Posts in Photo based art
Untitled Selves

There were times I imagined myself a Nietzschean character, watching death do its dirty work—at least as it played out in ICUs and the dementia wards where ninety-year-old women played with dolls and screamed about concentration camps. But all I really managed was to keep my eyes open and take notes. I paid attention out of a shopworn sense of filial duty, exhausted curiosity, and because it dawned on me that there might be a vein worth mining in all this. Artists—I've imagined myself one of those too—can be monsters.

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On Wanting to See, the Invisible Jury, and Small Red Boxes: Notes on Making My Father's Portrait

When I look at these six images I see different things. I see the human face of time and its juxtapositions, that what looks and feels like a long life is a cipher. I see what looks like a man’s destiny and feels like a tragedy, emerging from a life left in more ways than one. I see a boy, a man, looking, for something. I wanted to see, he said. But what?  

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Frank Rodick: Interview by Emese Krunák-Hajagos

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.  

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Nancy Brokaw and Frank Rodick talk about pixels, pickle-making, and the transition from analog to digital

One day, quite some time ago, I happened on a photograph of Napoleon's youngest brother, Jerome, taken in 1852. And I realized then, with an amazement I have not been able to lessen since: 'I am looking at eyes that looked at the Emperor.' (Nancy Brokaw, quoting Roland Barthes)  

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Everything Will Be Forgotten

A couple of years after finding the photos of my mother, I found more old photographs—small beaten up prints. They show me as a child, maybe four years old, standing naked in a bathtub. My father—it must have been my father—had taken them over half a century ago.  

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This Great Misfortune

With their air of cultured decay, the three images that make up I live there now serve as an elegy to the dream of an enlightened world. And more: like Poe’s short fictions, they lay bare the wreckage of a psyche: the interior (room) as a projection of the interior (soul). Tracing the decay of his father’s library, Rodick exposes the lie we tell ourselves about the edifice of civilization. (Nancy Brokaw)  

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Of Taboos, Love, Death, and Redemption

...yes, you do have to risk looking utterly weak, undignified, ugly, childish, hopeless, pretentious, stupid, whatever. I’m not saying that’s what happens and it’s certainly not what you’re looking to make happen. It’s okay to be afraid, but you can’t be cautious and hope to come up with anything interesting.  

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