Photograph
By megatron
- 566 reads
photograph
I used to believe that photography was the one true Romantic artform.
All about the instant, capturing the moment, seizing the spaces in
between, a beautiful shock of what usually goes unseen. Or so I
thought. To me, then, it was all about the 'quality of the eye', some
faculty or trait that allows the photographer to see what others don't,
to take a good picture. The stuff that's missing from the rest of us,
the characteristic that's supposed to elevate artists and geniuses
above ordinary people.
Later somehow I realised, what separates press, documentary and art
photography as practices? Intention. And that's about as different to
being in the midst of the moment as you can get. All those
photographers already intend to do different things with their
pictures. The illusion of the glimpse you get from a photograph in a
gallery or book or newspaper doesn't work if you think about the
high-speed shutters on the posh cameras being used. Like a tabloid
shot, the image you see comes from a continuity, a sequence
interpolated precisely by the speed of the shutter. The choice is made
because the picture is taken to achieve something.
That's to say nothing of the pre-momentary decisions made about
technique. The lighting, the angles, distance, positioning of the
frame. Maybe the picture's subject is itself entirely staged.
I have friends who used to believe (one still believes) that the act of
taking psychoactive drugs opens up certain planes of experience,
dimensions not otherwise available, which inherently expand your
consciousness. He says they allow you to 'see' better. We don't have a
lot in common, but something that does unite us is the break that
occurs between intention and action in our relationships.
So there we all are, in the picture I have in front of me, sitting here
now. Five sets of eyes, made glassy reflecting the flash, a lopsided
triangle. In the centre of the foreground, plenty of empty glasses and
half-finished drinks sit around a swiftly-filling ashtray. A few hands
touch the corners of the table, anchoring the triangle. Brightness from
the camera bounces off the faces and a white shirt, drawing attention
to the contrasts of light and shadow, the dark blues, yellows and greys
behind us.
What of the significance of this shape? Is one side stronger, keeping
the group together for the sake of the picture? Or does the other side
leak background because they are freer, less dependent on the
group?
One of us, a restaurant critic, the photograph not unlike the images we
see weekly in her column, with its arrangement of beaming faces. Her
own, a smile with her eyes, glass held out wide. Obviously no bad
review here. The expensive wine meeting the demanding standard set by
the food and conversation. Not one of the anchors though, her hands
somewhere under the table.
The successful TV producer, well, involved at least in star vehicles of
the 'golden handcuffs' nature. Sure, someone who could say they worked
with ideas, and 'interesting people', someone who could dine out
convincingly in most company. The man who knows he exudes a powerful
influence, all the more potent in the more subtle ways of yielding it.
But a gravitas only as convincing as those prepared to believe in it.
It matters a little too much to him how the others think beneath the
pleasantries and the small-talk, the jokes and discussions, even the
very real affection they show him. For this reason a shrinking glance
toward the person on his right.
The lawyer, her assured gaze the steadiest of those smiling toward the
camera. There's something neat and understated about her that gives the
impression that she's the most expensive, her ease, perhaps. Her right
hand precisely sits on the table, fingers resting on the base of her
wine glass.
A hand resting on her shoulder leads the eye up the right side of the
triangle. A smiling man's face, thinning hair, overweight perhaps. But
that smile is certainly dazzling. Someone high up in the telecoms
business, but clearly comfortable with his differences from the
others.
An arm round his shoulder; another beaming face, his wife, also in
television. Dangling earrings, plenty of teeth, throwing her dark perm
back, a big laugh. In a way, there only to make up the numbers, if the
numbers weren't so awkward; and seemingly the most enthusiastic there.
Pushing the front row forward with the lean of her forearm.
And so this orchestration of faces seems to push towards the camera,
celebrating the occasion. Yet photography, the practitioner of
physiognomy. Its amazing how defined the structure is, the way it
controls the viewing eye's movement, like a painting. Yet imposes on
you the pose of a semi-spontaneous moment, caught by the fortuitous
snapper.
Three years on, and I have no idea who took the picture. Was it another
guest at the party? The automatic timer on the camera? Or someone we
actually knew there? I cannot remember. This is the only photograph of
the party in the roll. Three years on; arguments, adultery, divorce,
murder, emigration, switched allegiances, broken love affair,
unconscionable drifting. But most of all murder. The group can and will
never pose like this again.
And I no longer work in television.
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