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.


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

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.


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

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.


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

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.

Things

The idea that I've been working through recently is the relevance of the thing that's being photographed to the photograph itself.

Of course the photograph of a thing is not the thing itself – you can't drink from a photo of a glass of water. This is both obvious and easy to forget as we live surrounded by photos that represent products and places we can relate to or imagine existing. Even in the realm of art – Art – there's an inclination to look at the thing and assume that it's the subject of the photograph.

My current series, which remains nameless, has almost no connection between the thing that's creating the image and the image that results from it. There are times when the thing can almost be distinguished, but it's not ever important to the subject of the photos themselves. In fact, it may even be detrimental to the image, because it's tempting to reduce understanding and interpreting down to a technical problem-solving exercise.

And that's my dilemma now. Art shouldn't need to be clever to work, but sometimes the process can add to the message, if they're complimentary.


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

Technical Paths

In a recent Lenswork blog entry, Brooks Jensen writes: "I find more and more that artmaking has become an attempt to answer the simple question: In order to achieve my desired result, which technical path is best?"

I have to say that my efforts can certainly be described that way.

My typical approach is to decide what sort of results I want and then work backwards – forwards? – to determine the best tools to create them. Focal length, digital or film, shift lens or standard, large sensor or small, tripod or not: it's a problem-solving exercise designed to achieve the results that I've already thought of. I'm quite happy with my success rate with this approach, but it limits my scope for experimentation and play.

My newest portfolio project breaks that pattern while conforming to it. I'm back to using time and motion to capture images of things that don't really exist, guiding a process that depends on a certain unpredictability. The creative process is playful and unpredictable, but the results are processed, curated, and collected to form a distinct body of work. I choose and guide the results to look the way I want them to, even though the idea started with spontaneous play.

I'm incredibly lucky to have a lot of creatively exciting things going on right now, to the point where I'm gathering media and material far more quickly than I absorb it. That's not a bad problem to have, even though it plays havoc on my blogging time.


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

Lakefill 2011 Prints

Begun sixty years ago as a simple breakwater to protect Toronto’s Outer Harbour, the Leslie Street Spit has grown into an elaborate peninsula five kilometers long. Largely reclaimed by nature, the Spit now includes almost five square kilometers of cottonwoods, wetlands, and meadows, and is managed as one of the largest wildlife habitats in the city.

The Spit’s southern shoreline remains an active dumpsite for demolition and excavation rubble. It’s a changing landscape of construction debris: concrete poles and slabs build the headlands, tangles of weathered rebar, stone, and brick form the beaches. While they were once the buildings and structure of the city, this lakefill now creates the land itself.

Shaped and broken by machines and by the elements, very little is more humble than these bricks and scraps. Presented here without the surrounding context, they invite examination for their own character and qualities. Resolutely mute, each one still speaks to its past life and stands as a part of the history of Toronto.

Matthew Piers Robertson

June 2012

Lakefill 2011 is complete.

The project includes eighteen images that were taken in place on the Leslie Street Spit during August and September of 2011. Conceived as a set from the very beginning, I'm pleased to offer these as complete portfolios, including the photograph and artists' statement above, as well as as individual prints. The image area is sized for an 8x10" matt on 8.5x11" paper, and given the white field, there is some flexibility in its presentation.

As I have mentioned previously, I do not produce "Limited Edition" prints. Instead I create artist-signed photographs in small print runs. The quantity of each run and the price for those prints is fixed. When those have sold out I may print an additional run, but the price will be fifty percent higher with each edition.

The full portfolio of eighteen images, plus the title page and artists' statement page with the photo above, is priced at $600. Two sets are available in this print edition. As these images are meant to be seen unframed, they are printed on Premium Glossy paper.

The single prints are intended for framing and are printed on Premium Luster paper. The first print edition is in sets of three, and each is available for $40.

Each image is also available directly from a print-on-demand lab. These can be ordered via the gallery, and while I have every confidence in their quality, these are not images that I have inspected or approved. Printed on 8x10" paper, these unsigned and non-editioned photographs are offered at $25 each.


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Solving Dilemmas

When faced with choosing between two possible options, each with their own advantages, there's a lot to be said for doing both.

I've recently been trying to decide between wrapping up my Lakefill project, knowing that I could now do it better, versus continuing on and further delaying its completion.

So I'm doing both. I have a few little changes that I want to make to a couple of the prints, and the Artist's Statement needs some work, but I've selected a series of eighteen images that make a strong set of 8x10 prints. I'll have the gallery updated with the finished images once the full folio is complete.

And while doing that, I'm also gathering raw material for the next set. Literally. While all of the photos in "Lakefill 2011" were taken on-site, this time I'm bringing the bricks indoors. The first set was intended to be a book / folio from the very beginning; the 2012 project will be more refined, more consistent, and intended for gallery-quality 16x20" prints. I'm not ready to start photographing yet, but I'm excited.


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