Hemingway's Typewriter

Ernest Hemingway (1899–1961) was an American novelist, short-story writer, and journalist. In 1953, he won the Nobel Prize for "The Old Man and the Sea." Unquestionably, Ernest Hemingway was antisemitic. Throughout his letters, he makes nasty remarks about Jews. But Hemingway felt his prejudice had a place in his fiction as well, most notably in "The Sun Also Rises," his classic 1925 novel about a group of Paris expatriates at the bullfights in Pamplona. He was a product of his generation’s white supremacy, casual (accepted) racism, and bigotry.

Whatever you think about Hemingway, he was a talented writer and had a big impact on novels and writing. In a way, he created a genre. I studied and read his work in undergraduate school. While it was intriguing and engaging, it was littered with machismo and patriarchy, along with antisemitism, racism, and generally chauvinistic views. Some of it was relevant to the stories and characters, but most of it was connected to the time period. Hemingway was part of the “Silent Generation.”

In my new work, I write about him and his suicide in Ketchum, Idaho. It’s relevant because I ended up at his grave site in 1995. I made a Polaroid portrait as I sat on his grave, next to a dozen yellow dead roses that were there. You can read about it in my book (which will be published next year) if you’re interested. Although this Polaroid wasn’t in my exhibition (it was two years later), it made me think about my use of color photography back then and how it’s made a reappearance in this work.

It’s always a struggle for me to separate the artist from their ideologies. Hemingway fits perfectly into that dilemma. Martin Heidegger is another example: a profound philosopher who was a nazi. I struggle with this. However, I digress. That discussion is for another time.

Often, when the topic of making pictures comes up, some of the first questions are, "What process did you use?" or, “What kind of lens or camera did you use?" I always refer to Hemingway. Let me explain what I mean.

There is an important element to what materials or process(es) you use to make art. No doubt. I’ve written about this before and expressed my views clearly. They’re important for reasons, not for importance's sake alone. In other words, I don’t think you’ll hit your mark simply by riding on a process or a piece of equipment.

The materials, equipment, or process(es) need to support the work, not the other way around. If you’re making pictures in a process for the process’ sake, I think you may be missing the point. It’s like stringing a bunch of letters in a line because they look good, not because they communicate something or give context to the work (they can still look good and support or communicate an idea). My point is, I don’t know of anyone who’s ever asked what kind of typewriter Hemingway used to write "The Old Man and the Sea." Does it matter? Was it a Corona? Underwood? What difference would it make? Full disclosure: After Hemingway’s death, people wanted to know more about him, and they published what kind of typewriter he liked. This was in a very different context than what I’m referring to.

Give these ideas some thought. What are your choices, or the motivation behind your choices, when making pictures? Can you defend why you’ve chosen the materials, equipment, and process(es) you’re using?

Visions In Mortality - 1993

I just finished writing about my first photographic exhibition in the biography portion of my book (Chapter 2, The Introduction). After careful consideration, I felt it was important to give my background on these theories and ideas in the context of what I'm doing now. It makes so much sense to me now. There is some kind of closure that I feel after all of these years making art about the fear of death and the human behaviors that result from it. I wouldn’t say that I was working blindly or aimlessly all those years; it was more like I was trying to express ideas that I had no concept of explaining with words. It was the intellectual part that was missing. That’s all changed now. I understand what I was doing, and it all fits together beautifully. I am beyond grateful for that.

Over 30 years ago, I was making work about the same things I’m making work about today. The difference is that I’m so much more mature (artistically speaking) and feel like I have a good grasp on these concepts and how to articulate what concerns me. I wrote about my exhibition called "Visions in Mortality." This body of work was exhibited for a few weeks in 1993 as my senior thesis project for undergraduate school.

The images were all manipulated Polaroid work (direct color positives) and poetry. Each image was accompanied by a short poem or passage. I was very influenced by Lucas Samaras and Charles Bukowski at the time. The overall theme was what I’ve always made work about: death anxiety and the knowledge of our mortality. However, as you can see from the statement below, I was venturing into the defense mechanisms that I'm writing about today concerning the denial of death.

In my book, I wrote about four of the 25 or so images from the show. “Clotheshorse,” “Coitus on a Sea of Blue,” “Ketchum, Idaho,” and this one, "Ode to Vincent van Gogh.” This is a self-portrait. I was 29 years old. The image came about by accident while moving the chemistry around during development—the lower portion of my ear was gone. After seeing it emerge, I immediately thought about the painting of Vincent van Gogh—the self-portrait with his bandage and cap—and the self-mutilation and suicide. And the Yellow House.

On the 23rd of December 1888, in a small house in Arles, in the south of France, one of the most famous artists of all time—Vincent van Gogh—feverishly cut off his own ear in a mysterious act of self-mutilation. The circumstances in which van Gogh cut off his ear are not exactly known, but many experts believe that it was following a furious argument with Paul Gauguin at the Yellow House. Afterwards, van Gogh allegedly packaged up the ear and gave it to a prostitute in a nearby brothel—that wasn’t true; he gave it to a cleaning lady. He was then admitted to a hospital in Arles, France. He died by suicide about 18 months later, on July 29, 1890.

Mental illness has been a long preoccupation of mine—all human behavior, really. I’ve always wondered, just like any marginalized community, why these afflictions happen. I feel like I have some answers now, and while they are not definitive or absolute, they do point me in the right direction for why these kinds of things happen to people. I address suicide in my "Ketchum, Idaho” image as well. It’s a self-portrait sitting on the grave of Ernest Hemingway. These questions have always been present in my work.

Here’s my artist’s statement from the show in 1993—this is verbatim:

“Visions in Mortality”
This project deals with the reality of life, which is death, both visually and textually. This project is meant to communicate the intense and complicated process of life and our struggle with mortality as we approach death.

Whether life is short or long, it inevitably consists of much pain, suffering, depression, hurt, confusion, boredom, and misery, with only a “sprinkle” now and then of happiness, joy, love, peace, honor, and understanding. So many people are on the futile quest to attain happiness and understanding through physical, materialistic, and intellectual means that they neglect to realize their failure and ultimately find themselves in a “mortality crisis.”

This project deals with both the long term “reality” of life and few and far between “sprinkles” of the good stuff. It represents what I and many others see, feel, and experience as the human race.

Overall, this imagery communicates that both life and death are frightening, beautiful, and mysterious conditions.