Things II

The thing itself is not the subject: there's no requirement for the physical thing that's photographed to also be the subject of the photograph. A photo of a plastic cup could be about that plastic cup, but it could also be about consumption, disposability, the shape of the city, or any number of other things that have absolutely nothing to do with plastic-cup-ness at all.

The subject of the Mechanism series, among other things, is loss, desire, sound, communication, hope, anxiety, discord, anger, stasis, collapse, and redemption. It's about feeling unheard and out of place in the environment of our own creation; it's the effort and striving of connecting and communicating across the din of our surroundings. It's about how the essence of sound lies within noise, and that to listen to noise – to pay attention even when there's no locus of interest – will reveal pattern and value.

The fact that all of the Mechanism images were created with disposable plastic cups might mean something, but it doesn't need to. The thing itself is not the subject.


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Mechanism: Background

"Mechanism is a series echoing our built and acoustical environment."

I've been thinking a lot about sound recently.

I've owned a decent hand-held audio recorder for some time, and since the start of this year I've integrated it into my creative life. Using it is all about process, not any end result: my goal is simply to pay attention and find new ways of experiencing my surroundings. This, incidentally, is exactly what drew me to photography, and then as now I have no idea what the practical application of my efforts and interests will be, should one even exist.

So I was immersed in exploring audio when I started using a very rudimentary process to capture experimental images. Specifically, I had spent a couple of hours in a parking garage, recording the motors and rattles of ventilation fans and space heaters. An industrial, gritty environment was foremost in my mind, along with the tremendous resources that we yield to cars even in Toronto's downtown core. This kind of thought, of urbanism and sound and the spaces it occupies, is the core of Mechanism.


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Mechanism: Artist's Statement

The longing of patterns, the outcry of voice against interference, steadfast endurance through inexorable collapse: Mechanism echos our built and acoustical environment as we communicate through the overwhelming surroundings of our own creation.

The Mechanism images are products of the tools of our age: disposable dollar-store plastics and commodity electronics that are cheaper to replace than repair. What we see is the movement of these trivial objects recorded with light across time; the diversity of shape, colour, and line are the artifacts of an imperfect process that itself reflects the transience of both our efforts and their results.


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Titles

Sometimes titles are very easy. Many of my favourite photos are ones that I knew the name of as soon as I took them; occasionally I'll know the title first and need to create the photo that goes with it. Usually the title and image evolve together, and in rare instances they defy reconciliation.

I'm primarily drawn to words. When I turn the page in a book of photography, I will have read the complete caption before I even see the photograph that accompanies it. I grew up reading the writing on the back of shampoo bottles; I can even read through most of an artists' statement or the first few paragraphs of new camera press releases. I think in words, not images.

Having the right title for a photo or series is very important to me. A title is a way of summarizing the content, highlighting what's important, directing attention, or guiding the viewer's interpretation. I recently did a quick series of photos of the structure and light of a vast space; calling the series "Cathedral" perfectly sums up my feeling about being in this place, despite it being the underside of a highway bridge. It may be something of a cliché, but it communicates what I want the viewer to know.

My most recent body of work is almost entirely abstract, and finding a name for it has had me stumped for two months. But that usually tells me that I don't understand the work well enough yet. Perhaps it's because the series itself isn't as finished as I'd like to think that it is, or it might be because I need more time to understand what draws me to it… but to be honest it's almost certainly a combination of both.

Time will tell, as always.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.