Narcissus

The work is a part of a large series entitled "Narcissus" exploring the interface between the photographer and the landscape. All the photographs were taken on an island near Molde in Norway.

“Observe, observe perpetually” Virginia Woolf on Montaigne

AT FIRST

I arrived in Kristiansund, Norway, in 2009 to lecture and exhibit at the Nordic Light photographic festival. I was there to curate an exhibition of Palestinian photographers’ work during Operation Cast Lead in Gaza, a project I entitled “Point of No Return”, an echo of something Franz Fanon had written about the experience of the underdog. My appointed guide at that time, Robert Hansen, drove me around the county of Møre og Romsdal in Norway’s western fjordland, to show me the region. It was May – springtime – and I remember wanting to see snow and ice.

There was something I’d been missing for a long time after three stressful years as Magnum’s president and a busy schedule of assignments: the space and time to think. Norway provided that – and more. I found a generosity of spirit in the people I met in spite of not speaking the language, and a positive feeling about just about everything. Then and there I determined to find a way to spend more time in Norway – to think and to work. Three months later I had bought a small cabin beside a lake on the island of Otrøya, a fifteen-minute ferry ride from the island to the nearest town, Molde. This is how Narcissus began.

Reading in the cabin.

My engagement with landscape started in the mid-1970s whilst studying photography in Farnham, Surrey. I went off to explore the landscape of Thomas Hardy’s Dorset, curious to see what remained of his tracks. Later, during the 1980s, I was drawn to the post-industrial landscape of Alsace-Lorraine and Northern England, more as a documentary incentive than anything else. The European landscape was changing rapidly and that fascinated me. My last book: Footprint: Europe’s Changing Landscape (Franklin 2008) allowed me to develop my instinct. In between the work in Alsace-Lorraine (1986) and Andalucia (2005) I had studied geography, travelled a great deal, mainly on assignment for National Geographic Magazine, and so had seen a lot of the world.

But I realize now that I understood very little about landscape photography when I unpacked my Landrover into the Norwegian cabin in the Autumn of 2009. I needed time to learn, and to reflect. At the beginning a certain culture shock inspired me: the unfamiliar snow and ice, metamorphic rock, silver birch woods and so forth. In time, once these sensations subsided, I saw myself, my cabin beside a lake in its valley, as an intrinsic part of living in the landscape. Narcissus – this book - follows the process by which I came to grow photographically and engage with this small, remote island fifteen miles long, home to about 2000 people, mostly smallholders.

In this text I want to set out my own situated Englishman’s understanding of how landscape photography as a genre evolved; to question why, from some perspectives, it has not progressed much from 18th century painting; and how, as many have shown before me, it is possible develop a more personal, subjective and phenomenological approach to landscape. In so doing I recognize that such a solipsistic turn in my photography signifies a backing away from political engagement with the pressing issues of the day: an economic crisis, widespread unemployment, and always war over the horizon. This may be so, but I argue that time carved out of a short life to slow down, to think, to reflect, to photograph in one place, is a political as much as a creative act.

My own influence in landscape photography draws on all the pre- and post 1970s iterations as outlined below. As a student I was always moved by Edward Weston’s passion for light and ancient Monterey cypress trees in My Camera at Point Lobos (Weston 1968). Later I discovered Richard Misrach’s Desert Cantos work and later still Hiroshi Sugimoto, Minor White, Harry Callahan, Lucien Clergue (his photographs on a lake in 1960). Along the way my colleagues at Magnum, the many who have engaged with landscape: Henri Cartier-Bresson, Werner Bischof, Josef Koudelka, Alec Soth and Donovan Wylie, whose work is always progressive, have always kept me focused.



UNPACKING THE TRUNK

Setting out to write about photographing the landscape in Norway I’m burdened in so many ways by the enormous battered trunk in the corner, which is the legacy of landscape as a visual and cultural concept with its roots in 17th century painting. When photography took off in 1839 and landscape photography followed a few years later, its early practitioners – Fox Talbot, Roger Fenton, William Henry Jackson and Timothy O’Sullivan – stuck rigidly to the conventions of 19th century painting as it had emerged from the influence of Salvator Rosa and Claude Lorrain.

Only the discourse changed: the term “landscape” was normally replaced by “view” (Krauss 1982). And sadly, when I look through “landscape photographer of the year” compendia in Foyles bookshop in London I see little that is in any way progressive. The same motifs are there: deciduous trees or rocks, an arresting ray of light normally centre-stage, and some topographic feature off to the left or right.

The picturesque developed during the 19th century as a happy medium between Arcadian beauty and the daunting sublime. In Britain, ruined abbeys amid gnarled oaks illuminated by ephemeral effects of light and shadow were typical evocations of the genre. In North America the idea of wilderness took hold as the frontier was rolled back at the end of the 19th century (Nash 1982). Photographers set out to capture wild, mostly stereographic images depicting the untamed spectacle of nature. Man and his workings were erased from view. With the forceful advocacy of photography, including that of Ansel Adams, National Parks were created to preserve the Edenic landscape at once emptied of American Indians.

Until the 1970s landscape photography was mostly governed by the conventions of nature painting: romanticism, pictorialism and various forms of commercialism normally linked to tourism, itself associated with increased human mobility. Roads, railways and air travel all widened the reach of view photographers but its practitioners rarely questioned the genre itself. At the outset landscape photography, as practiced by people like PH Emerson and Timothy O’Sullivan (in his later work), were part of a larger cultural turn that tried to demonstrate that the ‘great outdoors’ was a morally and vitally salubrious place – just right for settlers of the American West or escapees from Europe’s tuberculosis-ridden inner cities.

Since the 1970s landscape photographers have begun to challenge landscape romanticism in a variety of ways. The “New Topographics” exhibition in the United States in 1976 drew on some of the ideas of John Brinkenhoff Jackson in re-evaluating what he called the ‘vernacular landscape’ (Jackson 1984). What Jackson meant by this was a ‘native’ landscape shaped by human activity. A similar appeal emerged in Europe (Williams 1993). JB Jackson’s bête noire was the American obsession with architectural and landscape preservation. He wanted his students and the wider public to value the rapidly-changing here-and-now: the trailer parks, drive-ins, the new housing developments.

The contemporary landscape, for Jackson, was always artificial (Jackson 1984). In turn photographers began to visualize the landscape in a fresh way. But it was not always popular. Max Kozloff wrote of the Lewis Baltz’s images of Park City, a badly constructed Nevada ski resort: “His camera can never drink in enough unsightly chaff, never slake a thirst for debris and rubble. This omnivorous gaze - monotonous and impassive in its spread and reiterated in serial clusters of black-and-white photographs always printed the same size - seems entirely disproportionate to the interest of its subject” (Kozloff 1991).

The objective and impassive gaze on the contemporary semi-urban landscape has been one of the few progressive movements to separate landscape photography from 19th century painting. The work of Robert Adams, Lewis Baltz, Joe Deal, and Frank Gohlke in the United States was echoed by the influence of Neue Sachlichkeit - the German ‘new objectivity’ cultural explosion of the 1920s, and its pioneering photographer Albert Renger-Patzsch, on Dusseldorf school photographers: Hilla and Bernd Becher, Thomas Struth, Candida Höfer and Andreas Gursky.

Gursky’s progressive work in the landscape genre has moved from cool objectivity to dramatic, large-scale, and altered landscapes that carry echoes of Edmund Burke’s concept of the sublime. “[Gursky] freely manipulates his images, altering the architecture of the built and natural environments, creating repetitions, deepening colors, and collapsing time, in order to heighten the sense of the sublime”(Ohlin 2002).

The sublime played another role in a parallel wave of counter-pictorialism - an echo of the French paysage morale. This became consolidated in (for example) Richard Misrach’s (1986) Bravo 20: The Bombing of the American West, David Hanson’s 1986-9 Wasteland and Edward Burtynsky’s (1996) Nickel Tailings series. The moralized “environmental” landscape holds up to scrutiny, with big camera detail, man-made destruction of the formerly glorified wilderness, turning the pictorial into the “toxic sublime” (Diehl 2006). This ongoing narrative of industrial and military despoliation is a further progressive trope within landscape photography. Subjectivity, as I will discuss later, is engaged causally as a political standpoint.


THE OBJECTIVE/SUBJECTIVE LANDSCAPE

I am faced with a contradictory problem. The history of Western painting, from say Claude Lorrain to Matisse and beyond, evolved from a genre confined to the constructs of objectivity and realism achieved through linear and aerial perspective and the diligent ‘copying’ of nature: not exactly as a child copies words from a blackboard, but as a musician interprets a musical score: adding his or her own tone, dynamics, tempo and so forth.

In Norway nineteenth century “romantic nationalism”, exemplified by Johan Christian Dahl and Hans Gude, borrowed topically from German and Danish pictorialism, and echoed much of what constituted landscape painting throughout Europe. Landscape art was created to please a visually unsophisticated but nationalistic public; and perhaps the pleasure found in some pictorial vistas stems as much from deep evolutionary instincts as from aesthetic choice (Dutton 2009).

Nevertheless, by stages art freed itself from both objectivity and its readiness to please, so that from the mid 19th century painting, but more importantly painters, sought to deploy their emotions, feelings and sensations as representations of nature. Cezanne and Van Gogh, both working in the scorching heat of Provence, made deep footprints on the path to self-expression and painting has never looked back. Fauvism went on to express subjectivity from the wild and exposed soul of the artist such that the landscape itself melted under the heat of creative passion (Bachelard 1958); Symbolism (I think of Edvard Munch’s blood red sky in The Scream) contorted the landscape into a sorry twist of psychological angst.

Photography began at roughly the same moment that painting completed its liberation from realism, leaving the new medium to carry the baton of objective “truth” into the 20th century. Photographs framed nature through composition and employed light to burn natural form onto film. Light itself became the “pencil of nature” making visible what, if the lights went out, would be dark.

Subjectivity in painting is achieved in a number of ways that are normally denied to photography: principally, the bending of the visible world to the perceptive will of the artist. Photography’s loyalty to verisimilitude, to an objective “truth”, conventionally rules against wholesale manipulation for “effect”. However, there is always the urge to interpret what we find, as Herman Melville once wrote: "Say what some poets will, nature is not so much her own ever-sweet interpreter, as the mere supplier of that cunning alphabet, whereby selecting and combining as he pleases, each man reads his own particular lesson according to his own particular mind and mood" (Gifford 1993). The novelist Virginia Woolf once made a similar point: “that though we see the same world, we see it though different eyes” (Woolf 1992). It is at so many levels that we see the world differently and the human aesthetic experience is just one such niche, one into which the photographer must step.

So what is left on the table for the photographer wishing to stamp his or her personality on his work? In the world of reportage this often leans towards political rather than emotional subjectivity expressed either as empathy for the underdog per se or a more general affinity with a cause.

In the world of landscape photography subjective expression has taken several excursions. Minor White, Harry Callahan, Edward Weston and Lucien Clergue – all working between the 1930s and 70s - used various forms of abstraction, with an emphasis on the quality of light, to lend larger meaning to landscape, although landscape was just one of the genres that these photographers explored. Minor White, among others, made an explicit connection between poetry and photography: “The essential core of both verse and photography is poetry. And I have felt the taste of poetry” (Bunnell 1989).

During the 1980s Andy Goldsworthy and Richard Long, both associated with the Land Art movement, sought to rearrange elements within the landscape (such as leaves and stones) as photographed ephemeral sculpture. In the same breath we can consider Roger Fenton’s shifting cannonballs in his 1855 photographs from the Crimea: In the Shadow of the Valley of Death as a progenitor, or the posing and repositioning cow’s skulls/dead bodies etc. in the more recent history of the genre. However, Jeff Wall goes one step further in Dead Troops Talk (1992) posing actors in an Afghan battle landscape and, in another project A Sudden Gust of Wind (1993), also posed with actors, offers a composite take-off of a 19th century Hokusai landscape.

Manipulated photographs of landscape are now widespread. The British painter David Hockney said recently that with generalized manipulation photography was dead and had returned to painting (Gayford 2011). What he meant was that the veracity that photography had once promised had died. Out in Norway I began thinking about this. I had travelled up for the snow in late 2011 to continue the series of images of the mountain reflected in the lake. But the lake had partly frozen before the snow came, eliminating the reflection. Of course this didn't stop me working. I now had half the strange iconic figure lying down. Then I thought: well what's wrong with making the reflection by manipulation?



Suddenly I saw this strange shape my dark-cloth made on the chair: almost human, blown by the wind, and I thought two things. First, the conceptual photograph that I'd have with my manipulated reflection would seem bland compared to the serendipitous photograph. What's magical about what we discover in the world, or in the landscape, is the unexpected: the random and yet mysteriously purposeful order of things. So the resulting photograph has a greater openness and interest - a psychological landscape and not a mental exercise.

Mining for new seams of subjectivity, the Helsinki based photographer Jorma Puranen used super-imposition to comment on human history and memory in the Finnish landscape. Richard Misrach’s haunting photographs from Bravo 20 deployed a combination of political and emotional power to comment on military despoliation in the American desert. The Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto in the built environment softened the sharp lines of buildings by setting the focal point of his camera to twice “infinity” so that, in Sugimoto’s conceptual approach to architecture, we see essential forms rather then details (Sugimoto 2003).

DWELLING IN THE LANDSCAPE

Working on the island of Otrøya I have recognized some ways in which I have deciphered my own perception of the landscape. This has happened through dwelling in the landscape as a means of documenting an experience of place rather than visual capture of the merely scenic view, and through reflection on familiarity, anthropomorphism, and a kind of deeper or more intense looking.

During a long career in photography, and in the years growing up before that, I travelled or relocated almost incessantly. Running quickly from place to place I missed the knowledge and richness of experience that comes from being in one place and amongst objects, pathways, landscapes that have come to feel familiar and at the same time are creatively inspiring.

These conditions I found in Norway. Narcissus traces the process of experiencing the landscape of Otrøya over two to three years. At the beginning, as I’ve explained earlier, a certain culture shock entrapped me. But after a while I think I started looking with more intensity as I restricted my geographical range. I started wanting to explore the whole island, and climb every mountain. I ended up realizing that everything I needed was within a few hundred metres. I have always said to students, when lost, “go and walk for an hour from your home – you’ll always find a picture.”

On Otrøya I followed my own advice, even on days when nothing in the weather or the light seemed promising. Suddenly, my intimacy with the landscape increased. I came to know it as a friend’s face, and familiarity drew me yet closer. In his book L’Imaginaire (1940) Jean-Paul Sartre spoke of the way we animate in our mind aspects of our world that we recognize as familiar: “the imagining consciousness that we produce before a photograph is an act and this act includes a nonthetic consciousness of itself as spontaneity. We have consciousness, of some sort, of animating the photo, of lending life to it to make an image of it” (Sartre 2004).

Sartre referred to the differing way in which we perceive the picture of a friend as opposed an unknown person. I made the same connection with a known landscape, or familiar objects within it, such as a damaged willow tree, or a particular mountain behind a lake. I thought of the fox in Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Le Petit Prince who advised the despondent prince that his rose was special because he loved it and felt responsible for it. I came to feel responsible for the frail willow tree and the landscape around it – my landscape - that was special (de Saint-Exupéry 1945).

This intimate approach to landscape and place has been described both as a “phenomenology of landscape” (Wylie 2007) – literally the studied experiencing of landscape - and a “poetics of space” (Bachelard 1958) and draws on the work of several 19th century psychologists and philosophers, including Martin Heidegger (Heidegger 1950) who developed the concept of existential phenomenology, a sort of caring awareness and sensitivity to the experience of place.

Many artists and photographers have followed this approach. Heidegger himself uses the example of Van Gogh’s portrait of a pair of beaten-up old shoes to draw us into ways in which a descriptive intimacy of place can lead to artistic expression (Heidegger 1971). It should also be underlined that “the concept of dwelling is not simply a synonym for a reactionary, anti-modern, and romanticized world of peasant shoes … Dwelling names the binding and the manner of this binding of such shoes and the world” (Harrison 2007). The point is that the concept of dwelling is as much about the place and the particular as it is about the world at large, whatever the cultural practice or environment.

In the Otrøya landscape I identified with my garden and especially the willow tree. In painting there are abundant examples of seeing the landscape through the home. I think of Cézanne’s sixty or more paintings made while living in a rented cabin at the foot of Mont Sainte Victoire, of Pierre Bonnard at Le Cannet, or Monet in the garden with his water-lilies.

Photographers identified dwelling as an inspiring site of expression: P.H. Emerson in the Fens (Jeffrey 1981), Paul Strand in his garden at Orgeval northeast of Paris, Robert Adams in the Oregon forest, or Larry Towell in his book The World from my Front Porch (Towell 2008). While these are all men, the Norwegian photographer Tone Elin Solholm in the “Giants’ Living Room” (Solholm and Webb 2010) produced a memorable book on the spaces of motherhood and is reminiscent of Bachelard’s musings on the experience of scale and imagination in the interior landscape of childhood (Bachelard 1958).

Earlier I suggested photography could (counter-intuitively) make personal the relationship between the artist and the landscape through the process of perception. Why counterintuitive? For the obvious reason that photography is, in essence, a mechanical, digital and chemical process where stuff bathed in light is magically recorded. Perception comes about through the act of looking, or seeing – but more than that, as both Marcel Merleau-Ponty and his friend Jacques Lacan recognized, by a fuller engagement with responding and acting: “La Phénoménologie [by Merleau-Ponty] brings us back, then, to the regulation of form, which is governed, not only by the subject's eye, but by his expectations, his movement, his grip, his muscular and visceral emotion - in short, his constitutive presence, directed in what is called his total intentionality” (Lacan 1973).

What Merleau-Ponty and Lacan are getting at, through the concept of intentionality, is that an emotional and personal response to (for example) the landscape can be purposefully guided in an entirely non-mechanical way. Thus questions of how and when aspects of the landscape are selected become as relevant for the photographer as the painter. The photographer in this situation has one obvious advantage and one obvious disadvantage from the painter when meeting the challenge of subjectivity.

The advantage for the photographer is that forms seen and felt, such as those alluding to anthropomorphism, narcissism etc. have an almost mystical allure to others who saw the trees in the wood but not the trees looking back at him/her because they were not focused on that sort of thing. The obvious disadvantage remains with the fact that the response to the landscape will not allow any “laying down of the gaze” (Lacan 1973). This describes, for example, the charged brushstrokes that hold the memory and feeling of the landscape, but not the photographic imprint.

The further I looked into the landscape of Otrøya the more I began to realize that, in a very real sense, I was not only making the strange landscape familiar, but also looking to find forms that were familiar to me. It was Xenophenes who observed that people model their gods after themselves (Mitchell, Thompson et al. 1997). The Scottish Enlightenment philosopher David Hume, while writing on religion, recognized that we involuntarily see ourselves in nature: “There is a universal tendency amongst mankind to conceive all beings like themselves, and to transfer to every object those qualities with which they are familiarly acquainted, and of which they are intimately conscious. We find human faces in the moon, armies in the clouds; and by a natural propensity, if not corrected by experience and reflection, ascribe malice and good will to everything that hurts or pleases us. Hence the frequency and beauty of the prosopopoeia in poetry, where trees, mountains, and streams are personified, and the inanimate parts of nature acquire sentiment and passion” (Hume 1889).

Merleau-Ponty and the psychoanalyst Lacan, in developing these ideas, wrote that we see objects “through the spectacles of memory”(Merleau-Ponty 1962) and that narcissism, or a reflection upon one’s own image, is a constitutive act in the production of a sense of self (Lacan 1973; Wylie 2007). As I watched the lake in front of my cabin and began to work in smaller circles I started to be aware of an “immanent significance” at least for me, in the character of the landscape. I saw trolls in the grass, faces in the trees, and serpents in the sea. I later realized that I was not alone in perceiving the Norwegian landscape in this way. The painter Theodor Kittlesen (1857-1914) had similar flights of imagination when he painted his troll-hills in the landscape of Lake Soneren; and the author Anne Cath Vestly (1920-2008) wrote a series of children’s stories about a boy who befriended a small stick of wood (Knerten) bearing, as he saw it, human attributes.

Gazing across the lake in front of the cottage after an October snowfall I saw an entire human form reflected in the lake in front of me: I just had to tilt my head to the side. What to do with this? The classical world abounds with stories of weird transformations. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Ovid 1986), the gods transform a king and queen into contiguous rocks on a mountain But here was a mountain metamorphosing into, as I perceived it, human form. Incidentally, it was also Ovid who told the story of Narcissus the youth who fell in love with his own reflection and turned (on dying, heartbroken) into a yellow-blossomed flower. This book is entitled Narcissus precisely because it deals with self-reflection in the landscape.

It is easy to see how fantasies can emerge from looking closely into the landscape, and also how self-reflection affects the way nature is perceived. The closer I came to the landscape the less I could rid myself of this way of seeing: it even affected the way I was beginning to regard landscapes in other parts of the world as I took trips during the period 2009-11.

Whilst working on this book I realized three things: first, that man and nature are not separate, cannot be separated, in any way that makes sense to me. This was the hypothesis I developed whilst working on The Time of Trees during the 1990s – now somehow proven. Our connection is deep, evolutionary, material and psychological. Second, that a progressive approach to landscape photography might be achieved through a deeper intimacy with it – with our place.

Finally, that this book, these photographs, are simply a monochrome, visual reaction to the landscape of Otrøya. Photography, as a means of expression or communication, is limited. It cannot tell you about the clear, dry and fresh scented air that weaves through Norway’s western fjordland. It cannot tell you about the touch of wet grass or the chill of the lake-water. While experiencing so much in a particular place, photographs can only reveal one dimension of sensation: vision. The rest we have to imagine, and with the ambiguity of black and white photographs we have to imagine more. This imagining is, for me, part of the pleasure of looking at photographs.


Artwork (pages 1&2) Maisie Franklin (2010-2011)
Artwork page 7 Stuart Franklin (2011)

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