Damage Done
2005 • page 2 of 4

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7. Patrick Altman

8. Patrick Altman

9. Max Dean

10. Max Dean

11. Max Dean

12. Max Dean

13. Brett Weston

14. Brett Weston

 
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Artists • Damage Done

Patrick Altman

Approximately twenty years after Thomas Barrow’s Cancellations series, Québec artist Patrick Altman evokes Barrow’s signature “X” in his work Venise revisitée No. 1 (1993), part of a larger series using nineteenth-century travel photographs from Italy. Where Barrow seamlessly embedded his “X” into the image by inscribing his negatives, Altman attacks the surface of the photograph itself. However, Altman’s strategy engages another set of issues revolving around photographic documentation and the representation of the past. As the chief photographer of the Musée du Québec who has been responsible for documenting countless artworks in the museum’s collection, Altman understands the difference between representation and referent. Given his background and the fact that he is himself a collector of nineteenth-century photography, it is all the more shocking when one realizes that he has actually damaged irreplaceable nineteenth-century stereo cards and albumen prints. But, in a kind of parody of his day job, he documents the exact areas of the photographs he intends to damage before he obliterates them. He then displays the damaged print next to his documentation of what is now absent from the print; most poignantly, people whose likenesses had, until Altman’s intervention, remained intact for at least one hundred years. Unlike the Cancellations series, in which Barrow produced his negatives to be damaged, Altman has chosen to work with photographs whose negatives were lost long ago. Altman simultaneously destroys and conserves history.

Altman’s work raises the question of what might be at stake in terms of the fragility of the photographic trace. He forces the issue by confronting us with a loss that is not symbolic or staged but actual. He creates the conditions for each of us to consider what this loss might mean historically, while, at the same time, offering us the solace of the “document.” The truth, Altman demonstrates, is that every movement from one medium to another, whether analogue to analogue, analogue to digital, or digital to digital, is invariably a subjective editing process that raises questions of what is to be saved and what must be left behind. Things tend to disappear at every turn.

Max Dean

Like Patrick Altman, Toronto artist Max Dean, through his robotics installation, As Yet Untitled (1992-95), has created a work that contemplates the tenuous life of photographs as material objects and as one-time carriers of often deeply personal memories. His installation touches on some of the same mixed emotions – curiosity, regret and resignation – that present themselves when we sift through a box of discarded photographs and eventually walk away, leaving them to almost certain oblivion. Dean intensifies these emotions by further implicating us in the inevitable process of destruction and loss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean’s machine is programmed to select anonymous family snapshots and to drop them into a shredder. The resulting strips of paper are then moved by conveyer belt and deposited to form a neat pile behind the machine. However, unlike Altman’s presentation of damage as a fait accompli, Dean offers the viewer a chance to intervene. The machine pauses briefly in its task to present each photograph to the viewer for inspection. This leaves a small window of opportunity for the viewer to avert the certain destruction of the snapshot by pushing one of two hand-shaped paddles. If the robot’s “hand” is engaged by the viewer’s, then the photograph is transferred to a storage container and saved.

We are asked by Dean to make a choice to save the photograph or let it be shredded. Choice, however, turns out to be somewhat of an illusion. The end result of action or inaction remains oblivion for the photograph. Ultimately, it was the anonymity of the photograph that doomed it to be fed to Dean’s robot in the first place. In this sense, one can ask whether these photographs were “lost” even before Dean secured them for his piece. Each viewer is faced with the question: do these photographs have meaning outside of the living memory of those who took them?

Brett Weston

Brett Weston was the son of Edward Weston, one of the major figures of early twentieth-century American photography. His work was highly accomplished and, at the same time, heavily influenced by his father, with whom he exhibited from time to time. Weston’s destruction of his negatives contrasts, ironically enough, with a gesture made by Ansel Adams late in his life. Adams donated the bulk of his negatives to the Center of Creative Photography (which he founded in the mid-1970s) with instructions to allow them to be printed “for educational purposes by advanced students, faculty, and visiting scholars under the supervision and control of a committee of experts selected with approval of the trustees of the Ansel Adams Publishing Rights Trust.” Added was the proviso that all prints made under such conditions were to be marked as not being authentic prints and, in fact, were not to be allowed to leave the centre at all. Ultimately, though, Adams and Weston were both concerned with exerting control over their legacies after their deaths. Weston, as an artist thoroughly formed by modernism, saw the photographic print as the nexus of a set of meanings that were a function of his personal expressivity. He sought to “fix” those meanings by insuring that the artwork’s appearance could not be revised after his death. One must assume that he believed that his artistic accomplishments would thus remain intact and “timeless” – a memorializing process.

 

 

 

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