copy of a letter written in 1974 by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche. I found it to be so appropriate, I include it in its entirety below. I highlighted some sentences in bold type for emphasis.
The Dharma Art Letter
A letter written by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche on the occasion of the Naropa Institute’s first summer program in Boulder Colorado, July 1974. Pgs. 1-2, True Perception.
The term dharma art does not mean art depicting Buddhist symbols or ideas, such as the wheel of life or the story of Gautama Buddha. Rather, dharma art refers to art that springs from a certain state of mind on the part of the artist that could be called the meditative state. It is an attitude of directness and unself-consciousness in one’s creative work.
The basic problem in artistic endeavor is the tendency to split the artist from the audience and then try to send a message from one to the other. When this happens, art becomes exhibitionism. One person may get a tremendous flash of inspiration and rush to “put it down on paper” to impress or excite others, and a more deliberate artist may strategize each step of his work in order to produce certain effects on his viewers. But no matter how well-intentioned or technically accomplished such approaches may be, they inevitably become clumsy and aggressive toward others and toward oneself.
In meditative art, the artist embodies the viewer as well as the creator of the works. Vision is not separate from operation, and there is no fear of being clumsy or failing to achieve his aspiration. He or she simply makes a painting, poem, piece of music, or whatever. In that sense, a complete novice could pick up a brush and, with the right state of mind, produce a masterpiece. It is possible, but that is a very hit-and-miss approach. In art, as in life generally, we need to study our craft, develop our skills, and absorb the knowledge and insight passed down by tradition.
But whether we have the attitude of a student who could still become more proficient in handling his materials, or the attitude of an accomplished master, when we are actually creating a work of art there is a sense of total confidence. Our message is simply one of appreciating the nature of things as they are and expressing it without any struggle of thoughts and fears. We give up aggression, both toward ourselves, that we have to make a special effort to impress people, and toward others, that we can put something over on them.
Genuine art—dharma art—is simply the activity of nonaggression.
In a recent email newsletter from the Shambhala Meditation Center of Atlanta there was .included a copy of a letter written in 1974 by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche. I found it to be so appropriate, I include it in its entirety below. I highlighted some sentences in bold type for emphasis.
The Dharma Art Letter
A letter written by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche on the occasion of the Naropa Institute’s first summer program in Boulder Colorado, July 1974. Pgs. 1-2, True Perception.
The term dharma art does not mean art depicting Buddhist symbols or ideas, such as the wheel of life or the story of Gautama Buddha. Rather, dharma art refers to art that springs from a certain state of mind on the part of the artist that could be called the meditative state. It is an attitude of directness and unself-consciousness in one’s creative work.
The basic problem in artistic endeavor is the tendency to split the artist from the audience and then try to send a message from one to the other. When this happens, art becomes exhibitionism. One person may get a tremendous flash of inspiration and rush to “put it down on paper” to impress or excite others, and a more deliberate artist may strategize each step of his work in order to produce certain effects on his viewers. But no matter how well-intentioned or technically accomplished such approaches may be, they inevitably become clumsy and aggressive toward others and toward oneself.
In meditative art, the artist embodies the viewer as well as the creator of the works. Vision is not separate from operation, and there is no fear of being clumsy or failing to achieve his aspiration. He or she simply makes a painting, poem, piece of music, or whatever. In that sense, a complete novice could pick up a brush and, with the right state of mind, produce a masterpiece. It is possible, but that is a very hit-and-miss approach. In art, as in life generally, we need to study our craft, develop our skills, and absorb the knowledge and insight passed down by tradition.
But whether we have the attitude of a student who could still become more proficient in handling his materials, or the attitude of an accomplished master, when we are actually creating a work of art there is a sense of total confidence. Our message is simply one of appreciating the nature of things as they are and expressing it without any struggle of thoughts and fears. We give up aggression, both toward ourselves, that we have to make a special effort to impress people, and toward others, that we can put something over on them.
Genuine art—dharma art—is simply the activity of nonaggression.
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