I recently had a conversation with someone about the ubiquity and nature of photography. We talked about how a creative person working in photography can approach making meaningful and significant work and what effect all of these changes since its invention have had on the medium.
We discussed how technology has changed photography and the impact "commonness" has had on the craft—some call this the "democratization" of photography, which I think is a fair statement, but it's had a significant impact both times it's happened. It has altered how we perceive photographs (and their worth) and how creative people work with the medium. The first wave came in 1900 with the Kodak Brownie ("You Press the Button, We Do the Rest"), and the second came in the early 2000s with the advent of consumer-model digital cameras and iPhones (2007).
The conversation went on about different approaches to making art and why some are more effective than others. And we briefly touched on the AI (artificial intelligence) models creating "wet collodion" images from text prompts; there's not much to say about this topic in my opinion.
I’ll give you a brief overview of how the conversation unfolded.
There’s a balance to making art, specifically in photography. Using photography today can lead a person down a path of "thumb-twiddling," especially now with digital image making, which is instant and easy. It can happen with film or historic processes as well. The latter happens in a different way, but it has the same result: vagueness and meaninglessness.
What I mean is that you can meander aimlessly (and easily) into never making anything with substance or weight. You photograph anything and everything with no intention other than the hope that it appeals to someone, somewhere, or you copy what you’ve seen. You have nothing to say about it and nothing to connect it to (no purpose or a very vague purpose). It’s just there, on its own, with no defense and nothing to offer but what the viewer brings to it. It’s mechanical in the truest sense of the word. This is what Baudelaire warned us about so long ago. He was right; he’s always been right.
You can also fool yourself into thinking that you’re making deep, meaningful work when you’re not. The “art talk” in statements leaves the reader confused with what the vague or derivative work is intended to evoke—no one knows, not even the writer of the statement or maker of the images. The intention is to fool the viewer. The statement might read something like this: “Ever since I was a pre-adolescent, I have been fascinated by the endless, ephemeral oscillations of the mind. What starts out as contemplation soon becomes corrupted into a hegemony of defeat, leaving only a sense of unreality and the chance of a new understanding.” What?? This is why the layperson is turned off when it comes to art, artists, and galleries. If they could see how shallow and fake this stuff is, they might reconsider. No one ever talks about the emporor having no clothes; everyone seems to play along.
In essence, you hope the viewer will see something you didn't or understand something you don’t. You hope, through their life filters, they see "something" and make a connection with it. In reality, you’ve created nothing. You’ve expressed nothing. You’re not in control. You’re a machine that’s regurgitating photographs that you’ve seen before. Trying to gain self-esteem by riding the coattails of something that’s been done a thousand times—I know that plenty of people can write dissertations on the validity of this approach to making photographs; I’ve read a lot of them, but they've never justified the blind ambition and aimlessness of working in such a superficial, meaningless way. Never.
When people do this with historic processes or film photography, they concentrate on processes, techniques (process photography), and gear. It’s always about the process, technique, or gear—never about the content of the photograph or what it’s authentically connected to. In some cases, they may try to argue that it's related to something, but it's always vague (see statement above), and the process or gear takes precedence. We have social media to blame for a lot of this. The high "wow-factor" is what gets people to look and "like." And people are always up for learning something for free and then emulating or copying it if it’s popular enough. If they can commodify it, even better.
It seems we are constantly seeking outside validation for our work. We’re always trying to bolster our self-esteem. We want accolades, awards, "wins," and acknowledgement of our creative and technical skills. And we want other people to know what we’ve achieved. In essence, we want to rise above and be the "one in creation," as Becker said. We rarely, if ever, consider our own validation about what we’re doing and why. The existential anxiety would be minimized if we could understand the value of our work without seeking external validation—without hovering around narcissism and navel-gazing. I think this comes from gratitude: truly appreciating what you've made, the reasons you've made it, and the ability to understand its place in the world. Facing the reality of your life and why you do what you do—if we could stop the denying and self-deception, we could see a clear path to why we are the way we are.
That’s where we’re at. When I ask the question, "Are you doing too much or not enough?" The answer is "yes." If you’re doing this, you’re doing both too much and not enough. Too much influence from outside of you (social media, trends, etc.) and not enough self-examination and contemplation—authentically exploring what you’re passionate about and want to share—and forget the standards of success (social media popularity, money, articles, interviews); they are meaningless if you’re not really connected to the work.
The conversation ended with me conceding everything I was ranting about. In the end, it’s all meaningless, so I suppose one could make the argument that doing whatever distracts from reality or buffers the anxiety should be valid. It’s a coping mechanism. And if you pressed me, I would agree. Since none of it matters, it’s all valid, at least in the big picture (no pun intended). My point is that if you’re finding your buffer through "thumb-twiddling" digital work or photography gear and processes and you’re not hurting anyone, go for it! That’s how I ended the conversation. They understood what I meant.
After having this dialogue, I realized that it connected so beautifully to the work on death anxiety that I’ve been doing. It’s literally a metaphor for our lives. It describes how we need to create meaning and significance in order to live from day to day or even get up in the morning. Without meaning and significance or building self-esteem, we wither—we get depressed, we lose hope, and we fall into despair. This creation of meaning, in whatever form, is vital to our well-being.
And, unconsciously, we all know that what we do is meaningless—everything we do—but we just can’t face it. I know it sounds harsh and negative, but it’s the truth. This is what the Norwegian philosopher Peter Wessel Zapffe made clear about consciousness: the knowledge of our death and the impermanence and insignificance of life is a terrible burden to bear. Making art is used in what he calls "sublimation." It’s used as a distraction, or more accurately, as a transference object. Our existential anxiety is projected (transferred) onto the art. It makes so much sense to me. While I’m no different than anyone else, I do understand my predicament, or my paradoxical condition, if you will. Art allows me to intellectualize my impending death. In a lot of ways, it allows me to come to terms with it. Everything you just read here is sublimation, and everything I create is sublimation. I’m resolved to face that, and I think we would all be better off if everyone could do the same.
"If someone can prove me wrong and show me my mistake in any thought or action, I shall gladly change. I seek the truth, which never harmed anyone; the harm is to persist in one's own self-deception and ignorance." ~ Marcus Aurelius
