Criticism In Photography: A Reckoning
It is that time of year, and has been for over a month, when we look back over what has happened, in photography, on television, in politics, world-wide. A rash of programmes come out on the various visual media telling us what we should consider to be the great, the moving, the memorable from the previous twelve months, attempting to shape our minds and influence our memories. Amidst all the bright fanfares and commercial shouting, a few smaller entities voice their opinions, often about the work of others, sometimes with a critical eye on their own production. Rather than letting myself be influenced by those many critics who have opinions about everyone else, and who always know how it could have been done better, I prefer to cast an eye over those who can take a step back from their own work.
I read an interesting comment on the social media platform Mastodon recently, from a photographer, who highlighted the manner in which some criticise the work of others as if they themselves had any influence on the making of a particular image. The criticism that they could have done it much better if only this angle had been used; if the light had been from the left, the right or above, below; if the photographer had taken their image with this camera, or that film, using this speed or that focal point. It was as if the critic had been present, or imagined themselves to have been, and capable of influencing light, shadow and the world in general. As if their eye were better than that of the photographer themselves who had, rather than them, been present at the scene.
I can understand, to a certain extent, the thoughtful critical analysis of a painting, or of a written work, when it is limited to the more technical details, to the way that work has been presented to the public and the effect it is designed to have, in comparison to the effect it does have. It is far easier to justify the criticism of something considered as badly written or researched, or comments on the depth and colours of an oil or watercolour painting. Less so of a photograph. The captured image on film or glass plate is a matter of a brief moment; of being in a certain position to capture what is constantly changing as best as possible; of careful considerations based on what cannot necessarily be changed, but to which the artist has to adapt. I am, of curse, only referring to images which have not been digitally manipulated, a completely different class of art. What I will never be able to understand is a person who, standing in front of such a visual image, claims to be able to do it better.
The situation will never be the same. There are no two moments in time which replicate one another so precisely that one artist can capture exactly the same moment as another artist caught earlier. The same scene might be possible, from the same or a similar angle, but that is it. The lighting, shadows, movement frozen, colours and tones will never match up. A new image can be made, and perhaps it will be technically better than the previous one, but hardly comparable. There are too many factors involved, and the first one is the attitude of the photographer themselves. A person working for the pleasure of capturing a vision presented to them without demand has far more artistic blood running through their veins than one who goes out to prove a small point, to try and show themselves as being the better of the two.
There are, though, criticisms in photography which can be justified. An exhibition of many works or a collection published as a book is a different presentation than that of a single item. Here the artist has taken various images in hand and arranged them according to their own preferences, perhaps even with a mind to attracting more attention to certain works, or enhancing their reputation by careful selection. Here the roving eye of the critic – and not necessarily a professional, but also one going according to their own aesthetic and tastes – can select and compare; can assess the positioning; can judge the fall of light from external sources, or the framing; the order of presentation; the quality of the production as a whole. A badly printed book, for example, will draw criticism at once, and negatively impact the power of whatever has been included within its covers, but is quite justified. A badly lit exhibition room – too light, too dark – detracts from enjoyment, and makes a visitors wonder whether professionals have been at work or not.
For some it is a bad design fault when a photograph extends over two pages of a book, regardless of the quality of the production. Or where too many images are hung together, barely space between them on the walls – returning, perhaps, almost to the packed wall-space of many a Victorian museum and art gallery – so that the individual works cannot be enjoyed from afar. A wall packed with framed works can suggest desperation, to today’s mind and tastes, whereas considered spacing shows care and respect for the work on show. And here I believe that two photographic images of a similar nature may be compared for their intrinsic values, one against the other, and justifiably criticised in comparison; no one can fault the critic for their thoughts and opinions in such a case.
Most works of art, in original, are unique and should be treated as such. Their production and appearance, as much as their presentation, says a great deal about the artist, for those prepared to look. But the criticism of a work of photographic art shows far more the ego of the critic than any real learning or aesthetic understanding. Sufficient, I believe, to say whether a photograph appeals or not, and perhaps why, than to deconstruct its appearance and claim the ability to have do better.
