Category: Critical Research Journal

As a primary school teacher, I used to keep a collection of images (postcards, photographs, cuttings from magazines mounted on card, and so on) to act as a stimulus for imaginative writing. The task was to draw four cards at random, look at and think carefully about them, form a sequence, and then write a story that in some way brings the four images together. The story was a construct of the reader come writer, and not inherent in the images themselves. Close to forty years on, I find that photographers commonly state that through their images they are attempting to tell stories. At the level of intention, this makes some sense, in that, through engagement with the world they can make, select and sequence images in such a way to, they hope, convey a sense of related events, or a set of relationships or circumstances. The reader then has to reconstruct that narrative, or at least some kind of narrative, through their engagement with the images. The question here is, to what extent is this possible without some prior knowledge or experience of that which is presented in the images, or, lacking this, some set of assumptions about the lifeworld or circumstances being presented?

This bears resemblance to making sense of metaphors. In trying to convey some notion, for instance, of what a fraction is, I can say that a fraction is like a slice of cake. Yum. But what particular qualities of a slice of cake do I wish to invoke, and associate with a fraction, through the metaphor. We, you and I, as readers, clearly have a idea of what a fraction is, and in what sense it resembles a slice of cake. But without already having this, possibly only vaguely formed, notion, what sense can we make of the metaphor? And, beyond that, how prepared are we for the utility of that understanding to collapse when we start to try to do things like multiply and divide fractions (this is like no cake I have ever known). The point here is to raise the question of the extent to which storytelling through images can do any more than reinforce already existing understandings (or prejudices), that is, can only tell stories that we (as readers) already know, or think we know?

Rather than lead us down a dead end, we can turn this into a challenge. What might we do to produce images that have the potential to transform, challenge, enlarge or enhance the understanding of the reader (in a fundamental sense, not just giving detail or texture to existing knowledge, such as the knowledge of Russian dress gained by Barthes (1981) from engagement with William Klein’s Moscow photographs)? One approach might be to consider storytelling as the primary practice, and photographic images as a principal (and not necessarily sole) resource. We might also consider what, distinctively, photographic images (and different modes of presentation of these images) can add to the practice of storytelling, and how the different resources available to storytellers can work together, particularly in creating an experience that shifts us away from the familiar and subverts the habitual.

Juxtaposition of images provides one resource for constructing, or invoking, a narrative, for instance in Esther Teichmann’s installations . Looking at these, however, leads to me to turn the relationship between images and storytelling around again, and place both as alternative means of enhancing understanding or addressing the ineffable, and each can draw on the other to that end. The story need not act as an intermediary between the images and the affect.

References

Barthes, R. (1981). Camera Lucida. New York: Hill and Wang.

Esther Teichmann, http://www.estherteichmann.com

I am still struggling with the idea of producing a reflective journal that is both a public document and a component in the assessment of an award bearing course. This struggle is both intellectual (I am having difficulty in getting my head around it) and emotional (I am not sure about how I feel about it). I am not going to be able to resolve these struggles here, but should, at least, produce a practical resolution (how I am going to deal with it). And, of course, that resolution might only be momentary, and subject to revision as I progress through.

The simplest resolution might appear to be performative. Treat successful completion of the degree as the primary function, and manicure the postings to project the image of a successful student. This is a tried and tested approach to any form of reflective journal (I am relatively sure that Erica McWilliam has written something about this in relation to the journals produced by beginning teachers, which I need to check). It is high risk, though, as, to be successful, it requires the writer to have a clear sense of the principles of assessment of the programme (what are the assessors looking for), and the ability to produce appropriate evidence. So, to a degree, you have to be an adept to be able to produce a text that passes as that of a successful student. And there are complexities as the tacit criteria might require failure (and recovery) as part of the process. That is that, the writer may have to walk the tightrope of manufacturing a sufficient vulnerability on the path to ultimate success. There may also be a requirement for a degree of perceived authenticity, or revelation of a sufficient sense of self to authenticate the postings (bearing a watermark). A thought about blockchain technology has just come to mind, where ‘who you are’ is encoded and preserved for future authentication (though that is an excessively static conception of self). I’m not going to pursue that here. Anyway, here we are only addressing the inward (course assessment) element of the journal. Managing this alongside projection of a public persona  adds a further, very demanding, level of complexity.

This is, in any case, an excessively cynical approach, to my mind, and there is the strong odour of bad faith. However, it does not have to be a total strategy, and in making any statement in this kind of environment there will always be a degree of self-checking (what are the consequences of publishing this?). So performativity as a total strategy stinks, but a degree of performativity (a manicured projection of self) is inevitable. The act of writing (and the reflection that that involves) means that we can never just ‘get it all out there’. Writing requires selection and expression and slows things down, though tweeting clearly allows people to just ‘blurt it out’ (to millions of others in some cases). This is not the place to wrestle with Derrida (there’s a post coming on that in due course).

To bring this post to a hasty conclusion, I think my approach is to treat this as a genuinely educational opportunity. To formulate and convey emerging thoughts and practices in a new (for me) domain of endeavour produces something to think about that moves practice forward in, potentially, dialogue and engagement with fellow travellers. To do otherwise is a lost opportunity to learn. Of course, to learn is the primary objective for me in doing this course, and the stakes are relatively low in that there are no professional or life-chance consequences to success or failure (and only a few personal consequences, mostly related to self-esteem). To a degree, posting to the blog enables me to formalise and organise my thinking, to put down markers and to remember (and there will be a post on memory ‘prosthetics’; aids to supplement ageing cognitive functioning). It is a place to build something in public view.

Why not do this in private? That, maybe, is to do with the positive pressure that the public exposure exerts to take some care in expressing thoughts (but not the degree of care needed for a published paper or book). And it provides a framework for organisation of thoughts and experiences around a particular project (growing as a photographer, and understanding the field), that might also offer something of value to others. And memory is important, too (‘but you said …’). How do I feel about the bleeding out of what is written here to other domains of practice? That’s uncertain. This is for a pedagogic purpose, and it is about exploration not exposition. It’s a supplement to, not replacement of, identity and practice in other areas of life.

Putting together the draft presentation for this module provoked me to think about my engagement with the work of particular artists. I can’t say artists that have influenced me, as I don’t, as yet, have a sufficiently mature practice to have been influenced. These are artists that I have encountered as a viewer, and have been engaged by their work. None of this will go into the presentation, but I want to continue to think about my relationship with particular bodies of work, so some simple blog posts might help to do this.

The artists that immediately came to mind were: Gerhard Richter, Cy Twombly, Helen Chadwick, Peter Greenaway, Simon Hantai, Richard Long and Keith Arnatt. In each case there are either particular exhibitions or particular works that have left an impression (sometimes both, the latter leading to the former or vice versa). All except Hantai have produced photographic work. It would be mundane to just take the artist and write about them, and this kind of cataloguing wouldn’t provide a sufficient motivation for me to do it. Rather, I will take a theme to explore in each case. First throughs are: blur (Richter), myth (Twombly), self (Chadwick), process (Hantai), classification (Greenaway), movement (Long) and performance (Arnatt). But that might change. And there are others in the waiting room.