First steps

Last week I took my first steps toward editorial photography, by sending samples of my work to photo editors at five magazines that I would want to work for and, more important, where I could see my work fitting in. I know it’ll take follow-up and persistence to get into these places, but I specifically chose just five—as opposed to sending out a blast of hundreds of promo cards—because I want to build relationships with these editors and their publications, and that takes effort. I sent handwritten notes to each editor, with five or six 5-x-7-inch archival prints of my work—prints I know may have already ended up in the recycling bin, but ones that had some chance, I think, of at least being stuck up on a bulletin board. My next step is to follow up in a month with a few more images. And it’ll go on from there.

In my other life, as a freelance book editor, I’ve done well for myself—getting plenty of work from a core group of clients—by working to foster those relationships. Part of it, of course, is just that you want to work. But a bigger part of it, for me, is that I want to work for people I like and respect, and publications that I admire. As an editor, I’ve had the occasional one-off project—some publisher calls me up and asks if I can work on such-and-such book on a rush schedule and politely haggles with me over my rate—and, though it’s nice to pick up a little extra cash here or there, those aren’t the publishers or projects I remember. The ones I care about are the ones that I’ve worked with for a decade, people who respect my work and whose books I actually like. That’s what I’m looking to do with my photography. It isn’t just about adding a magazine to my client list—it’s about the long haul.

I also sent my book to a rep I met a few months ago. She represents some photographers I really respect, and she’s given me some excellent advice—advice I put to use when I decided which magazines to contact and how to do it. I want this woman to be my rep someday. Why? Because (1) I like the diversity of photographers she represents, (2) she gets the interplay between fine art and editorial/commercial and she encourages that in her stable of photographers, and (3) I had a ton of fun talking with her when we met. Again, it’s all about building relationships, so I e-mailed her to ask if I could share my book with her, she said she’d like to see it, and it’ll be delivered to her today. Do I think anything significant will come out of this one experience? Nope. I think I’ll need to work at this for at least a couple years, continuing to show her my work, continuing to produce work and put it out there (in galleries, in contests, in magazines), continuing to seek and heed her advice. And then, maybe, if she has as much fun dealing with me as I have dealing with her, she’ll rep me.

In the meantime, back to my day job. Today’s assignment: Finish copyediting a travel book on Egypt. I keep hearing The Bangles in my mind.

Interview: Greg Wasserstrom

One of my all-time favorite bloggers I’ve never met is Greg Wasserstrom. As I told him when I e-mailed my list of questions, I see him as part of a younger generation of photographers, many of whom seem Serious (with a capital S), and he doesn’t. I don’t mean that his work isn’t serious or that he’s not serious about his work; I mean that he doesn’t take himself too seriously, and I dig that.

On to the interview.

Liz: I love your project The Doldrums. It feels really cohesive in its disjointedness to me, like there’s a madness with a method underneath. Is that intentional, or does it just come out that way? I tend to be worried about drawing connections between images, and you seem not to be burdened with any of that, and it works so well. I guess I’m curious how you do it, if that’s even answerable.

Greg: I’m really happy to hear you say Doldrums feels cohesive. Having lived through all the moments the series presents, it certainly feels cohesive to me, but I’ve shown it to a couple gallerists who didn’t agree. But I do feel that these images are inherently tied together and that they are part of an ongoing body of work. The series is about the last few months before I moved from D.C., so I added the subtitle “A Fractional Portrait of the Nation’s Capital.” I think that helps make sense of it for people who don’t see what I’m getting at at first (or second) glance.

At the same time though, I kind of don’t give a shit about traditional organizing principles. Not that there’s anything wrong with creating work in a more project-based way. If that was a process that came naturally to me, I would assuredly use it. But I don’t think like that. I just shoot, and then the art is in the editing. So, in a certain sense, they all are just a bunch of one-off snapshots thrown together. But they create a sort of nonlinear narrative about me and the space I inhabit. If that doesn’t appeal, I don’t blame you. My life isn’t exactly the most fascinating.

But I hope to make work that that’s both personal and socially revealing. Looking at my life and what’s going on around me always makes me think that it’s totally insane that we live in a system that can support kids like me. So I want to try and do things that are sort of self-conscious chronicles of this particular historic moment; something that’s immersed in it all, but always cognizant of the giant thundercloud that’s hanging over this entire period of history.

But even if you don’t buy that, I think that my way of seeing comes across loud and clear. It all serves as a chronicle of depression if nothing else. So one way or another, I think it’s the autobiographical nature of what I do and the inescapable point of view I bring to it that links my work together—at least in my eyes.

Copyright © Greg Wasserstrom

L: How did you get started in photography? What made you want to be a photographer? And you write, too, from what I read on your blog, so how do you mesh the two interests in your life? Do you see yourself more as a photographer or as a writer? Do you want to find a way to combine them more directly?

G: Oh, gosh. I really have been using a camera in some form or other since I was a pretty little kid. I always loved taking pictures when we were on vacation growing up and practically begged my parents for my own camera. They were always really hesitant to give me anything of the sort because I’ve never been very good at keeping things nice. I went through quite a few. I have no idea what happened to all the pictures. I would love to take a look at them now, especially since my way of working has come pretty much full circle.

I got into stop-motion animation when I was 10 or 11, which developed into an interest in video art by the time I was going into high school. I got into still photography around the time I was graduating. The common thread here, I think, is that these are all ways to make art without having to have, say, fine motor skills or other abilities demanded by other forms of visual art. Also, I’m an incredibly analytical person, and I think I’m drawn to the photograph because of its capacity for symbolism. Photographs are interesting, I think, when they add up to depict something much larger than what’s within any individual frame.

That’s how my photography relates to what I write; I’m a political blogger, so my job is to provide commentary, which is what I also try and do with my pictures. So I don’t really see myself as some hybrid of a writer and photographer. I think of myself more as a kind of social observer working across a couple of different mediums. I would love nothing more than to combine these two things directly; they’re the same thing as far as I’m concerned, so I’ve been experimenting with different ways to do this in a kind of interesting or innovative way. To that end, I’m sort of looking to Wolfgang Tillmans and Dash Snow and the way both incorporate news clippings and other text into their work. I’m getting closer, I think.

Copyright © Greg Wasserstrom

L: When you think about photography, do you see it more as a craft or an art? I’m thinking of woodworkers, for example—they can make beautiful things, but they probably still see themselves as craftspeople more than artists. Maybe it’s a moot point, actually. I don’t know . . . scrap this question if it doesn’t do anything for you.

G: I don’t think I could dare to classify an entire medium as one thing or another. I’ve seen wedding photographs that I’ve really loved. And I’ve seen photographs on the walls of museums that make me vomit in my mouth a little. I suppose it has a bit to do with what kind of pictures are being taken and the attitude of the photographer about her own work. All the boundaries are really blurry. But when I think of photography as craft, I think of the guy who takes pictures at Little League games for the newsletter or something, all the way up through certain approaches to photojournalism and some commercial photography. But things are what we make of them, really.

Copyright © Greg Wasserstrom

L: Do you have any specific goals for your photography? Where do you want to go with it? (I sound like a college admissions counselor all of a sudden.) I mean, are you thinking you want to remain in the art world, focus on gallery shows, maybe a book someday, teach, etc.? Or do you think you’ll go the editorial/commercial route and try to make a living from your photographs? Or maybe neither?

G: Yeah, I mean, I have all sorts of grandiose fantasies about where I hope all this will go. I was just at Ryan McGinley’s opening at Team Gallery the other night and it was ridiculous and, of course, I'm sitting there thinking, “I could see this for myself.” So that’s pretty silly and is akin to wanting to be Radiohead or something. In real terms, I don’t have a specific plan for where I’m going. I know I want to be in this for the long haul, I want to get an MFA, I want to teach. I would love to make books. Regular editorial work would be fantastic, though I’m not comfortable enough to start seeking it out just at the moment. And if someone were to pay me to do commercial work for them, I would have no qualms whatsoever. (McGinley just did a big shoot for Heineken, I hear.) But I feel like I have a couple of questions to answer before I go full throttle after my dreams of riches and international superstardom. As soon as I feel like I have a little more control of the kind of work I produce, I’ll be hot on the heels of destiny, or whatever it is they say. I hope to be on much different footing a year from now.

Copyright © Greg Wasserstrom

L: I just got a $37.50 store credit from photo-eye. What one photo book should I put that money toward buying? And why?

G: I flipped through Brian Finke’s new book, Flight Attendants, when I was at The powerHouse Arena the other night and I would probably pick that up. He takes some pretty well-established archetypes (the pilot, the flight attendant) and does a masterful job playing with them and looking at them in very fresh ways. Also, the images are gorgeous.

April kickoff: “Elephant Guns” by Beirut

via pause | to begin

How do you know when it’s over?

In yet another analogy between photography and relationships, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about photo projects and how the photographer can tell when they’re over. There comes a point when you’ve invested so much time, so much energy, and so many dreams in something that the thought of walking away from it and closing the door is hard to wrap your mind around. And yet walking away may be the best thing you could possibly do.

I’ve been lucky enough to have only one truly awful relationship in my life, and I knew it was awful about three months after we moved in together. I stayed in the relationship another nine months after that. For all nine of those months, I agonized over what to do. What if things get better? What if he stops drinking? I prided myself on my loyalty and devotion and stick-to-itiveness. (Right around the time this was going on, I was listening to a lot of Tracy Chapman, and her song “Devotion”* really summed it up. I remember listening to that in the car and crying at the realization that I was that person. I stayed in it another six months.)

I never actually did get the strength to break free. Our lease expired, he bought a house, I rented a separate house, and one day he didn’t return my call. I scraped up enough pride not to call him back and two months went by. Nothing. Finally, I called him and said we needed to talk. We met at a small park. He let me say the lines of the person doing the breaking up, even though he was clearly the one who’d closed the door on the relationship first. I sobbed, he stared off in the distance. And then in the end, I stood on the sidewalk clinging to him and he had to peel me off of him and straight-arm me away.

That experience changed me in several ways, I’m sure, but the one that has always been the most obvious to me is my newfound unwillingness to stick with things that aren’t working. Whether it’s a class in grad school or a friendship or a trip, where before I would’ve stuck it out, tried to make it work, now I walk away, without regret. Obviously, it’s not all or nothing—there are still plenty of things that I stick with through difficult times, and I don’t expect things to be perfect. But I’m much more attuned now to things that have begun that permanent downward spiral, as opposed to those that are just temporarily amok.

Though there are many aspects of my In Store project that I like, it’s not working for me anymore. The problem is, I’m not sure if it’s permanent or temporary. I’m pleased with some of the work I did on it, and I feel like I cut my teeth on the experience. But I just don’t care about it the way I once did. Recently, I tried to infuse it with some enthusiasm by sending out an e-mail to friends letting them know that I was looking to photograph people who had stuff in storage, with their stored stuff, and I’ve gotten over a dozen responses from people all over the country who are eager to be part of the project, but I haven’t scheduled anything with any of them. I photographed my friend Shannon’s husband with some of his stuff, and it was okay, but nothing special.

I’m not afraid to push through things that are difficult, to work hard, to struggle. But I’ve always known, with my photography, when I was on the right path. Sometimes I’ve come back from a shoot and not been pleased with any of the photographs, but I’ve still felt excited about the project. I don’t feel that excitement anymore. I’m looking at other projects, considering the possibilities, thinking they’re more interesting. And yet, I’ve really spent a lot of time on In Store, and I don’t feel like it’s done. The question is, am I?

The solution I’ve come up with in the past 30 seconds is to choose one of my other ideas and start working on it. Maybe force myself not to do anything In Store related for a couple months. And then revisit it in April or May and see if I’ve moved on or if it grabs me again.

I appreciate the encouragement I’ve gotten from people. They say I should keep going with it, not give up. And that’s good to hear, for sure. But it doesn’t really matter if it’s a good project or if people are interested in it if I’m not passionate about the project myself. The photographs will suck if I don’t care, and I care too much to let that happen.

* “Devotion,” by Tracy Chapman

If I am right
If I can be
Constant and faithful
You’ll find me

In my devotion
In my devotion

What if you find a fault
Between my purpose and my deeds
And deem me beyond salvation
Judge me to be unworthy

Of your devotion
Of your devotion

If this be obsession deliver me
A passing infatuation deliver me
A feeling lacking in purity deliver me
A test of fidelity deliver me
Deliver me
Deliver me

What if I should find
You’re no good for me
What if I can’t be strong enough
What if I can’t break free

Of my devotion
Of my devotion

Reality

I couldn’t seem to work today. Spent several hours making iTunes playlists and sorting through my music. I hadn’t realized it before, but when I was in my teens and 20s, everything was all about escape for me. I played music and daydreamed about the future. Somewhere around the time I moved to Los Angeles, in my late 20s, the future arrived, and music wasn’t about daydreaming anymore. There used to be another universe going on in my mind. Make-believe or fairy tales. I like reality better now, even with Bush in the White House.

Listening to “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse.

Walk this way

Ben Huff wrote Wednesday about Terry Gross and Hard Rock and Heavy Metal Week on Fresh Air, and because I’m just now getting through my podcasts for last week, my most recent listen was to the episode featuring an interview with Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. (You can catch it here.) So many great moments in that conversation, but my favorite quote is from Steven Tyler: “When you love something, you don’t question why others do, too.”

The Americans, and Calle César Chávez

For a while now, I’ve heard and read many photographers whose work I admire mention Robert Frank, and particularly The Americans, as being an inspiration. (Shane Lavalette wrote earlier this month about Frank’s Rolling Stones documentary called Cocksucker Blues, a post definitely worth checking out—click here to read it.)

I’d known about Frank for a while, and I’d seen some of the photographs from The Americans online, but I hadn’t ever seen an actual copy of the book. As far as I can tell, it’s not currently in print — last I checked, the least-expensive copy at Amazon.com was listed for $199.99 and Powell’s didn’t have it. Found a copy at my local public library, though, and picked it up today.

The three that stand out for me now, after a first look, are Television studio—Burbank, California, because looking at it from this vantage point, over 50 years later, it seems to foreshadow Americans’ obsession with watching ourselves and each other; Movie premiere—Hollywood, because it’s all glamour and heartbreak (I don’t know whose face is sadder: the woman on the left with her hand up to her mouth, or the movie star); and U.S. 91, leaving Blackfoot, Idaho, because it shows that sort of intense focus that comes from staring at the road when you don’t really know where you’re going but you just want to get somewhere far away from where you are. Of course, now, having chosen just three to mention, my mind is swimming with others, and I realize that’s the point.

Television studio—Burbank, California. Copyright © Robert Frank

Movie premiere—Hollywood, California. Copyright © Robert Frank

U.S. 91, leaving Blackfoot, Idaho. Copyright © Robert Frank

In LIFE magazine (November 26, 1951), Frank said, “When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice.” I don’t think there’s any doubt that he succeeds at this. And I like, too, the connection between photography and poetry. It made me think of Alec Soth’s Friday poems, which seem so natural a fit for a photographer like Soth, whose images are as much poetry as Frank’s are. It all ties together.

I remember being in high school and reading a book that made reference to a character in another book, by another author—a book I had read. I can’t remember now which books they were, but I remember the feeling I had, that sense that it was all coming together, that I was learning the vocabulary of a society, that I had insider knowledge. That’s when it all clicked for me, that this was a hell of a lot of fun, this learning thing. And even today, whenever I make one of those connections, it feels like I’ve found a piece to a puzzle and the picture is becoming clearer.

I got into it with a Republican at the Y the other day, and his brilliant retort was, “I don’t know how old you are, but you’ve got a lot to learn.” He’s right—and thank god for that.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

Conceptualize this

I’ve spent countless hours—hours that I’ll never get back—in literature courses, and it’s taken me years to return to a place where I enjoy reading. There’s nothing like picking apart a great book to ruin it completely. Marxism, feminism, postmodernism, historicism, deconstructionism . . . the isms were, for me, a killjoy. When I got out of literature classes and started spending a lot of time with writers—at workshops, at conferences, and in grad school—I discovered that lit crit lives in an entirely different dimension from the people who write the books that are being dissected. Writers generally don’t set out to write something with those isms in mind; they set out to tell a story. The isms come after, and they often have nothing to do with the writer’s intention.

I’ve recently noticed that this same dichotomy isn’t as distinct in the art world. The academics seem to have a stronger hold on artists than they do on writers. Artists think and talk in terms of critical constructs that you just don’t hear writers using. It’s not just about the artist creating; the artist has to have a concept for her work. Concept, schmoncept. It’s as though the scholars and critics have gotten into artists’ minds, and the artists have bought in to what the critics are saying. Don’t get me wrong—I think there’s a place for the kind of intellectualizing that academics groove on. I just wonder whether it has any place in the realm of creativity. How much can you possibly produce when you have all that theory—all that stuff that should come after you’re finished with your work—floating around in your mind?

When their last album was released, I heard the Dixie Chicks say that whenever they’re not sure what to do, they ask themselves, “What would Bruce Springsteen do?” Well, whenever I’m not sure what to do, I ask myself, “What would Joan Didion do?” There is a place in this world for the Susan Sontags. But give me Didion any day. I would argue that both women were/are brilliant, but where Sontag was entirely in her head, Didion volleys back and forth between her neuroses and her heart, with curiosity as her compass. I can’t imagine Didion saying, “I think I’ll write an essay about my existential angst as exacerbated and illuminated by the Santa Ana winds,” or “My concept for this piece is a postmodern look at The Doors waiting for Jim Morrison.” I think she wrote, and writes, to try to answer her own questions and to make sense of the world. After Didion’s husband, John Gregory Dunne, died suddenly and unexpectedly on December 30, 2003, with their daughter, Quintana Roo, in a coma at Beth Israel, Didion wrote to cope with her own grief, and the result was The Year of Magical Thinking, a road map of grief that made me feel, upon reading it, that I could now handle any loss, any death, because at least I would be able to turn to this book and know I was not alone.

And that’s what I want in my own life, in my own work. I want it to be about my questions, my answers, my fears, my opinions, my vision, my voice. I don’t want to get caught up in intellectualizing it—I’ll leave that for other people.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball