Now that I’ve established the need not only to start shooting again, but to find an audience for my work external to an intimate relationship, I’ll have to start exploring to see where that audience could be. It’s not necessarily through the obvious places such as galleries and museums or book and magazine publications, as I discovered during my trip to the Arles Photography Festival. Several years after I left Loïc, I mentioned to him some disparaging remarks that had been made about my work, by someone who's opinion I didn't respect but it'd gotten to me all the same. He was so upset that he gave me the money to go to the annual photography festival in Arles and have my work read by professionals. When I got there, the city was bustling with photographers, many of whom were sporting Leica cameras slung over their shoulders, critics, gallery owners, and publishers. We photographers literally had to scramble and run to get in line to sign up for readings before all the places were gone.
Reading after reading was a disappointment, as readings of my work by the French generally been. One critic told me that I couldn’t put a horizontal next to a vertical, a blurry image next to one sharply in focus, and so on. Another insisted that I should take all of my photos with the same focal length. Another told me that I had to start with a clear pre-defined concept, such as taking all of my photos from 50 cm above the ground. None of them adressed my work itself, there was no discussion of the images, no dialogue. I would’ve been entirely frustrated if hadn’t been for a German woman who worked for Leica Magazine, who loved my work and wanted to publish it, but then said unfortunately she couldn’t when she found out the photos hadn’t been shot with a Leica. I spent the rest of the festival just enjoying the exhibits.
At the train station on the way home, I struggled with my suitcase, barely able to lift it over the curb to the sidewalk even though it was light, due to a bad hip, and then sat down to wait wondering how on earth I’d manage to get it up steps to the train station. Then I saw a young Algerian man sporting a sweat suit and white athletic socks approaching, and I told myself that surely he would offer to help, which he did. That was fortunate because there was a long flight of stairs up to the station and another down to the tracks. As we walked to the train, I told myself that surely he would want to sit next to me, wondered how long I would enjoy his company, and then told myself that he’d ask to have sex in the toilets--which he did end up asking once we were in the train. He was boisterous and talkative with everyone who was waiting. His company however was not quite what I expected. We bought beers, took our seats and began a lively discussion. It’s rare to find an Arab who drinks, so it wasn't surprising that he was drunk before he’d finished his second beer. The conversation became loud enough and intimate enough to scare all of our fellow French passengers out of the wagon we were in. (We were offensive because conversations in public here are kept are spoken quietly, and don't include intimate remarks especially not propositions to have sex in the toilets, and the repartee that followed.)
The young man, who’d been in Arles for a temporary construction job, had a lot of astute opinions about the festival. When he asked to see my work, I got it out, and he looked through it carefully, making interesting remarks about each image. When he’d finished looking through it, he asked in conclusion: “Where’s the father?” That made me laugh hard, because I’d been in psychoanalysis for about three or four years before my psychiatrist asked that question. This young man had seen it in just a few minutes of looking through my work. In response to his question, I pointed to the multiple light scars on his wrists, and asked: “Where’s yours?” “You’re quick.” Two more young Algerian men got on, and he told them about my work, so we all looked through it together, and got into an interesting disucssion about it. The photos were friom a series I'd made while walking around the streets of Paris. The young men started talking excitedly about walks they could take me on, and subjects they could point out. And so the trip to Arles brought it home to me that your audience isn’t where you’d expect it to be.
Reading after reading was a disappointment, as readings of my work by the French generally been. One critic told me that I couldn’t put a horizontal next to a vertical, a blurry image next to one sharply in focus, and so on. Another insisted that I should take all of my photos with the same focal length. Another told me that I had to start with a clear pre-defined concept, such as taking all of my photos from 50 cm above the ground. None of them adressed my work itself, there was no discussion of the images, no dialogue. I would’ve been entirely frustrated if hadn’t been for a German woman who worked for Leica Magazine, who loved my work and wanted to publish it, but then said unfortunately she couldn’t when she found out the photos hadn’t been shot with a Leica. I spent the rest of the festival just enjoying the exhibits.
At the train station on the way home, I struggled with my suitcase, barely able to lift it over the curb to the sidewalk even though it was light, due to a bad hip, and then sat down to wait wondering how on earth I’d manage to get it up steps to the train station. Then I saw a young Algerian man sporting a sweat suit and white athletic socks approaching, and I told myself that surely he would offer to help, which he did. That was fortunate because there was a long flight of stairs up to the station and another down to the tracks. As we walked to the train, I told myself that surely he would want to sit next to me, wondered how long I would enjoy his company, and then told myself that he’d ask to have sex in the toilets--which he did end up asking once we were in the train. He was boisterous and talkative with everyone who was waiting. His company however was not quite what I expected. We bought beers, took our seats and began a lively discussion. It’s rare to find an Arab who drinks, so it wasn't surprising that he was drunk before he’d finished his second beer. The conversation became loud enough and intimate enough to scare all of our fellow French passengers out of the wagon we were in. (We were offensive because conversations in public here are kept are spoken quietly, and don't include intimate remarks especially not propositions to have sex in the toilets, and the repartee that followed.)
The young man, who’d been in Arles for a temporary construction job, had a lot of astute opinions about the festival. When he asked to see my work, I got it out, and he looked through it carefully, making interesting remarks about each image. When he’d finished looking through it, he asked in conclusion: “Where’s the father?” That made me laugh hard, because I’d been in psychoanalysis for about three or four years before my psychiatrist asked that question. This young man had seen it in just a few minutes of looking through my work. In response to his question, I pointed to the multiple light scars on his wrists, and asked: “Where’s yours?” “You’re quick.” Two more young Algerian men got on, and he told them about my work, so we all looked through it together, and got into an interesting disucssion about it. The photos were friom a series I'd made while walking around the streets of Paris. The young men started talking excitedly about walks they could take me on, and subjects they could point out. And so the trip to Arles brought it home to me that your audience isn’t where you’d expect it to be.
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