Photography

Photographer Steven Llorca sees Chattanooga through the lens of his camera

Photographer Steven Llorca sees Chattanooga through the lens of his camera

When Steven Llorca takes a photo, he’s looking for spaces or structures that are iconic, well-composed or interestingly juxtaposed. When he takes a photo, he’s looking to capture a scene with the most appealing light and atmosphere. When he takes a photo, he could be in one place for just a moment or for hours, depending on the scene’s conditions. For Llorca, this is the process that fine art photography requires, and based on the resulting images, it really seems to be working for him.

Before he was a fine art photographer, Llorca worked predominantly in commercial publishing as an art director utilizing graphic design and, later, photography in his work. He worked on a variety of projects focused on such subjects as sports cars and commercial products.

In the early ’00s, Llorca moved to Tennessee and began pursuing fine art photography several years later. His interest in photography — and art in general — began long before his professional career did.

In middle and high school, Llorca’s art teachers, the Carters (a married couple), helped foster his interest in art. He took all the available art classes his schools provided, and once he outgrew the introductory skills these classes taught, Mrs. Carter provided him with more advanced materials to further develop his abilities.

“The thing that really drew me to [art] was the freedom I had to invent things in my head and imagine and observe and juxtapose what I saw with what I wanted to think about,” Llorca says.

Llorca’s initial interest in photography came from the process of darkroom development, he says. His brother worked in a darkroom at Six Flags, where he would develop photos of park visitors and put them into souvenir keychains. Llorca found his brother’s stories of the darkroom interesting, but his own work in a darkroom wouldn’t come until his time in art school when he took an introduction to photography class.

  photo  “Debutts Trainyard” by photographer Steven Llorca
 
 

In the class, Llorca had the chance to make a pinhole camera, put film in it and learn how to use the darkroom to develop the film. The darkroom process — the use of chemicals, machines and other materials and factors — to develop film hearkened back to Llorca’s early days with art, he says.

“There’s a certain romance to that darkroom process, and in many ways, it was like doodling and drawing,” he says. “There was a lot of experimentation and being playful and studying something like, ‘Would this be better this way, or would it be better that way?'”

Llorca developed his photography skills during his time working in the corporate world by offering to shoot smaller-budget projects or learning different techniques and methods from the photographers on bigger-budget projects. Once he transitioned into fine art photography, he found greater creative freedom as an artist.

As a fine art photographer, Llorca says, you are your own client and must decide how you want to use elements in a scene to portray your artistic vision.

Llorca says that he takes inspiration from art history to inform his photography. For example, the Hudson River School of American landscape painters inspires his use of light and atmosphere to evoke emotion. He also achieves this evocation from his use of movement through long-exposure techniques that blur objects in motion.

“I want there to be some type of response,” Llorca says of his photography. “My goal is to create one that is positive, uplifting and represents some sort of intangible [feeling and connection].”

  photo  “Lake with Chair at Sunset” by photographer Steven Llorca
 
 

While he’s had the opportunity to travel to several other countries for his photography, Llorca is able to find inspiration and create beautiful images right here in Chattanooga. He says that he wants people to have an emotional connection to his photos, but he also wants his photos of Chattanooga to help people relive memories and feelings they have towards places around the city, such as the Walnut Street Bridge or the Tennessee River.

For those interested in pursuing photography, Llorca advises not getting hung up on the right equipment to use and instead using what is readily available, such as a smartphone. Sometimes, he says, having limitations is unlimiting, as it requires you to be more creative and find your own solutions.

“A lot of times, you’ve just got to pick something and go with it and not be afraid to be wrong,” Llorca says. “Then go ask yourself, ‘Why was I wrong?’ and move forward, fix it, experiment.”

To see more of Llorca’s work, visit him in-person most Sundays at the Chattanooga Market or online at stevenllorca.com.

  photo  Staff photo by Matt Hamilton / Photographer Steven Llorca talks to Chattanooga resident Justus McMillan about his photos at his booth at the Chattanooga Market.
 
 

Wildlife Photographer of the Year 2023 – The Eye of Photography Magazine

Wildlife Photographer of the Year 2023 – The Eye of Photography Magazine

For almost 60 years, the Natural History Museum in London has organized the Wildlife Photographer of the Year, rewarding the best nature photographs selected by an international jury.
Here are 10 of the most beautiful images selected from 50,000 photos presented in the competition, from 30 countries.

https://www.nhm.ac.uk/wpy

The portfolio of the 100 winning photos of the competition will be found in an exceptional book to be published in October by Biotope editions.

Sale price: €34
ISBN: 978-2-36662-307-9
Format: 25 x 25 cm – 160 pages
Publication: October 2023
Available in bookstores and on
www.leclub-biotope.com

Beat the blues: 5 tips for rediscovering your photography mojo (Part two)

Beat the blues: 5 tips for rediscovering your photography mojo (Part two)

2 October 2023

This is part two of a two part series on rediscovering your photography mojo. You can find part one, from last week, here. 

6 Follow your instincts

Most of us have experienced the sense of knowing things before we know them, even if we can’t explain how.

I firmly believe in following my instincts, not only as a photographer but also throughout life. It’s how we experience life and it can aid in breaking creative ruts as an artist, but how you may ask? Whenever you feel an inclination of inspiration, or have an idea, pause and then follow your gut while the inspiration is fresh.

It can be extremely difficult to rekindle that spark once the moment has passed, and it’s almost always impossible to conjure up on command, so listen to the voice inside and pursue the moments and ideas whenever they arise.

You never know what it may become if you don’t at least give it a shot. 

Image: Drew Hopper/supplied
Image: Drew Hopper/supplied

7 Take from your mistakes

One of my favourite quotes belongs to Raymond Carver, who once said, “You’ve got to work with your mistakes until they look intended.” This quote is very fitting for anyone looking to succeed in photography.

We all make mistakes whether we are open about it or not. No one is perfect and this is exactly why we should acknowledge all those imperfections. It’s only through insisting and pretending that the errors are intentional that you can make real, unintentional masterpieces.

A good practice is to try shooting a roll of film, which is intentionally about mistakes.

Give it a shot, review each frame and see where you went wrong, but also see how and why some of those mistakes work.

Image: Drew Hopper/supplied
Image: Drew Hopper/supplied

8 Allow yourself space 

Most of my strongest images are taken when I am in the right frame of mind for making pictures. Typically, this occurs when the situation is unplanned, spontaneous and free to uncertainty. The forest itself gives me time and space for unexpected and introspective thinking.

I feel safe in being alone in nature, allowing for both intimate and personal behaviour to take place, which is when I tend to produce my best work. A good practice is to go somewhere you feel at ease, somewhere quiet and private. Only photograph when you feel the timing or moment is right.

Don’t force yourself to take the image if you don’t feel it. By doing this experiment you’ll realise the importance of being in the moment, and not just firing off shots until you feel like you’ve got the shot. It’s an inspiring sensation when the camera becomes an extension of yourself, and it’ll teach you a lot about yourself too.

9 Play with different gear/techniques

© Drew Hopper - Burnt landscape after the Black Summer bushfires. Cathedral Rock National Park, NSW Australia.
Fujifilm X-T2, Fujifilm 23mm f/2 @ 23mm. 1/640s @ f4, ISO 200.
© Drew Hopper – Burnt landscape after the Black Summer bushfires. Cathedral Rock National Park, NSW Australia.
Fujifilm X-T2, Fujifilm 23mm f/2 @ 23mm. 1/640s @ f4, ISO 200.

Sometimes mixing things up with the gear we use can have a dramatic impact on our approach and motivation with creativity. For example, maybe you regularly shoot portraits using only natural light, so perhaps you could try adding flash to give a different quality of light.

 

© Andy Mumford
© Andy Mumford

 

 

 

 

© Andy Mumford
© Andy Mumford

 

 

 

 

 

 

10 Set goals

One of the most common struggles for photographers, especially those who do it full time is figuring out what to do with your precious time.

Having specific goals is a great way for productivity and clarity as well as for staying motivated and inspired.

The key is to set realistic goals that are achievable on a day-to-day basis. Take a moment to think about what exactly you want to achieve, write a list and then slowly work your way through them.

It could be as simple as taking daily photos at the same location or route that you travel each day, or maybe you want to make a photobook, so set aside a few hours each day to shoot specifically for the book project. Goals will help keep you focused and motivated to create new work.

Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit review

Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit review

How can you make possibly the best smartphone for photography an even more capable cameraphone? Accessorize it!

Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit review

That’s exactly what Xiaomi did for the 13 Ultra with the Photography Kit – a quirky set of accessories for the everyday phone user, but an invaluable work tool for the enthusiast photographer and videographer.

What’s the Photography Kit?

The Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit features a quality protective case with a lens cap, a 67mm filter adapter, a camera grip with Bluetooth, and a lanyard.

The whole package
The whole package

The whole package

You can just snap the case on the phone and put the cap on top. It protects the cameras from dust and other potentially-harming objects and it looks cool. The lens cap attaches with a push.

Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit review

The grip accessory is pretty neat. You slide it onto the bottom of the case and it has a convenient locking lever to stay in place. The grip has a USB-C port so you can charge its built-in battery, a lanyard hole, and a full-on shutter button – it has half-press focusing and a zoom ring.

Press and hold the shutter for a second and the remote grip initiates pairing with the phone. From there it can launch the camera from a locked phone, control the zoom, and take pictures.

Lanyard eyelet and a zoom ring around the shutter button
Lanyard eyelet and a zoom ring around the shutter button

Lanyard eyelet and a zoom ring around the shutter button

With the case and grip attached, the Xiaomi 13 Ultra becomes a photography powerhouse! It’s very easy to fall into a rhythm of waking up the phone and moving between the different cameras using just your index finger. Taking the phone out of your pocket by grabbing the grip is very convenient too.

[embedded content]

If you want to take your imaging further, twist on the 67mm filter adapter on the back of the case. This is the most popular filter thread on the market and you’ll get the widest selection of ND and circular polarizing filters around.

Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit review

We happened to have a CPL lying around and we attached it to the phone to take some photos. Using a filter on the Xiaomi 13 Ultra feels fully professional. And it’s nearly impossible to twist the adapter off the phone’s case.

We found that the best use case for the Photography Kit is action shooting. It takes capturing your friends playing beach volleyball to a whole other level. Put the phone in either 3.2x or 5x, half-press to focus, and then wait for the ideal moment.

Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit review

Here are a few samples we shot with the Xiaomi 13 Ultra with the Photography Kit attached.

Xiaomi 13 Ultra using the Photography kit - f/1.8, ISO 64, 1/3450s - News 23 09 Xiaomi Photography Kit Review  review
Xiaomi 13 Ultra using the Photography kit - f/3.0, ISO 80, 1/100s - News 23 09 Xiaomi Photography Kit Review  review
Xiaomi 13 Ultra using the Photography kit - f/1.8, ISO 640, 1/33s - News 23 09 Xiaomi Photography Kit Review  review
Xiaomi 13 Ultra using the Photography kit - f/3.0, ISO 50, 1/659s - News 23 09 Xiaomi Photography Kit Review  review
Xiaomi 13 Ultra using the Photography kit - f/3.0, ISO 64, 1/775s - News 23 09 Xiaomi Photography Kit Review  review
Xiaomi 13 Ultra using the Photography kit - f/1.8, ISO 64, 1/3111s - News 23 09 Xiaomi Photography Kit Review  review

Xiaomi 13 Ultra using the Photography kit

Conclusion

It’s hard to find the Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit online. It seems your best option is to import it from China. Prices range from around $130 to nearly $300. It’s a quality set of tools, but not amazing value for money.

The joy we get from using such accessories with a phone may well make it worth it, however. It brings us back to a few years back when phone and accessory makers were more imaginative, more daring. Remember LG and Friends, those were some fun days.

Xiaomi 13 Ultra Photography Kit review

Now phones have become clinical tools. They perform a million tasks and they excel at most of them. Being great at photography is one of their key strengths. Using something like the Xiaomi Photography Kit can elevate one of the best phones around to a full-on professional tool.

Penn College photography instructor exhibits works in national juried shows

Penn College photography instructor exhibits works in national juried shows

Williamsport, Pa. — Photographs by Joanna Knox Yoder, instructor of photography at Penn College, were recently selected for exhibition in three juried shows — one in South Carolina and two in Georgia.

Yoder’s digital photograph, “The First President,” was selected for two exhibitions: “SlowExposures” at the historic R.F. Strickland Building in Concord, Georgia, and “Forgotten” at the Southeast Center for Photography in Greenville, South Carolina.

“SlowExposures” opened September 14 and runs through October. Now in its 20th year, the annual juried exhibition celebrates the rural American South. “Forgotten” is on display through September and offers artists’ representations of forgotten people, places, and belongings.



first president

“The First President,” a digital photograph by Joanna Knox Yoder, instructor of photography at Pennsylvania College of Technology, is on display in two exhibitions: “SlowExposures” at the historic R.F. Strickland Building in Concord, Georgia, and “Forgotten” at the Southeast Center for Photography in Greenville, South Carolina.




Yoder captured “The First President” in Williamsburg, Virginia.

“I had the opportunity to explore and photograph a site which contains dozens of 20-foot-tall abandoned, deteriorating busts of almost every U.S. president,” Yoder explained. “I photographed George Washington’s sculpture from behind, to emphasize the cracks and deterioration juxtaposed with the barren landscape in front of him. To me, it was a metaphor for the fear of an unknown political future. I had a lot of fun making this photograph because it was extremely muddy that day, and I got to tromp around in knee-deep mud to get the shot.”

Yoder’s photograph “Out of Bounds” was selected for the “Small Works” exhibit at the South x Southeast Photo Gallery in Molena, Georgia. It is on display through September.



out of bounds

“Out of Bounds,” a medium-format black-and-white photograph by Joanna Knox Yoder, instructor of photography at Pennsylvania College of Technology, is included in the “Small Works” exhibit at the South x Southeast Photo Gallery in Molena, Georgia.




A medium-format black-and-white film photograph, “Out of Bounds” was shot near Williamsport at an abandoned drive-in movie theater.

“I created this image to preserve this historic relic before it disappears and is forgotten,” Yoder said. “I focused on the old signage arrows from the theater because of the mystery that they evoke about the history of the surrounding landscape.”

Yoder earned a Master of Fine Arts in photography from Savannah College of Art and Design, and a Bachelor of Arts in art education from University of Maryland, College Park. Her work has been exhibited nationally and internationally. In her photographs, she explores the connection between history, memory, and place.

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The Indecisive Moment: Street Photography and AI

The Indecisive Moment: Street Photography and AI

I’ve spent countless hours walking streets both near and far from home with My Precious in my hand and a muscle memory for it in my fingers that made it effectively part of me — an extension of my arm. My Precious is, of course, my camera.

I realized I wanted to photograph time. You can’t see time, and you can’t touch it. That’s why it’s the furthest thing from our five senses. But with photography, I can capture time. —Miyako Ishiuchi, What Photographers Go Up Against 6: Time

Years ago I wrote about the “Zen” of street photography, by which I meant its meditative nature for me — how its practice enlivened my senses to the world around me, made me walk more slowly and observantly — excruciatingly (and often exhaustingly) mindful of the world around me. I wrote somewhere once that of every street photo I take — no matter how long ago, no matter how many 1000s of photos I’ve taken — I remember exactly where I was standing and what the scene sounded like around me. A synaesthetic frisson generated by a sea of sensory data in the depths of my physiology.

“The decisive moment” is a phrase often used to describe the essence of street photography as a practice and genre, coming from a canon work by Henri Cartier-Bresson in 1952:

Photography implies the recognition of a rhythm in the world of real things. What the eye does is to find and focus on the particular subject within the mass of reality; what the camera does is simply to register upon film the decision made by the eye[…] Photography must seize upon this moment and hold immobile the equilibrium of it. […] Photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as of a precise organization of forms that give that event its proper expression. —Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Decisive Moment

What is this “mass of reality” and how is this decision made? Consider all the variables of environment and motion at play — the light at that exact time of day, the street corner that is turned (or not), the speed at which human bodies pass each other, the direction the eye is looking for a split second because a sudden sound was heard. The height of the standing photographer. The bend of a knee or wrist.

Bowie ponders a passerby.

Somewhere in all that mass, that chaos — something in the mind and finger of the photographer makes a wordless, instant decision to take a photo — capturing a moment in time that never existed before and never will again. What is that recognition of a rhythm? It’s a profoundly human algorithm.

I once hacked my own photography practice by taking away almost all my own agency around it. I built a tiny camera that I could pin to my clothes and programmed it to automatically take a picture every 60 seconds, then simply went about my day. Later, it felt deeply weird to see the results for the first time — as though they were taken of my life by a stranger, a portable paparazzo. It was a fascinating experiment in loss of control, discerning where my artistic eye begins and ends, and feeling intimately witnessed by something outside of myself.

Lately, I’ve been seeing increasingly common rules in announcements for street photography competitions that say “no AI-generated images” and the like. The first time I saw this, it struck me as odd because it seemed obvious… like, of course, [by its very nature and definition] it can’t be AI-generated; it is necessarily of physical worlds and the messy people in it and time itself. AI does not exist in time or space.

Right?

Something of a meta street moment.

A fellow street photographer I’ve been following for years recently and suddenly became an exclusively generative AI artist. My heart sank as I’d really loved his poetic, ethereal, and unusual work that had inspired me over and over again. His new style was glossy and almost wholly disconnected from his earlier aesthetic and point-of-view, seemingly (to my eye, anyway) entirely text-prompt-based and not using any of his own original work as material. It was still beautiful and imaginative work, but it told me nothing about what he’d seen or lived. There was still much to appreciate about it artistically and technically, but I realized that what I’d loved was the stories he told about the world — and how he, specifically and as a fragile and imperfect being, moved in it.

[embedded content]

Above is legendary animator Hayako Miyaki on why computer-generated characters are not interesting to him.

While I can be a romantic about more traditional practices — and was initially tempted to immediately throw a rope between “real” and evolving tech in street photography — I’ve come to think that any difference is ultimately semantic vis-à-vis how we categorize art. I think it’s a lot more interesting to find intersections of human and machine, and all the literal and figurative shades of gray between them. What is a camera anyway but a mechanized eye invented by puny mortals to try to capture time?

During the early years (!) of the pandemic, I grieved the freedom of being able to travel freely through my own neighborhood and favorite places in the world. I began to digitally composite together photographs I’d taken — over different years and places —to create worlds both familiar and new, like Mt. Rainier of my Washington home emerging over Tokyo. It felt like time travel and it felt true to my soul. I could feel where I was. It felt like memories and testimony of places I’d walked… that don’t actually exist. Like fusion and bottled magic. And it was all real… just remixed, reimagined.

Simple example of a composite. I combined a Tokyo street scene with textures of a Pacific Northwest forest.

In my day job as a product designer in tech, I started working in AI in 2017 and am as ever in awe of it, in all the senses of that word. I mostly worked in the area of natural language processing and virtual assistants like Alexa or Siri, and have some exposure to its use in computer vision (CV), consumer robotics, and smart wearables. I both enjoy and am agape to imagine how we might deploy such tools with regard to photographic art and craft. I think of the tiny wearable camera I made and what if I had glasses like that. And I think about how much I’d love to train a custom AI model (for my use only!) with the tens of thousands of photos I’ve taken over the years to generate wild new versions of my own work free from temporal and geographical bounds, soaring creatively in a world of my own curation. All that visual data! My eyes gleam with the possibilities.

I used to spend hours editing and cropping and tinkering with my photos, something I no longer do because now I just program My Precious’ settings to take photos to my exact artistic aesthetic: the exact lighting and color effects, the exact level of grain, my preferred aspect ratio, and so on. I just now just compose and take the shot and it’s done right out of the camera. It’s not a huge leap to imagine that I could train it over time to detect what scenes I find most compelling, what angles I use, how I compose and frame, and ultimately how I share my life and how I see the world with others.

But, what would be the fun in that?


About the author: Jill Corral is an author, designer, and photographer who works at the intersection of visuals, sound, and transformative spaces. You can find more of her work on her website. This article was also published here.

Can’t concentrate? These haunting photos are the cure for our age of distraction

Can’t concentrate? These haunting photos are the cure for our age of distraction

The first time I saw a photograph by Hiroshi Sugimoto, it was mounted on a cliff above the Seto Inland Sea on Naoshima, the peaceful Japanese island known for its museums and art installations. The abstract composition – a black-and-white portrait of the horizon, which looked like a pale Rothko breaking out of prison – was striking enough, high above a strip of sand and lapping water. But what gave it extra vitality was that the artist, in creating this tribute to the natural world, was clearly happy to allow the natural world to remake the tribute; wind, sea-spray and the shifting light would turn it into something different every hour. Over 13 years of returning to the site, I’ve never seen it look the same.

Just one day later, I was confronted by 14 more of Sugimoto’s impassive horizons (you can also see one on the cover of U2’s 2009 album No Line on the Horizon) hanging on the exterior concrete walls of Naoshima’s modernist Benesse House Museum, just above that cliff. His portraits of the ways in which sky and sea converge were gazing out at the very place where sky and sea were converging in real life. It was fitting that the photographs seemed a small part of a far larger work; Sugimoto appeared to be including everything around their frames – like the incorporation of “borrowed scenery” in classic Japanese garden design. He might have been suggesting that what nature does with us is at least as important as what we do with nature. His hauntingly uncluttered Seascapes dissolved all sense of time and place, so as to take me somewhere universal. 

In rainbows: Hiroshi Sugimoto


In rainbows: Hiroshi Sugimoto

Perhaps I should not have been surprised, when I returned to Naoshima last year, to find my hotel, and even the lawns outside, converted into a festival of Sugimotos. His ghostly photographs of barely seen pine trees and deserted chapels adorned the hotel walls; a room looking out to sea was graced with works from his rainbowed Opticks series, which uses Polaroid film to capture the colours of light as seen through a prism; just outside, a transparent glass cube shimmered above a shallow pond – Sugimoto’s modern version of a tea house. A traditional tea house is a largely enclosed space designed to deepen attention; in Sugimoto’s stylish update, the tatami-floored space is not just a place to drink tea, but somewhere to take in the whole grand expanse all around, of water and beach (and, yes, pine trees). 

Inside and out, the human environment and the natural world become one. It doesn’t matter whether he’s making buildings or photographs; the 75-year-old artist is always reflecting on stillness, history and change. It’s no surprise that his grand retrospective at London’s Hayward Gallery, opening later this month, is called Time Machine.

Sugimoto was born in 1948 in Tokyo to parents working in the pharmaceutical industry. In 1970, he left Japan for Los Angeles to study for a degree in Fine Arts at the ArtCenter College of Design (he needed a visa, he once quipped, and being a student was the easiest excuse). His earliest photographs, shot in New York’s American Museum of Natural History after he had begun working as an art dealer in the city, are of the museum’s dioramas – stuffed polar bears and apes placed in front of painted backdrops. When he captured these fake scenes in black-and-white, using a large-format camera, suddenly they looked real, he noticed – as if the photographs were restoring another dimension to the creatures and bringing them back to life. Later, he toured Madame Tussauds in London and started producing images of waxworks of Princess Diana and Yasser Arafat, as if they were polar bears.

What the camera saw: Sugimoto condenses an entire film into a single frame in UA Playhouse (1978)


What the camera saw: Sugimoto condenses an entire film into a single frame in UA Playhouse (1978)


Credit: Foto Care

Early on, he also began visiting classic American cinemas, some dating back to the 1920s, taking two-hour exposures of their ageing, beautiful interiors even as a film was being screened. The results, his Theaters series – the screen turned into a gleaming white panel, like an afterimage imprinted on the retina – were his way, he said, of condensing a whole feature film into a single frame. The light created by the overexposure would be “the embodiment or manifestation of something awe-inspiring and divine”. The old screens began to look like vessels of light, projecting nothing so much as mystery. “The image was something that neither existed in the world nor was it anything I had seen,” he explained. “So who had seen it then? My answer is: it is what the camera saw.”

By then it was becoming clear that Sugimoto was a time-traveller, trying to see how the oldest things around us might be models for our future. Or at least blurring every distinction between old and new, just as he upends every division between East and West (those look-alike horizons in his Seascapes series come from Jamaica, the Arctic, the English Channel, though you’d never be able to tell one from the other). His empty cinemas might be abandoned temples, sacred relics to a visitor from the future. In our age of noise and distraction, these works envelop us in a silence and spaciousness that never seem to change.

Over the 36 years I’ve lived in Japan, Sugimoto has developed into the ultimate Renaissance man. In part because he designs buildings, creates rock gardens and stages modern versions of 18th-century bunraku puppet-dramas that include music in the style of Jimi Hendrix guitar solos, but played on a traditional three-stringed shamisen. But also because so much of what he does, as with his tea-house, plays off classic Japanese forms that have been around since the time of Michelangelo, and before. His abstract seascape photographs are as suggestive as traditional pen-and-ink drawings, which the viewer implicitly completes in their mind’s eye. In a country that values specialised focus – celebrating the national living treasures who consecrate their lives to making nothing but blue pots or washi paper or tiny slabs of raw fish – he trains his sense of concentration across myriad fields.

Sugimoto is also a philosopher of sorts, and in a culture that has less interest in the conceptual than anywhere I know – my Japanese neighbours seem much happier thinking in terms of images than ideas – he again goes against the grain with his provocative manifestoes and aphorisms. Not for him any of the mishmashed global forms that make up Japan’s streets today (or the global mania for anime); his statements reveal ancient intent – “To me photography functions as a fossilisation of time”.

Time traveller: Sea of Buddha 049 (Triptych), 1995


Time traveller: Sea of Buddha 049 (Triptych), 1995


Credit: Hiroshi Sugimoto

I sometimes think that his almost 50 years in New York have made him bilingual in a deeper sense than mere language, a little like the half-Japanese artist Isamu Noguchi. He has a keen sense of what the West covets from Japan and how to make it cool and arresting, even as his readiness to go anywhere and his bold innovations are surely designed to offer his compatriots a sense of wider possibility. Though still largely based in Manhattan, he maintains his office in Tokyo and somehow convinces people on both sides of the world that he is an innovative Japanese traditionalist.

Exactly a year ago, I took my Japanese wife on a pilgrimage to the Enoura Observatory, an outdoor museum that Sugimoto opened in 2017, in front of the sea, 50 miles south of Tokyo. You’ll find a full-scale recreation of a Roman amphitheatre, with a stage crafted from technical optical glass, which catches sunlight on its edges. There’s a 14th-century stone lantern from Korea and a “listen to the rain” tea house (with a resonant iron roof); there are ancient temple gates collected from across Japan, a fossil cave and a bench made from 65-million-year-old petrified wood. 

The heart of the vision at Enoura, however, is Sugimoto’s hope of staging traditional Noh theatre to coincide with the spring and autumn equinox – figures disappearing back into the underworld just as the sun rises – and a 230ft tunnel through which the sun will light up an imposing stone on the winter solstice. Taken as a whole, the project is an ambitious piece of land art that speaks to our most ancestral understanding of nature, and how to live in harmony with – and with keenest awareness of – its unending cycles.

Sugimoto has built a tea house above his studio in New York’s Chelsea district (which he’s named “Heavenly Hell” after its view towards Wall Street); living moss creeps along the studio walls. Few would be surprised to learn that he collects dinosaur eggs and tells visitors that his hobby is playing with old clocks. 

Serenity: Hiroshi Sugimoto, Bay of Sagami, Atami, 1997


Serenity: Hiroshi Sugimoto, Bay of Sagami, Atami, 1997


Credit: Hiroshi Sugimoto

In the 17th-century village of Honmura, tucked into Naoshima’s eastern side, he’s created a glass staircase that runs from an underground rock chamber up to an ancient shrine, as if to join the place’s roots to the air of right now. An all-over-the-place wanderer from an island-nation that likes to keep to itself, a risk-taker from a culture that prefers to follow a norm, Sugimoto sticks out as a polymath pushing centuries together.

Sceptics might say that Sugimoto is also an artful borrower of forms and ideas – that his fascination with light draws from that other master of illumination, the American light artist James Turrell (whose works are also well represented on Naoshima), or that his hours-long exposures can look like a cousin of the spooky and spiritual long-exposure black-and-whites of the British photographer Michael Kenna, who started out at around the same time, and has brought a similar elegance and minimalism to his photographs of Japan.

Spend time with Sugimoto’s work at the Hayward, however, and you’ll likely see that, for all his wandering and experiments, it ultimately goes back to a single desire: to show us the heart of our fast-moving world. Whether illuminating how an empty cinema might look as alien as Stonehenge, or finding new life in a waxwork of Fidel Castro, Sugimoto sees something inside of us that exists beyond time and place. It’s the hidden treasure he’s working to awaken.


Hiroshi Sugimoto: Time Machine is at the Hayward Gallery, London SE1 (southbankcentre.co.uk), from Oct 11 to Jan 7; Pico Iyer’s latest book is The Half Known Life: Finding Paradise in a Divided World (Bloomsbury, £16.99)

See The Few Known Photographs of the Supreme Court in Session

See The Few Known Photographs of the Supreme Court in Session

One of two photographs in existence of the US Supreme Court in session. Cameras are forbidden in the Supreme Court, but this photograph was taken by a young woman who concealed her small camera in her handbag, cutting a hole through which the lens peeped, 1937.
byu/broomshed inDamnthatsinteresting

As a rule, cameras are not allowed in the courtroom when the U.S. Supreme Court is in session. One would think that this has become harder to enforce over time, considering that everyone has a camera on their phone these days. However, amazingly, there are only three publicly known photographs. Even more baffling is that the few people who have managed to get away with a forbidden photograph of the Supreme Court in session did so in the 1930s—and the stories of how they got those images speak to the creativity and ability of the photographers.

In 1937, an anonymous woman concealed a small camera in her handbag. To do so, she cut a hole through the fabric, allowing the lens to pop out like an ornament. Then, to get the perfect shot without using the camera finder—after all, it was inside the purse—she practiced shooting at hip level. The result was the first picture of all nine members of the Court in session. The image went on to be published on Time. Since photography was banned, the magazine did not identify the daring photographer by name.

There was, however, an earlier photograph of the Court in session, which also required some cleverness from the photographer. The first known image of the Supreme Court in session was taken by Erich Salomon, a German photojournalist. He first requested to photograph the session, but was denied permission. Afterward, Salomon took matters into his own hands and used an arm sling to hide his camera when he visited the court in 1932. His daring action prompted an official ban on images taken during court sessions.

According to Judicature, published by the Bolch Judicial Institute of Duke Law School, there is a third image, also taken in 1937 at the start of the term. It was published on the front page of the New York’s Daily News, but there is no information on the photographer or how they were able to avoid being caught.

Although the Supreme Court has maintained a ban on photography, it does make audiotapes of oral arguments and opinions available to the public. While some countries broadcast the sessions of their Supreme Courts— Brazil and Mexico are two such examples—others have much more limited access, like the UK, where court drawings are not allowed in session and are done based on notes and memory afterward. Ultimately, the daring photographers who have snuck their way into the U.S. Supreme Court show how interested people are in what happens during these sessions.

As a rule, cameras are not allowed in the courtroom when the U.S. Supreme Court is in session. However, there are three publicly known photographs taken by sneaky photographers in the 1930s.

Dr. Erich Salomon faked a broken arm so he could hide a camera in his cast to photograph the US Supreme Court – 1932 [1170×809]
byu/rockystl inHistoryPorn

h/t: [Reddit]

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‘I am the witness and the subject’: Magnum photographer Jim Goldberg on telling his own story

‘I am the witness and the subject’: Magnum photographer Jim Goldberg on telling his own story

Jim Goldberg describes his new photobook, Coming and Going, as “my attempt to get close to the reality of the experience of living”. A self-styled “documentary storyteller”, born in New Haven, Connecticut, Goldberg made his name with a series of acclaimed projects, including Raised By Wolves (1995) and Open See (2009), that spoke of his deep engagement with other people’s troubled lives. This time, though, the subject is himself.

“I’m making something universal out of a normal life.” he says, “It’s all in there: deaths, births, divorce, illness, all the stuff that happens along the way. It’s my story, but all our stories, too.”

Jim Goldberg’s daughter Ruby as a newborn.

Though it comprises a mere fraction of the archive of everyday images Goldberg has amassed in his working life, Coming and Going is, at first glance, almost overwhelming in its visual overload. It unfolds in a tumultuous flow of photographs, Super 8 stills, scrawled texts and ephemera that moves between the everyday and the painfully intimate. Many images have been written over, others cropped, cut up or assembled into elaborate collages. It takes a while for the rhythms and undercurrents of this unruly individual life to reveal themselves.

“There is so much going on in the book, because I collect so many images and then sift through them all to find meaning,” he says of his singular creative process. “Although I have a real love for the power of photography, I also have a sense of deep insecurity that a picture can say it all. I feel I have to add to it in order to somehow grow the work – to make it become better art, essentially.”

A young woman sitting on the edge of the bath, with a bottle of aspirin spilling out of a cabinet on to the bath mat

Throughout the book, his late parents, Herb and Lil Goldberg, loom large. His father died in 1993, aged 76, his mother seven years later, aged 79. Given that he has delved so deep and unsparingly into his own experience of love and loss, was it a more painful undertaking than his other books? “Well, it’s taken over 23 years to complete, because life kept getting in the way.” he says, laughing wryly. “But, yes, it was very tough, particularly revisiting my parents’ deaths.” He tells me that, at one point, during the printing of the book, he had to “turn away” when a photograph of his mother appeared. “I was thrown back there for a moment, but it’s important to say that the process of remembering through the photographs also brought me great joy. At times, it was like my parents were back with me and all was well.”

Elsewhere, Coming and Going brims with energy and life as it tracks the joy of first love, marriage, the birth of his daughter, Ruby, her coming of age, and his current relationship, with his fellow Magnum photographer Alessandra Sanguinetti. They live together with Ruby and Sanguinetti’s daughter, Cat, on a farm in Sonoma County, California.

Drinks and plates with the name tags Jim Goldberg and Alessandra Sanguinetti

Goldberg is a master of juxtaposition, both formal and emotional, the results often jolting as well as revealing. A pair of Polaroids capturing Ruby’s first steps gives way abruptly to a series of visceral, unsettling shots of his ailing father, oxygen tubes in his nostrils, being fed, examined and comforted as the end draws near. Mortality is a constant undercurrent. “What is different now is that I’m 70,” says Goldberg, “and death is more present in my own life, so there’s been a shift towards a perhaps more reflective approach. With grief comes grace, so they say, but I still have a streak of the punk spirit that I had as a young kid who found a way to intuitively express himself through photography.”

Goldberg studied theology for a time before picking up a camera. Coming and Going also chronicles his audacious creative journey, in which he rejected the tradition of detached reportage for an altogether more immersive approach. Threaded through the book are glimpses of the projects he has made along the way, including his best known work, Raised By Wolves, which has attained classic status for its immersive, almost novelistic portrait of a group of young and wayward homeless people surviving on the streets of San Francisco. Ten years in the making, it saw Goldberg befriend many of his subjects, including the two central characters, Tweeky Dave and Echo. “Some of the kids from Raised By Wolves are 50 years old now,” he says, as if he can’t quite believe it, “We are still in touch. They are part of my life.”

Untitled.

In a scrawled note in the book, some of their subsequent journeys are glimpsed: “Antoine was in San Quentin for 10 years and OD’d the day he got out…Meghan now works as a programmer at Apple… Macki stated her own bike repair shop… Many proudly send me photographs of their kids or grandkids, but most people I have to assume never left the streets or didn’t make it.”

In one bittersweet assemblage, Goldberg includes a recent handwritten note from Echo in which she tells him that she now has “four wonderful kids, a bunch of cats and a boyfriend I like most of the time”. It also reveals that she is waiting for a kidney transplant and is too sick to work. Her teenage partner in crime, Tweeky Dave, died in 1993, of liver failure. “His ashes,” writes Goldberg, “live on a shelf in my home, next to my mum and dad’s.”

Jim Goldberg’s mother, Lil.

Coming and Going is, on many levels, a continuation of Goldberg’s documentary storytelling approach, in its weaving of images, words and impressions. Here, though, as he puts it “I am the witness and the subject.” That the book took so long to make says much about the particular challenges of such self-scrutiny. “The boundaries were suddenly not as clear,” he says, “To be honest, it wasn’t easy to do this book and it’s hard to say why I continued. Maybe it was more to do with dedication than anything else. Or the self-reflection that comes with getting older. For me, photographs are a way to stop time, but, at some point, they also become a way to take notice and become mindful of what you have experienced as a human being.”