Er(r)go...
… a boundless proliferation of images, a gargantuan escalation of photographic narratives, overproduction, excessiveness and inflation of visuality, contamination by portalosis, gaze as the imperative. Images obscure reality; it’s about time we opened our eyes.
How much truth is there to photography? Are the things we see true, since acontextual, non-situational and uninterpreted truth does not exist? How many truths then? The charming demon of interpretation lends a helping hand here: truth is constituted in and through interpretation, we cannot suspend our interpretative activity, nor can we elevate ourselves above interpretation without interpreting. That way or another, we’d better avoid the fear, dismay and anger of the audience. Someone says: the opposite of truth is falsity; hmm, who would have thought? How about trustworthiness instead of truth? We shall see.
In the meantime, intriguing things are happening. Ophelia is holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a glass in another, and has nothing to hide – in the end, she learns how to swim and is swimming in an inflatable pool; the element of water merges with the element of femininity, why not? Faltejsek returns to the pre-natal stage, impersonates Ophelia and floats on water, and Faukner is searching for connections. Church bells delineate a comfort zone, simpletons do not know Latin but edify themselves and reinforce their faith, and the church establishes the relationship between man and world. Man conquers the world and re-enacts the act of creation while the corrupt society, like Narcissus, admires its own image engraved in metal (it’s Baudelaire). The photographer dominates, reigns and interferes with space – he is a functionary of the apparatus, no longer an innocent object in itself – now the apparatus of power: it disciplines and parcels out the body; the world freezes with the click of the shutter, and the subject turns into eidolon. Luckily, a photograph, like tjurunga, resists absolute death and bears witness to life; it summons the past, exorcising it in the process, but it may also viralize throughout the internet and disgrace the heroes. A feminised masculine body proudly flaunts its penis whose erection, strangely enough, attracts the viewers’ attention. Suicidal heroines are placed in the midst of children’s toys, but medieval death does not go along with the new world-view. In-between the entangled orders of identity and difference the linear time of progress defeats the cyclical time, diachrony encodes itself into synchrony, synchrony into diachrony, and Burroughs keeps it short: it is the word that conceives the image, and the image is a virus. Finally, the artist, in a liminal condition, gets off the merry-go-round of life.
But things don’t always look that bright. Photography touches upon the open wounds of memory: cattle wagons, railroad tracks, barbed wire, a chimney, human hair, a striped camp uniform, a suitcase, air – still permeated with ash particles of human remains – enriches fields and meadows and mingles with construction materials, Muranów built from crushed-brick concrete made of remains of people and buildings, a splinter of human bone. Women (c)rushed together, it’s their last sensation of intimacy before leaving for (non)existence, women from Mizoch – Eurydices, appearing and disappearing, suspended between life and death by Orpheus’s gaze. Vivante/morte. And elsewhere, the nuclear holocaust of Chernobyl, landslides of reality, puffs of smoke, contaminated plants, self-portraits of caesium, plutonium and uranium, pesticide burial sites, faces contorted by dread, and screaming – the banality of horror; death as radionuclides permeates the fabric of photography, but tourist traffic increases in the Exclusion Zone. We need to restore feeling to the nerveless structures of memory.
And around and in-between, as per usual, various valuables of intellect and materiality: numinous cameras, ekphrases and inphrases, preposterior stories, non-phallic, non-Oedipal, but always negotiable difference-in-proximity, camera obscura, aesthetics of minimalistic metonymies, men in corsets, cultural palimpsests, self-fragilisation, genological disruption, shreds of knowledge, fascinum vs. fascinance, elements of sadomasochistic culture, classism, demythologisation of infantilising stigmatisation of folk artists (!), death locked up as a spectre in the crypt of unconsciousness, beginnings of photography in Rzeszów and Subcarpathian spacetimes (and what about the charm of Polesie?), iconic intelligence, a look which touches and feels, disembodied monuments, dispersion, shapelessness, intermingling of orders, and – naturally – indeterminacy, disappearance, suspension. Oh, and out of nowhere, there shows up a hint of common sense.
Let us resume: visibility structures everything, invisibility condemns to absence and pushes everything into non-existence. But, as it often happens, the problem turns out to be more complex and complicated than it seems, even though the proponents of culturalism will be ok with that.
With no pictures to show, the journey never happened.
Wojciech Kalaga
https://orcid.org/0000-0003-4874-9734
No. 49 (2024)
Published: 2024-12-30