I just had lunch with a friend of mine, a photojournalist from Agence France Presse. I always make it a point to meet up with him when he’s in town. Because he seldom is. And he’s a very decent guy and fun to talk to though he spends more time in depressing and nightmare-inducing situations.
Last year he was in Iraq and the pictures he brought back home were far disturbing than I could possibly imagine. It makes shooting movie stars, models and fashion works seemingly pointless in comparison. You can’t help but be awed and humbled by this kind of photographer.
While some artsy fashion photographers in Asia spend endless hours prepping up models and celebrities, dressing them up with collaborations from make-up artists and designers, then having an exhibition and calling the show as one of photography’s opus. Then they’d swagger around town boasting about the glory of their lighting set-ups (which are totally technical) and the concept behind their pictures (which are normally copied) and the fantastic job the set designers and make-up artists did (which are predictably ornamental).
On the other hand, you have one of these photojournalists who spend ungodly hours in the pit of hell all alone. He stares at Medusa in her grotesqueness and shoots her right between the eyes, comes home and calmly have coffee with you and talk about how he misses the kids and the wife.
You won’t even hear him talk about what he saw in hell until you drag it out from him, letter by letter. No bragging. No triumph in his voice that he just barely survived a roadside bomb blast. Just calm, calculated narration that is depressing at most, at times frightening and utterly humbling. He reminds me of James Nachtwey politely, and apologetically, describing the many conflicts he covered around the world in the documentary film, the War Photographer.
So on one hand you have the artsy fashion photographers who often make prosaic, banal and pedestrian images of Beauty and heralds them as their personal triumph and great contribution to the world.
On the other hand, we have these photojournalists who document poignant, real and important images of human struggle against the ugly and insensitive world yet remain utterly quiet, and almost apologetic about it.
And what do we do? We reward the artsy and pretentious photographers by showering them praises and celebrate their infernal attempt to elevate celebrities into the realm of arts by placing them and their cohorts in the golden pedestal, while we ignore the important works of the documentary photographers.
Go figure. Click.
Last year he was in Iraq and the pictures he brought back home were far disturbing than I could possibly imagine. It makes shooting movie stars, models and fashion works seemingly pointless in comparison. You can’t help but be awed and humbled by this kind of photographer.
While some artsy fashion photographers in Asia spend endless hours prepping up models and celebrities, dressing them up with collaborations from make-up artists and designers, then having an exhibition and calling the show as one of photography’s opus. Then they’d swagger around town boasting about the glory of their lighting set-ups (which are totally technical) and the concept behind their pictures (which are normally copied) and the fantastic job the set designers and make-up artists did (which are predictably ornamental).
On the other hand, you have one of these photojournalists who spend ungodly hours in the pit of hell all alone. He stares at Medusa in her grotesqueness and shoots her right between the eyes, comes home and calmly have coffee with you and talk about how he misses the kids and the wife.
You won’t even hear him talk about what he saw in hell until you drag it out from him, letter by letter. No bragging. No triumph in his voice that he just barely survived a roadside bomb blast. Just calm, calculated narration that is depressing at most, at times frightening and utterly humbling. He reminds me of James Nachtwey politely, and apologetically, describing the many conflicts he covered around the world in the documentary film, the War Photographer.
So on one hand you have the artsy fashion photographers who often make prosaic, banal and pedestrian images of Beauty and heralds them as their personal triumph and great contribution to the world.
On the other hand, we have these photojournalists who document poignant, real and important images of human struggle against the ugly and insensitive world yet remain utterly quiet, and almost apologetic about it.
And what do we do? We reward the artsy and pretentious photographers by showering them praises and celebrate their infernal attempt to elevate celebrities into the realm of arts by placing them and their cohorts in the golden pedestal, while we ignore the important works of the documentary photographers.
Go figure. Click.
posted by Unknown at
2:14 AM
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