THE IDENTIFICATION OF SELF

BY HANNAH FRIESER | ENFOCO’S NUEVA LUZ PHOTOGRAPHIC JOURNAL

November 2014

The simple act of looking at oneself and documenting what we see is a powerful one. It can define who we are, how we see ourselves and how we want to be remembered. Our ability to look outward and inward enables us to reconnect with ourselves as individuals, as part of a sub-group, or as an integrated part of a whole. We observe, take stock, and sometimes redefine ourselves. Artists have often fixed their artistic eye onto themselves and, from there, onto society. The result of this scrutiny has led to seminal work on canvas, film or any other material of their choosing.

On December 24, 1968, during the Apollo 8 space mission to the moon, astronaut Bill Anders picked up a camera and took his historic photograph of the Earth as it rose over the moon. Much like looking into a mirror for the first time, the photograph enabled us to see ourselves in an entirely new way. Through the eyes of the photographer, not the snap of the camera, we became a planet in all of Earth’s grandeur. We saw ourselves as an unthinkably small part of a magnificent planet, yet powerful enough as a people to launch ourselves into space. Humility mixed with self-aggrandizement.

Many space missions and photographs later, the United States National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) pursued another kind of portrait to show Earth from the ground up. On April 22, 2014, NASA kicked off the Global Selfie Project in celebration of Earth Day. Using various social media channels, NASA called for people around the world to take and submit self-portraits on this particular day. Fifty thousand people responded. At first glance the resulting 3.2-billion-pixel photograph looks like a roughly woven blanket with two views of Earth printed on it. Enlarging the image to the next magnification level reveals nothing but noisy little squares. However, in a breathtaking moment of additional magnification, 36,000 individual photographs from 113 countries emerge as a patchwork of people all around the world.

This crowd-sourced act of self-presentation is certainly impressive, however the Global Selfie is hardly an unbiased portrait of Earth’s inhabitants. Even a brief look at the images reveals a certain lack of diversity in appearance of the people and an overabundance of photographs taken in the United States. In addition, many photographs from other countries seem to depict Western tourists. As no information is provided about the people in each image except their geographic location, we must rely on educated guesses about the identities of the depicted smiling faces. This is of course not unlike our first reaction to meeting strangers in everyday life, where we make ready assumptions about appearance, social status, origin or behavior.

In addition to evaluating who is represented in this project, it is important to consider who is missing from NASA’s selection of images and why. Participation in this project was voluntary and open to all, yet means, interest, access or politics most likely factored into the submission selection. It is equally critical to ask by what criteria 14,000 images were excluded. Considering the obvious underrepresentation of some groups, one cannot help but wonder whose Earth is depicted in this project.

Just as in the world in general, the act of inclusion and exclusion takes place throughout all areas of the arts, in every editing room, art institution and artist studio. This unforgiving, yet necessary process describes a dynamic through which key decisions are made that shape our culture. Artists decide how to represent themselves THE IDENTIFICATION OF SELF by Hannah Frieser and others in their art. Curators decide on the artists and the work that will be included in exhibitions. Museums and galleries decide on the curators and artists they want to work with. Foundations and corporations decide on funding priorities. Audiences decide on their interests. However, no selection process is safe from biases and censorship, be it inflicted on oneself or onto others. And while fair cultural representation might be a utopian idea, the cost of unbalanced representation can be significant.

In light of available support or cultural climate, an artist might create but not show his or her work or decide to pursue one direction over another. A curator might avoid art deemed too risky or artists he or she deems marginal. Questions arise about what is fair, what is of interest and what is of creative value. It is all too easy for the powers that be to methodically mute out those deemed less important, thereby creating a imbalanced culture of privilege and in turn a warped representation of culture.

Ideally a snapshot of the art world would reflect a proportionate spread of diversity in race, ethnicity, gender, religion, age and more. Artists of diverse backgrounds would be shown regularly in any exhibition and not just during particular months. Authors of art history books would remember to include these artists beyond specialty chapters on what they consider fringe movements. This is currently not the case, and there are consequences for audience and art practitioner alike. Whoever is included in our visual history is added to our collective memory. To be included can translate into material support, additional opportunities and artistic success. To be excluded or neglected is to be forgotten.

The art world is defined by trends. While one pocket of the arts is being neglectful, promising restorative gains are being made in others. In the photographic world this often hinges on a few advocates, who draw attention to underrepresented artists or entire genres of photography.

In the U.S., art historian and author Deborah Willis has been tireless in her efforts to promote photography by African American artists and to reframe vintage images depicting African Americans into an art historical context. Curator and writer Elizabeth Ferrer has been a persistent voice to preserve and advocate the history of Latino photography, which frequently is omitted from history books. Looking abroad, photographer Samer Mohdad co-founded the Arab Image Foundation with a mission to preserve Arab image heritage. Each of these efforts has contributed to bring diversity back into art history books.

Artists have responded in full force to address the omission of their viewpoints from the art canon. They are creating narratives that contrast past injustices against Native Americans with today’s social issues (Larry McNeil, Fly by Night Mythology). They confront us with uncomfortable facts about slavery and its consequences for blacks today (Hank Willis Thomas, B®ANDED, Unbranded). They recast paintings of great masters to subvert the Western gaze (Maxine Helfman, Historical Correction). They revisit the portrayal of racial identity by looking at themselves and at others (Myra Greene, Self Portraits, Character Recognition, My White Friends; Pipo Nguyen-duy, AnOther Western; Dulce Pinzón, Superheroes).

These artists lead the way in examining societal values, confronting injustices of the past and prejudices of the present. They deconstruct the concept of the Other by placing marginalized groups back into the larger narrative of the world we live in and by realigning our view of ourselves in relation to each other. Society will always be in flux, and privilege will most likely always result in dominance. However, as demonstrated by NASA’s Global Selfie Project, the story of the whole can only be complete if it is as rich in detail and diversity as the world it describes. The act of looking at oneself as a society requires honesty and courage. The act of capturing what we have seen further requires insight, vision and the ability to embrace different viewpoints.

Gabriel García Román, Ayana V. Jackson and Marina Font are excellent examples of artists who broaden the public’s understanding of society. They have each found creative ways of examining aspects of identity, cultural diversity and memory. Their viewpoints, which have been all too frequently cookie-cuttered out of the general history, are part of the American fabric. Yet their place within the main story seems quite clear.

Gabriel García Román’s images in the Queer Icons series are strikingly beautiful to view. Quiet yet to the point, these are elegant self-affirmations that depict members of the LGBT community in images reminiscent of devotional paintings of saints. Roman describes his subjects simply as “people of color who also maintain identities within the queer community.” The reframing of everyday people wearing contemporary clothing into these iconic images is surprisingly dramatic in effect and is further enhanced by scale, technique and body language.

The images combine photogravure and the printmaking process chine-collé, which layers in different types of paper onto the surface of each print. This playful, yet labor-intensive manual process enables the creation of experimental variations of each image. Though they might represent the same figure, each image is one-ofa-kind in its use of ink color, precious papers, and process-dependent imperfections in registration.

The prints in the Queer Icons series communicate a reverence similar to historic icon paintings. The hand-made beauty of each print gives full expression to the dignity of the figures against the aura of their halos. Set against the delicate beauty of the ornate papers used for the background, the rich tone of the photogravure process emphasizes the timeless grace in the gestures of each person. The figures exude a grounded inner peace and calmness that is only strengthened by the note of vulnerability. They are strong but not impervious to attacks from a society that has often sidelined them, and churches that have excluded them altogether. These assertive images show members of the queer community as a diverse cross section of people who have a right to be seen as the individuals they are.

Whereas Roman’s images envision a future of tolerance and acceptance, Ayana V. Jackson does not wait for this future and restages the past instead. The emotionally complex work in her series Leap Frog (a bit of the other) Grand Matron Army, features a young black woman who is sitting in a crouching position. The woman, enacted by the photographer herself, sits on the ground in an open-legged squat, while her hands slightly push off from the ground ahead of her. While the woman’s pose is consistent throughout the series, her clothing references different eras and female typecasts. The unusual pose distinguishes the photographs from conventional studio portraits thereby obstructing a traditional interpretation. Though the pose has sexual connotations, the woman never appears submissive and looks into the camera defiantly. There is something unexpectedly confronting about the woman’s direct gaze. Nothing will hold this determined woman back, who has claimed control of her mind and body.

With the camera set at eye level, the psychological implications are clear. She has bent down to be at our level. She is letting us take a final look through our male-defined, post-colonial eyes, and returns this look unflinchingly with a composed expression that is not without sympathy. She is dismissing centuries of being objectified by others. Without second guessing her past, she is now ready for a self-defined future. Her next leap will pass us by into a life not yet imagined.

Marina Font unravels the immigrant experience from a female viewpoint. Her introspective, poetic images ponder an identity that has become fractured through relocation. While the unidentified female immigrant might be focused on her future and the promises of her new home, she also thinks back to her roots in need of nostalgic comfort. The images evoke singular moments of emotion-filled yearning. As if letting her heart and mind wander, the woman returns to memory fragments of objects. These items might still exist in either place, but they are awash with a sad certainty that they will never exist in the time or place of remembrance again.

Font’s images express a precious, somewhat romanticized memory of the past. Linens are carefully folded, letters neatly stacked, and suitcases tenderly arranged. The memories of smell, sound, touch, are tucked away to be remembered always. There is no returning back to the home one has left. As other artists, such as Mona Hatoum or Shirin Neshat have explored, upon departure the immigrant has not yet connected to the new place, yet new experiences have already created estrangement from the old place. The result is identities created as an uneasy amalgamate that rarely mixes to a complete whole. Home cannot be found in either place. Like the Roman god Janus, the immigrant looks to the past and future at the same time. One can easily imagine the act of accessing and repressing memories to the past. Font shows us file drawers as they open and close, revealing more memories. The woman stands firmly with a worn suitcase to the past and a much larger suitcase preparing for the future.

The immigrant experience is one of the most pivotal to a country founded by a majority of people with ancestry elsewhere. Font ensures that this history is not forgotten through the generations or reduced to numbers. Instead she opens up a suitcase full of memories and acknowledges the experience in all its facets.