Jean-Francois Bussiere 12/04/15

This class helped me realize just how much photography is about managing our sense of loss. I took this picture of a frog while I was away camping last summer. I was only able to take it while holding the phone with only one hand because I had to hold my flashlight with my other hand considering that, given how dark it was when it was taken, the flash of the camera without the flashlight may not have been enough to “capture” the frog on its own. In my own way, I engaged in a form of “photographic safari that is replacing the gun safari.” (Sontag, 11) To treat the frog as ‘photographable’ (Bourdieu) can be a way to ‘participate in its mortality,’ (Sontag, 11) to acknowledge that if we do not behave ecologically today, we may regret the days when we could see frogs more directly than by looking at them on ancient photographs.

This is a selfie that I took in class after we had just finished listening to the lecture and participating in the class discussion on October 9th, during week 5, right after our class that had dealt primarily with the nature of the carte-de-visite (Plunkett) and selfie (Shipley) as forms of social practice. Beyond borrowing from the genre of the ironic selfie because of the context that is provided to it by the story that accompanies it, this picture also represents a private observation of how seldom I had taken selfies prior to this class, having most typically directed my own photographic gaze outward before. Without the story, the picture on its own appears completely mundane.

This picture was taken by my boyfriend for me, also while I was away camping last summer. For many of us who exist as part of contemporary ‘phone culture’ so to speak, “Photographs will offer indisputable evidence that the trip was made, that the program was carried out, that fun was had.” (Sontag, 6) This picture can technically still be considered to count as a selfie if we acknowledge the idea that “the aesthetics of the selfie have evolved to such an extent that you no longer have to take the picture yourself or even be in it for it to be a selfie.” (Shipley, 405) Indeed, in this case, to take this particular picture of me myself would have been impossible. I can’t do a one-handed handstand.

This selfie was taken at the Place Bonaventure in the city of Montreal. It has been said that “photographers are most concerned with mirroring reality.” (Sontag, 4) In this case I tried to take advantage of the opportunity with which the reflective surface presented me at the time to create a selfie in which it would be, for the occasion, reality that would mirror the photographer instead, to turn the tables on the usual. You can see the skylights in the ceiling shining down from far above me.

I took inspiration from the Indian girls who took photos for “Creating Own Histories.” While they had to break “through the class, gender and age divides of access to technology” (Amrita De, 36) in a way I do not, I considered “gathering information about issues” (40) in my area through photography that “promises to speak the ‘truth’” (35) to document “the stories behind those pictures.” (34) Leaf blowers are an environmental plague, noise pollution culprits, and easily replaced by rakes, but validated by structural concerns. In attempting to take pictures of people using them between home and school, I gained a new appreciation for the girls’ efforts to “get over their real fear” (Amrita De, 44) as I used the camera “as a predatory weapon” (Sontag, 10) against them, to a limited extent. (I strove not to disrupt their work or draw attention)

This is a picture of my grandmother’s backyard: “A family’s photograph album is generally about the extended family…” (Sontag, 6) Given that my grandmother has now been deceased for about 8 years, it can definitely be said to be “all that remains of it.” (Sontag, 6) Photographs can be “means by which one could ensure against the losses of the past.” (hooks, 60) There used to be a set of swings there, but I no longer have access to a picture of it, nor of her. This photograph represents a missed opportunity, and a reminder not to miss them again.

This was only going to be a picture of a wreath made from autumn leaves taken in a restaurant somewhere. The contrast inherent in the use of autumn leaves, of which trees let go every year to signal the irretrievable passage of time, to create something intended to last for a longer period of time struck me as a means of “providing a defense against the passage of time,” (Bazin, 4) “rescuing it simply from its proper corruption.” (8) The symbolism of the wreath, inadvertently situated over my reflected head like a halo made of ‘fallen’ nature rather than of ‘elevated’ myth, drew my attention to how the “religious use” (Bazin, 5) of photography further extends the ‘life’ of the leaves itself.

This is a picture of a text that I accidentally received months ago because someone sent it to me by mistake at the wrong number. I did not recognize the number of the person who sent it, but I noticed that their area code was off from the code where I live by one number, probably explaining their mistake, but I removed it from the picture to protect the privacy of the people in question, whoever they may be. What sort of twisted story had I inadvertently been drawn into witnessing? I never replied to it, since it sounded as though any explanation that I was not the person in question would have been interpreted as a lie told by whoever this message was genuinely addressed to, who may never get it. Like a picture sold in a bazaar, we will never know the truth behind it, and are left to rebuild our own.

The “punctum” (Barthes, 27) of this picture for me was that, when I first glimpsed this sight through a store window, I was struck by how it could appear as either a live bather or a corpse, even though it was really a mannequin. It opened the “question of distinguishing truth from falsehood” (Batchen, 129) in photography, in which the subject “had to act as if dead” (130) in the first place. But what does it mean for us to mourn the former ‘truth’ of the photograph as an art form considering that the reality presented by photographs has always been constructed to begin with?

I took this picture before the beginning of one of my media genres classes earlier this semester. It had been left over from a previous class, and I liked that the teacher couldn’t bring himself to erase it, so I decided to “snatch it from the jaws of time” for posterity. The drawing board is an intentionally temporary form of communication, like Snapchat. (Oremus) In the context of a class that also taught us about wider media history and the work of Bourdieu, I found it interesting to note this concern for ‘lower’, alternate forms of communicative and aesthetic expression.

In the early days of photography, it was taken for granted by photographers, viewers and subjects alike that “only a slight movement of the subject’s head was enough to result in an unsightly blur.” (Batchen, 130) Talbot has also written about the occasions on which “in a small fraction of a second (people) change their positions so much, as to destroy the distinctness of the representation.” (42) By creating a distorted, ‘impossible’ image, we draw attention to the unexpectedly deceptive possibilities of photography, despite being typically seen as an ‘art of telling the truth.’

The Buddha is known for having taught that “All things are impermanent.” In the context of considering photography as part of a larger attempt by humankind to hold onto something that is always ultimately fleeting, a photograph of the Buddha himself seemed appropriate. Like Buddhism, photography has been “associated with death since the beginning,” and situated at the threshold between “the ‘fake’ and the ‘real.’” (Batchen, 129) This picture was taken inside of a hotel at a convention that I went to last year. I hesitated as to whether to take it or not, wondering whether I would still be able to take it the next year or not. This year, I was glad to have taken it last year, since the convention had already moved to another hotel, rendering taking a picture of it unfeasible further emphasizing the impermanence of this opportunity. Fittingly, one might say. Looking at an old photo, having become a different person, we bring our past selves back to life.

This is a picture of a statue of Jacques Cartier taken inside of a Montreal metro station. In a way, it can be seen as a “mythologizing of (Quebec as) a land whose primary function was to enchant the touring… as a means of imbricating cultural ideologies.” (Monteiro, 3) It reconstructs Quebec as a place that was ‘discovered’ by white men, just as American landmarks have been (Berger). However, there are those among us who would experience this as representing a colonizing influence in their lives, whose presence may seem to be erased by this.

Non-white voices have all too often been silenced with the complicity of photography. Whether by omission, as for the fact it took wood and chocolate to prompt the advancement in tone nuance that the photography of people of color had not (Roth, 119), or by cultural hijacking, such as through the systematic semantic colonization of the American landscape (Berger), this tendency has been unfortunately pervasive. Considering that Concordia attempts to provide a curriculum which is more inclusive of the concerns of First Nations people, among others, it seemed appropriate to commemorate their representation of this commitment in easily graspable visual form by taking a picture of it. It can be seen as “useful in the production of counterhegemonic representations.” (hooks, 60) providing a counterpoint to the prevalent narrative.

This picture was taken at an Ottawa museum in 2009, from the ‘Mythic Beasts’ exhibit. Taken with a real camera, not a phone, it is one of my crisper pictures. I was told I could take pictures before paying, but I was asked not to once inside. I insisted, and was eventually allowed to. It occurred to me that these myths had been part of the freely shared common heritage of various ancient cultures for centuries and that, in appropriating and monetizing them as cultural gatekeepers, they may have had shaky moral high ground.

Kuhn writes that “There can be no last word about my photograph, about any photograph.” (399) Just as in the case of her disagreement with her mother about the caption of a particular photograph (Kuhn, 397-398), photographs of moments that are densely interwoven into the emotional fabric of someone’s personal life could sometimes only be ‘decoded’ by someone who has access to private knowledge, sometimes not even by anyone. I have no idea who wrote this – I think it was scrawled on a metro wall or on a public building wall somewhere. While the chances of the person it was destined to ever seeing it seem infinitesimal at best, venting it out then and there granted someone, at some point, an opportunity for them “to deal with a knowledge that could not be spoken” (Kuhn, 400) somehow.

The use of photography by the authorities has been “central to the process of defining and regulating the criminal.” (Sekula, 7) In this case, this is a picture of a poster that was put up somewhere to rally the population in the opposite direction. There has been a growing push for cameras on police officers to regulate them in turn, and for the use of cameras by protestors against them. Thankfully, photography’s advantage does not flow in only one direction. Regrettably, while I considered doing so while taking this picture, I did not go to this particular protest… because I was afraid of enduring police brutality there. I felt guilty, but once was enough. I still have pictures of that too. I never sued but, while I don’t look at them often, they do give me a sense of control – serve an ‘evidentiary function.’

The ‘punctum’ of this picture for me lies in the story attached to it. I took this picture before the beginning of a performance that I attended with my family a year or two ago. Halfway through this performance, on the very same phone that I had used to take this picture just an hour or two before, someone I had tried to help as part of a suicide prevention online group went into emergency crisis mode. Chastised out of the theatre for striving to communicate with them online during the performance, during which phones were forbidden, I struggled to get the cops to their house before they did anything stupid. It worked, but they dissolved their friendship with me. Looking at this picture I remember the version of myself who took it, looking forward to the performance in blissful ignorance.

This picture of two fish statues spouting water at each other reminded me of the famous picture of the twins by Diane Arbus. Photography is uniquely suited to exploring our fascination with twin motifs as human beings in general. This is because the ‘reproducibility’ of photographs that Benjamin writes about already makes every photograph into the story of a copy of something, of a second version of something being made, almost the same, but just not quite, invoking our whole love/hate relationship with ‘cloning.’


We must not underestimate the role of the perspective of the photographer in reading what a photograph is meant to ‘say.’ At the same time, photographs capture very specific moments and, when taken at different times, can allow us to compare how things change with the passage of time. In these pictures from summer camp, the same sign, with a friendly appearance by day, takes on a creepy, horrific quality when photographed at night with a shaky phone and blurry text in the dark. Both pictures are ‘true.’

Bourdieu writes about how in small, closed communities, earlier photography was considered something not to be wasted on occasions that were not coded as ‘exceptional’ enough to warrant being considered ‘photographable.’ After all, people would say, what would be the point of taking a picture of something that you see every single day? Even before having read about this, one morning, I was prompted to stop and to take this picture of the short path and set of steps that leads down to Loyola campus from where I live. What was it that, in fact, prompted me to take a picture of something that I see every single day? I’m not sure. Something about the harmony of its composition appealed to me. Years from now, if my life is different, and I live somewhere else, I may want to remember these mornings.

Many may not initially notice the racial components in the American appropriation of the landscape described by Berger partly because some of it is concealed beneath our natural tendency as human beings to ‘see’ ourselves in the world around us, and to take pictures that validate our desire to see ourselves reflected. To a certain extent, we anthropomorphize the world around us as a matter of course, just like people lying in the grass looking up at clouds, or seeing patterns in shadows. Here we can see a box that has been put into a recycling bin cautiously peering out of its hideout while the ‘eyes’ formed by the two holes in its side scour the horizon to see if it is safe for them to come out of there. I think it saw me.

I took this picture going down Belmore on another school morning. The beauty of the way the light was hitting the falling leaves struck me in a way I just had to try to capture. Upon looking at the picture after the fact I was disappointed. All the technical elements were there, but the picture was missing that extra ‘something’ that had made me want to take the picture in the first place, did not convey the emotional truth of the moment for me. There is something to be said for how we use photography to deal with our sense of loss, to shed some light on our fallen leaves, to call back to an earlier established metaphor. We are usually not forced to choose between the two, although some may imply that we are, but while this is true, we must also remember that the moment should also always be experienced for what it is, because there will always be times when the lens will fail us, when the moment will be too elusive to capture.

Yet not all that we photograph must disappear so soon. Meet a clever, long-lived friend I made in at a pet store fittingly called Safari on a sound walk for an acoustic design class I took last term, posing for the camera. Here, the photograph celebrates the fact that he will probably outlive me.

Bibliography
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Batchen, Geoffrey, “Ectoplasm,” Each Wild Idea, MIT Press, 2001, p. 128-144
Bazin, André, “The Ontology of the Photographic Image,” Film Quarterly, Vol 13, No 4 (Summer 1960) University of California Press, p. 4-9
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hooks, bell, “In Our Glory: Photography and Black Life,” Art on My Mind: Visual Politics, New York: The New Press, July 1st 1995, p. 54-64
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Talbot, William Henry Fox, The Pencil of Nature, Longman, Brown, Green and Longmans, London, 1844, p. 1-64

