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Joseph (who can be trusted?) / © 2016 Frank Rodick

 

I wonder if I am not talking yet again about myself. Shall I be incapable, to the end, of lying on any other subject?
– Samuel Beckett, from Malone Dies

There’s music in everything, even defeat.
– 
Charles Bukowski

•••

For a long time I didn’t think I’d ever make pictures of my father. He didn’t mark my life like my mother. Also, I was angry. So perhaps I was punishing him—even posthumously—by not making the effort. But I was angry with my mother too and that hadn’t stopped me from making her portraits.

I’m not exactly sure what changed. Resignation maybe.

•••

As with my mother, I began the first five of these six images using old photographs I found in my parents’ archives. The original photos, small black and white things, show Joseph Rodick at different ages. They start all the way back to a child of three standing next to a teddy bear perched on a chair. About that picture, I remember my father saying it must have been taken in a photography studio because the teddy bear wasn’t his.

•••

The text in these five images are taken from my father’s words during the last days of his life. Those days were awful: hospital beds, tubes, mindfucking drugs —the indignities of an elderly life’s end, unhappily too common. Intubated, he couldn’t speak. So he wrote things down. Some stuff was illegible, some banal (I have a green notebook falling apart but still useful. I would like it here. Put a rubber band around it.), a few things cryptic. My father was proud of his usually beautiful handwriting, but by then his veiny hands shook so much all he could eke out was a scrawl. I kept those pages and photographed them, so the words you see in the images (and referenced in the titles) are rendered directly from his own hand.

•••

A difficult person to know, my father. (Yes, I know, everyone is. But not equally so.) For one thing he didn’t trust anyone, ever. I know he didn’t trust me because he told me so. That was just one more sad thing because, especially towards the end, he didn’t have much of anyone else.

Where did that mistrust come from? Maybe from his life through to early adulthood, full of hardship: poverty, war, sickness. An older sister who wrote her little brother Joe letters he’d keep always, but who died at 34 from tuberculosis. A year in a sanitorium, at age seventeen, for TB himself. No one visited me, not once, he told someone—not me—sixty years later.

•••

Of course, the elder sibling of mistrust is fear. And my father feared. Again, that austere early life couldn’t have helped. His father supporting a family of five on the wages of a sailor and then as a chauffeur. The Great Depression. And then the War, my father at home in England (ineligible for combat because of diseased lungs), alone with his mother who, he said once, had a nervous breakdown from the bombing. And then later, life with his bride Frances, my mother. He loved her but she was a troubled woman, fighting and consorting with her own, more violent, torments. When she’d explode and splinter, he’d take shelter, locking the door behind him and leaving the rest of us to find cover on our own.

Sometimes, when I look at his eyes in these portraits I imagine them peeping through a cellar keyhole, checking to see if the hurricane has passed.

•••

Joseph Rodick wanted to be an artist. He drew all the time, everywhere, and not badly for someone unschooled. He’d flip over the paper placemat in a restaurant and draw people with a ballpoint pen: that was his ritual. But all that fear (the abyss of poverty never far away) made a career in the arts daunting if not impossible. Instead he became a book seller. Life as a small merchant wasn’t easy but it was more sensible and secure.

He also lacked that much underrated quality of artists: ruthlessness. You need it if you want to make such a self-centred pursuit, one with long odds against success, into your life’s obsession.

When he saw me muddling my way into an art career—and it was he who introduced me to photography—my father was pointedly indifferent at best. In what felt like a taunt, all he’d say about my work was, how many pictures have you sold? Other people said he was jealous—the schooled son who didn’t know poverty or war or sickness chasing the father’s dream. In any case, I responded to what I felt as meanness and rejection with sullen expressions of meanness and rejection of my own.

Ah, families.

Continue Reading…

Many thanks to Emese Krunák-Hajagos for doing this interview and giving me permission to repost. The interview was originally posted by artoronto.ca in April 2015. 

Emese Krunák-Hajagos (EKH): Your show Everything Will Be Forgotten is about the past, your mother and your child-self.  Why did you decide to dedicate a whole exhibition to that theme?

Frank Rodick (FR): It’s because that’s my most recent work and I’ve never shown it in Canada. I did this work – in particular the portraits of my mother – in response to my mother’s death in 2010. What compelled me most were her life, her death and our relationship. As for the self-portraits – and there are self-portraits of myself as both an adult and as a child – they followed, I suppose, because of this reflective frame of mind. The death of a parent – especially one’s last surviving parent – is a seminal event for most people and it gets you thinking, more and perhaps differently, about your own life. Fates cooperated because I found a lot of old photographs and documents in family archives.

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97532, no. 1 (death of Frances Rodick)
© Frank Rodick, 2011

EKH: In Parade in Petticoat Lane your young mother seems to be walking down Memory Lane with a small wicker basket in her hand. She could be in any old European city but the blind musician hints at an American one. Why did you choose those elements for this photomontage?

FR: This image is based on an old photograph taken by my father in 1952. My parents really were in London’s Petticoat Lane according to what’s written on the back of the photograph. It’s a great picture, the best photo my father – an amateur photographer – ever did. All the figures are in the original photograph: my mother, the woman behind her, the veteran with medals and the chained monkey on his shoulder, and the blind musician. It’s really brilliant on its own. What I did was transform

…when it comes to knowing the world, knowing each other, knowing ourselves, we’re all far more blind than we are sighted.

the image, push and pull it into the shape I wanted it to have. So I injected formal elements like the colours (the original is black and white), the over- and underlaid textures. I scratched over the monkey. I exaggerated and de-emphasized things like facial features: eyes, the shapes of mouths. The little changes – that when you put them all together can mean a radical changing of the overall image – are a version of what R Crumb called cheating – little things you do to push the image in the direction you want.

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Parade in Petticoat Lane (my mother holds her basket)
© Frank Rodick, 2014

When I look at it I feel like the image is a fantastic harvest of humanity as well as part of my mother’s story. There are these tragic characters: the veteran, the blind trumpet player, and that sad chained monkey looking down. The monkey is my favourite; he slays me with his pathos. There’s the woman behind my mother who towers above her with this knowing, ominous look directly at the viewer. And there’s my mother, also looking into the camera, with what’s to me an almost mystified look, a deer in the headlights. For me, it speaks to her anxieties about life and her future – that the world would be too much for her, that its unyielding, violent reality would overtake and crush her. It’s like an apocalypse of the everyday, a sad and dark carnival.

EKH: All the images are touched up and aged. They look even older than their historical time would insist, almost daguerreotype like. Why?

FR: My intention in manipulating the images isn’t to make them look more aged. What I’m trying to do is make the image represent something more real to me, not less. More real as an expression of something passed through my subjective self. I often quote Céline, who is maybe my favourite twentieth century writer. Céline said he wanted to create hallucinations that were more real than everyday life and carry the reader to a deeper and more compelling subjective and personal reality. I get that completely.

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Portrait, Frances Rodick (red pearls)
© Frank Rodick, 2012

EKH: Your mother was truly beautiful but in many of her portraits her face is destroyed. It reminds me of the damage that sometimes resulted when the glass plate photographers used got dirt stuck on it or some acid ran on it. It looks like something similar happened to the photos of your mother’s face. The image appears cut or eroded by acids or smashed by some dirt and these attacks wiped off her identity (Portrait, Frances Rodick series). What did you intend to express with this method?

FR: There are a number of things going on simultaneously here for me. What I do is I just start trying a lot of things and seeing what they look like, and those things that appeal to me visually, well, I work with those some more.

©Frank Rodick, 2012 Archival pigment print 100 H x 81 W cm / 40 x 32 in

Portrait, Frances Rodick (stone-blind)
© Frank Rodick, 2012

When I look at the obfuscations on my mother’s face I see different things. There’s the damage of Alzheimer’s disease, which is something my mother lived with longer than any human should: well over 15 years. That’s a disease is a personality destroyer. There’s the damage caused by not only her experiences but also the way I think she internalized some of those experiences, how she processed her hardships and also the hardships of others, in particular, the personal consequences of anti-Semitism,which, of course, found its ultimate expression in the Nazi extermination. There’s also the obfuscation caused by my

I just make pictures. I make pictures to flesh out my personal obsessions and ruminations, to amuse myself, to have something to do that doesn’t bore me and doesn’t feel like a waste of time, to do something rather than nothing, sometimes to share something of myself with others, sometimes to scratch a nasty itch. What other people choose to do with the things I make isn’t up to me.

own perceptions and memories, which “get in the way,” carry their own blockages and blind alleys, and prevent me from knowing her, just as they get in the way of anyone knowing anyone else. That obfuscation runs two ways – it runs from my own self to my mother, just as it ran from my mother out into the world. I mean, really, when it comes to knowing the world, knowing each other, knowing ourselves, we’re all far more blind than we are sighted. That’s the reality that I see. Another point about the markings over my mother’s face: I think they’re an expression of my anger, which, sadly, is a tendency I share with my mother, although our respective angers expressed themselves differently and in different directions.

Portrait, Frances Rodick (you must console me)
© Frank Rodick, 2012

EKH: The other day we ran to each other at Starbucks and you mentioned that your work is currently on display at the Baltic Biennale of Photography in Kaliningrad and there is “trouble” around it. It touched a nerve of a politician who wants to remove your pieces, as he finds your depiction of your mother in that way “disrespectful”. I don’t think it has anything to do with your mother. It is a very expressive montage that addresses suffering. Death is one thing, suffering is another. Middle Europeans know suffering too well, its stages, the distortions it can make to their faces. People may relate to your works there in many different levels. There is a layered meaning in them, and a very strong one. I am sure people in Kaliningrad who go and see your photographs appreciate them more than you can imagine. Art is a political act there. Are you aware of the possibilities of different interpretations of your work? How do you feel about it?

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Portrait, Frances Rodick (from left to right: Sex; disposal; time)
© Frank Rodick, 2012
Installation view from the Baltic Biennale of Photography in Kaliningrad, April 2015.
Photo: Dmitry Kuryshev. Courtesy of the artist.

FR: The problem in Kaliningrad has to do with politics and religion. Of course, I totally accept that there will be different interpretations of my work. Subjectivity’s inherent to the whole thing. I’ve always said that the longer view of the creative act winds up being a fusion between three elements: the artist, the artwork, and the audience that interprets the work. That fusion

I don’t see my view as dark. It’s the world that’s dark. Not always, but when it is, and when it slams into you and yours, it’s transformative. I often think other people spend an awful lot of time and energy kidding themselves about the world, about other people, and about themselves. Sometimes I wonder how they live with that, especially when a crack in the carapace starts opening up.

is dynamic, largely because of the changing audience, and the changing experience of the audience. No problem there at all. In fact, I can find it very exciting when I hear interpretations of my work that I didn’t expect. When I showed my early work, Liquid City, in Latin America, the Argentines would often interpret it in light of their own recent history. They’d talk about the similarities between the blurred, anonymous figures in Liquid City and their own tragic Desaparecidos, those people murdered anonymously en masse in Argentina’s Dirty War. Obviously, that wasn’t my intention in creating the work, but that doesn’t mean the interpretation wasn’t insightful, interesting, or ultimately valid. It was all of those things, and those people did me the generous honour of taking the time to place my work closely next to their own intimate experiences.

What I object to is careless, lazy, cynical, or pig-headed interpretation. That is, you have people who can barely be bothered to look, never mind think or feel, before they start talking about the work. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it.

I just make pictures. I make pictures to flesh out my personal obsessions and ruminations, to amuse myself, to have something to do that doesn’t bore me and doesn’t feel like a waste of time, to do something rather than nothing, sometimes to share something of myself with others, sometimes to scratch a nasty itch. What other people choose to do with the things I make isn’t up to me.

EKH: Your childhood, grotto like, images are very disturbing. They all pose a young boy’s body without limbs, mutilated (Everything Will Be Forgotten, self-portrait as child series). Why? Didn’t you have a happy childhood?

FR: There were times I remember as happy. When a person suffers greatly, that suffering is often visited upon their children in some way. Perhaps not every single time, but usually – it depends a great deal on how the parent deals with their own suffering. And when there’s a background of historical trauma, this pain carries a cross-generational quality that can take generations to burn itself out.

I’ll tell you something I’m grateful for. Whatever the suffering I endured, I at least had some of the resources – whether they be external or internal – to try to make something out of that suffering that, I hope, isn’t destructive. My mother didn’t have the resources I had.

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L: Everything Will Be Forgotten (self-portrait as child, no. 1.2)
R: Everything Will Be Forgotten (self-portrait as child, no. 2.1)
© Frank Rodick, 2014

EKH: There is so much pain and suffering in your photographs. As Nancy Brokaw said in her essay about your work, Sex, Death and Videotape, “I take one look and ask Do I really want these images lodged in my brain? Once you’ve crossed over into the mysteries of life and death, can you get a return ticket?” Why is your view so dark? How can you live with your images?

FR: I don’t see my view as dark. It’s the world that’s dark. Not always, but when it is, and when it slams into you and yours, it’s transformative. I often think other people spend an awful lot of time and energy kidding themselves about the world, about other people, and about themselves. Sometimes I wonder how they live with that, especially when a crack in the carapace starts opening up. There are times when one gets a little more closely acquainted with reality’s cudgel and, after that, I’m sure the world’s never quite the same place. That’s the part where there’s no return ticket.

Mostly, I live with my images just fine — better than I live with the world around me if you really want to know. As for the pictures, here’s what I think and don’t think. I don’t think they’re the result of compromise, or other people’s opinions. They’re not hand-me-downs, pleas for acceptance, or chips in a game where I’m trying to get ahead. They’re not propped up with a wink and a smile. They feel like they’re mine. And in this world, how many things feel like they actually belong to you? There’s comfort there.

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Three Studies for a Mouth (Explorations in statecraft, love, and the passing of woes)
© Frank Rodick, 2010

www.frankrodick.com

 

Frank Rodick, Parade in Petticoat Lane

Parade in Petticoat Lane (my mother holds her basket)
© Frank Rodick, 2014

 

Nancy Brokaw is an independent critic and writer living in Philadelphia. She is currently a senior lecturer at the University of the Arts, where she teaches Critical Issues in Contemporary Photography, and is a senior contributing editor of The Photo Review.The following dialogue was originally posted on her blog Image World and is posted with her kind permission. If you don’t yet know Image World, give it a visit.

Nancy Brokaw: I always ask photographers of a certain age about the switch from analog to digital. You started with analog—although you were never working straight—and have made the switch, quite elegantly, to digital. How do you experience that now? Given my interest in the march of modernity, I’m particularly curious to understand what’s lost—the price that all this technology exacts.

Frank Rodick: Digital allows for a measure of flexibility and precision that was impossible with analog. Burning and dodging in the darkroom, for example, was a crude affair compared to what you can do with Photoshop.

Of course, the traditional darkroom was more hands-on—literally. But darkroom work still involved plenty of mediating elements, factors that existed between what my hands did and the printed image. It’s just that these mediating elements were based mainly on chemistry rather than digital code. For example, anyone who’s worked in the darkroom with stuff like iron toner knows how seemingly capricious a compound like that can be, how it interacts with things like water quality, for example, and what that can mean for the resultant print.

But, to your question, what have we lost?

Speed and tempo are big issues. The darkroom forced you to move slower, to consider the images for longer. With digital, you’re tempted to bounce back and forth, make rapid changes, and you’re not forced to live with particular images for a longer period of time. You don’t have to be as patient and there’s a lot to be gained with patience, a lot you can discover.

And there is an issue with digital’s power—all that nuance and flexibility and choice. But more choice isn’t always good. The darkroom imposed limitations that made you hone in on what you were looking for, instead of futzing about looking for something perfect or better. I’ve seen students get overwhelmed and lose their way with all the choices digital gives them. It’s one of the reasons that, for example, I’ll usually make a set of choices beforehand about, say, the colour palette I’ll be using. And then try to use those hues to the max. I’m not religious about it—I’ll deviate from the original plan when I think it’s called for—but it helps me keep focused on moving towards what’s most important. I think most working artists know that limitations—self-imposed or not—can really work to your ultimate advantage.

Then there’s luck. Traditional photography was full of luck and that could be beautiful. It’s not only that luck can give you beautiful things, but also that it can bring you something that really connects to a part of you that didn’t even know was there. And then you can build on that. Our conscious minds can be, well, so unimaginative. In digital work you can become painfully deliberate. “That doesn’t look quite right; I’ll change it.” But maybe that funky weird way it looked in the first place was better—and maybe you would have realized that if you’d been forced to live with it a little longer.

And on maybe a more pedestrian note, I personally found it very exciting to work in the dark. It gave the whole enterprise a kind of mystical, adventurous feel. It didn’t hurt to have Philip Glass playing in the background either.

I do think that there are ways of re-integrating these elements back into digital photography, so it’s not like they’re necessarily lost irrevocably. But I have to be a lot more conscious of process, a lot more deliberate about that to make it happen.

Brokaw: Let me put my cards on the table. I think a lot about what I call the Artisanal Pickle Phenomenon. If we’re to believe the Home section of the New York Times, every other Brooklyn household has a chicken coop out back. A restaurant just opened here in Philadelphia, in one of our hipster precincts, where diners have a full view of the butcher who preps their meat. My neighbors—professional women all—have a sewing circle, and me? I want to learn how to make cheese. That’s by the Artisanal Pickle Phenomenon—all those homemade gherkins! And I’m oddly touched by this phenomenon, oddly because it’s very clearly a choice reserved for very privileged people. Still, it moves me because it seems like a pale attempt to reclaim something that we think we’ve lost, but may never have had. It suggests an alienation, but not from our labor. From our very lives.

And I can’t help but see this sense of alienation as the by-product of the hyper-connected, virtual world that pulls us into its vortex and, in turn, all that pickle-making as a yearning for the tactile. In the photography world, this response manifests in the revival of once-revolutionary techniques (daguerreotypes, tintypes, etc.)—that now look pre-modern. I do fret about what it means that we’re all tethered to these devices that stand between us and experience.

Rodick: What you’re saying makes sense. And like I said, analog photography is more hands-on, so it fits into what you’re saying. You’re literally handling your materials more, smelling them even, than when you’re working digitally.

But on the other hand I’m starting to see how my own experience might contrast with yours. Because when I work digitally I do feel that I’m still working with things that have physicality—as though I’m “painting with pixels,” although painting might not be a very good term. Moving pixels around anyway, changing their properties. I know that’s not the same stuff as oils or acrylics and that Continue Reading…

We are all potential Nazis in our desire to master the turmoil in ourselves and in the world. And we can triumph over the Nazi temptation only when we surrender to the turmoil that can never be mastered.

– Morgan Meis, “When Hitler Was Curator”

Many thanks to Morgan Meis who writes thoughtfully on The “Degenerate Art” exhibition at the Neue Galerie . . . and the human condition. Click here to read the whole thing. It’s worth your time.

Self-portrait by Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler, murdered in 1943 at Sonnenstein Euthanasia Centre.

 

This Great Misfortune

September 5, 2013 — Leave a comment

BY NANCY BROKAW

With her kind permission, I’ve reposted this piece written by Nancy Brokaw, senior lecturer in photography at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia and an independent arts writer. Brokaw served as a senior contributing editor on The Photo Review, has written for a variety of other arts publications, and currently blogs at nbrokaw.blogspot.comThis Great Misfortune first appeared September 3rd on her blog, where she writes regularly about visual art.

Back when I was young, I didn’t get Edgar Allan Poe. My first inkling of appreciation came with The Man of the Crowd, the story that Walter Benjamin called an X-ray of a detective story that gives us only the pursuer and pursued, with no crime in sight.

Reading the story, I began to see that virtually all of Poe’s short pieces are less fright fests than fever dreams, with no crime, no grand moral, no neat redemptive ending—just the endless pursuit after the guilty mystery of oneself. The urban setting notwithstanding Man of the Crowd is every bit as claustrophobic as Poe’s explicitly interior dramas like The Black Cat and The Tell-Tale Heart. And all of these hallucinatory tales lead their protagonist into an underworld where Poe’s central character comes face to face with his own fouled soul.

I live there now, no. 1 Chromogenic print installed in custom-made wooden case ©Frank Rodick, 2012

I live there now, no. 1
Chromogenic print installed in custom-made wooden case
©Frank Rodick, 2012

Frank Rodick’s I live there now brought Poe to mind. Taken as he was closing down his parents’ home after his father’s death, the images in this triptych depict the inevitable decay of the soul. In the first image, the darkened room signifies loss: the end of the life of the mind. With each successive image, though, the scene collapses, and the abandoned desk, the mildewed walls, the decaying books and pictures combine to create the perfect image of rot. That these objects—the writer’s desk, the scholar’s library—have for centuries signified civilization underscore the tell-tale corruption at the heart of the human enterprise. In another setting the light that shines dimly on the desktop might promise illumination, might be read as the light shining in the darkness, but here it is swamped by a scene that seems entirely underwater. Continue Reading…