So this isn’t actually about the image; or, it is, but what I did to it. Please read with me.
Psychologically, the point of impact is when someone first sees something. It happened to me when I first saw Christopher Marley’s Exquisite Creatures and saw blue butterflies arranged in a helix; it happened to me when I first set foot in Immensity; and it happens whenever I experience art in some nature for the first time: huge giant waves of feelings, an absolute reaction.
Very specifically, a reaction that is attenuated and moderated on the next exposure to the same work. Great artworks are ones that minimize that attenuation and make repeat viewings so powerful.
I’m in school for photography, taking an intro course in digital photography, because (believe it or not, I’ve been uneducated about this at all until the 23rd of September) nearly my entire catalog of work is outsider art.
There’s a critique coming up and my work will be judged by the entire class, and I don’t dare show it off ahead of class, so that the impact doesn’t get reduced, nothing gets attenuated. Except earlier tonight, I pulled this image from my assignment folio and showed it, knowing full well that it would lose all its impact.
This image doesn’t really adhere to many of the basic rules of photography: the leading lines go nowhere good, the thirds are absent, not a damn thing is straight. But I was trying to create a mood, and the visible ceiling on the right completely destroys that mood. So I showed this picture to my instructor, and said I would replace it with something better. He’s seen nothing else of the assignment folio.
I take the image back and try to tear it right down the middle, and he’s got an incredible look of shock, the same look a sweaty guy would make about any torn MTG card. Except my hands are too weak, I can’t tear the image. I crumple it up.
The kaleidoscope of feelings across this man’s face as an artist destroys her own work.
Hmm.
I love this photo.
The bright colors contrasted with the worn nature of the metal and signs creates a sort of liminal, nostalgic feeling. It kind of reminds me of Toy Story, in a way. The ceiling adds to that really well.
Knowing the rules of photography is only a first step, so you can break them to make art that’s authentic to you. You consciously broke those rules to create this piece, which is the sign of a developed artist. It’s awesome.
Thank you for sharing.
The ceiling makes me like it! At first my eye struggles to parse the image then as I dive in I can begin to see it’s a street or intersection, and I have the brief moment of understanding. Then I dig further into it and that clarity crumbles. Why…how, is there a ceiling? If this is indoors what is the street? It leaves me with a lot of questions while still being visually appealing with the colors and haphazardness. At first I thought it was a video game render until I started to explore more.
EDIT: is this from a Meow Wolf installation?
Yup, it’s from Convergence Station in Denver.
Ahhh! I thought I recognized it! What a fun exhibit! If you like this sort of thing check out “Otherworld” if you can find one. Similar sort of project, but they also include a hidden story/mystery/puzzle you can solve that does a good job getting you to peek into every corner and really observe the installation not just see it.
Without the ceiling being visible, this is just an unusual perspective of a highway underpass. With the ceiling present (and a liberal huffing of eau d’art school) it becomes something else, a juxtaposition of what experience tells us is an outdoor space with the evidence that this is not so. Everything our eye sees in the photograph is a simulacrum (intentionally invoking Baudrillard here), and the only tell that this space exists in hyper reality is tucked away in the corner, an unremarkable patch of gray industrial ceiling which belies the true nature of the image.
Less pretentiously, I think it’s a cool shot that makes me think of cyberpunk vibes, like this is an on-set photo from Blade Runner or something, and that’s enough for me to enjoy it.
I bristle inherently at the notion that anyone else can declare that someone’s creative work can be done “wrong.” Instructor or otherwise. This is why I never went to school for such things. Just as forcing people to write a book report ruins that book for them forever, the act of of making up rules about, classifying, and attempting to pigeonhole imagery into this or that can naturally diminish it.
Who the hell says the lines have to converge somewhere? What law requires that your subjects have to be aligned at intersections of thirds? It’s preposterous. Some blistering imbecile thinks a pass-or-fail grade can be attached to that, and what’s worse people believe him?
It’s all bullshit, made up by people who want make themselves feel important without taking the risks to go out and create for themselves. Pure wine snobbery.
The bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.
All appreciation of art boils down to, “I know what I like.” You can’t change what people like, and conversely what other people like shouldn’t change you. If you’re doing it for a paycheck that’s different, but then it’s no longer art. It’s work. Stephen Sondheim did a whole song about it.
I did like the look on his face as I destroyed my own art though.
That itself is art.
Which is gold, because you shot this digitally, right? You can print as many as you want. You could surreptitiously wallpaper his entire classroom with them after hours, for him to discover in the morning.
