Taking Aim.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Driving in the snow and rain (all the way to Athens), and then to Savannah, with Savannah (my daughter) and her new puppy, Sterling. Returning home last night to a just-missed evening with old friends that featured my personal bottle of absinthe.

Things happen…

The weekend in Savannah was pleasantly surreal and personally meaningful. I dropped Savannah (my daughter)and Sterling (the pup) at Garret’s (her boyfriend from Georgia Tech who is completing work-study with Weyerhauser in Savannah…) house. Whew, we should talk about that…

Anyway, about the review…

The graduate review went very well and merits a much more detailed conversation than can be accommodated here. Suffice it to say that my thoughts are forming and the work is being slowly polished with intensity and purpose. Elasticity is a virtue, particularly when it comes to controversial subjects. The faculty review was engaging and energized with ideas about the images ranging from-- casting the images of guns in chocolate, laying them upon a field of sugar-like substance or/cocaine. To the opposing end of another idea-measuring scale that terminates in a puddle of graphic-gore, but the most intense (for me) was the suggestion of illustrating/photographing the relationship of guns to religious iconography…. That night at dinner, Savannah drew the line—there are limits to my investigation and I found them. Serrano is safe for now.

Comparisons to Mapplethorpe and (my favorite) Irving Penn were good to hear and confirmed I have hit the mark, at least for myself, with this body of work. Now, I can try to push a little further and see what happens.

I came away from the review with more clarity of purpose. More importantly, I’m headed in a direction that will address the contextual ambiguity/ambiance of the piece. I’m very excited to continue the body of work in my final (online) class for the MA program this Spring quarter. I’m sure it will continue to change.

Regarding the issue about weapons…

Settling in for the evening last night, I began closing things down with one last cocktail and logged onto CNN for my last daily dose of information. There, I noticed the story about the rapper killed at a recording studio in northwest Atlanta. One I’ve been in many times, just a very short distance from the studio/building I recently sold. This part of the city was my backyard for thirty years. The Atlanta Police Department (APD) was reporting the story and it felt familiar almost like family—weird, right?

But it wasn’t.

All of this “universal timing” is critical in some abstract, and (potentially) aware way that is crowing in my ear, and must be heard. Perhaps it’s the spirit of Petey calling out with good advice. I like to think it is. “Petey” went somewhere last week, leaving absolutely no evidence that he was ever here, (except for the photo I took)—it’s probably a raccoon or opossum that carried him from the planter box I placed him in, but again—who knows? I already miss him.

I started this blog at the beginning of the winter quarter to look for answers to questions that are deeply rooted in my personal psyche, as well as how they manifest in societal issues. I have begun to make progress, and I look forward to where this project takes me, both personally and professionally. Time will tell, and I'm excited to listen.

Fifteen minutes of fire.

Recently, I participated in an open critique that included a few of the images from “Ricochet”. It was an opinionated affair, laced with controversy and confrontation. The session lasted fewer than 15 minutes, but suffice it to say it was time well spent.

Student work is rarely, if ever, fully formed—that is why we are students, and that is why we hold dear the opinions of our faculty and classmates. Nowhere else can an artist receive as much qualified and condensed opinion as in an open critique- I will always jump at the chance to participate in these forums.

That being said, one item in particular caught my attention as a matter for open discussion. Who decides the authorship of an artist’s work and how it should be presented? Who decides the right to decide on the perception of the content in the message, and who has a voice in its delivery?

If I identify the audience as the subject of a piece of art, who has the authority to disagree with my hypothesis—and does my intention have to be obvious? If I provoke a response from the viewer, is it any less genuine if it occurs by a slight-of-hand delivery? Is the data corrupt if the intention isn’t announced prior to the viewing? Am I being dishonest, deceptive or both?  Is response to a constructed stimuli a subject for analysis? Isn’t that a valid question that Art should ask?

The following were a few of the suggestions I received as a response to the viewing of the work:

-       Photograph knives instead of guns, “guns don’t intimidate me…”

-       Consider a different subject that isn’t trendy.

-       “I don’t give a s**t about guns. Why should I care about this work?

-       Photograph the bullet entry wounds of a victim.

-       Have you considered toy guns instead of confiscated ones?

-       Consider a different approach from the current “All guns go to Heaven theme.”

-       Consider pointing the gun at the viewer to make your opinion more dramatic.

-       Consider making the prints extremely large so they are more dramatic.

-       Draw inspiration from other artist’s subjective work and emulate their approach.

-        “I don’t think you are getting what you need from the photography department.” 

-       This is propaganda…

Wow.

There were so many other opinions in the room that weren’t expressed because of time constraint and even more thoughts that were held private for personal reasons. Growth doesn’t occur without change and change is disruptive by nature.

My intention of this first formal critique was to assess how the work was received by viewers who aren’t invested in cultivating the idea firsthand, or inconvenienced by the burden of creation. 

Should I make Politics my position and choose sides on the issue of gun rights/control, or should I produce documents that are ambiguous and non-committal?  Sometimes taking a neutral position is the most difficult stance of all. There are few allies and many adversaries. Perhaps it is more offensive to reject an ideology than it is to proclaim one.

The view from the conference room

Seated directly across from the Police Captain, I placed the photographs of the weapons on the conference table in front of him. He responded, “These look better than they really do!” It was a compliment and I took it that way. There was an immediate burst of energy throughout the room and we started to talk about guns.

After a few minutes of a mostly one-sided conversation (I really didn’t have much to offer), all this talk about ammunition, reliability and marksmanship led me to confess that I was conflicted about all this loaded dialogue (no pun intended) we were having. Lawmen don’t have the luxury of ambivalence about a stance that is almost certainly a life and death scenario. Self-preservation has a way of cutting through the crap. I struggled to be certain to convey my respect with any question I asked. A private audience with a Police Captain is something I very much wanted to get right.

I started to press a little bit about my ambivalence on the issue of gun control/rights and began to court an opinion that I knew would be honest and forthcoming. It was. “Just be sure”, he said, “to always keep your finger away from the trigger, make sure the safety is on and check to make sure there isn’t a bullet in the chamber.” There, that was easy. Everything the Captain told me was plain and simple, nothing at all like the conversation I imagined we might have.

 We spoke about the lawfulness (and it is lawful) of making photographs in public, even discussing the general guidelines of accepted decorum of wielding a gun in public. You can do it, you just can’t point the gun “at” anyone. Seems fair enough to me… There was absolutely no anxiety or self-consciousness in the Captain’s words. This was not new territory for him and we spoke of his weapons in the same way I spoke about my cameras. We talked about our tools.

Gun ownership and safety doesn’t really sound like it’s that difficult. Apparently most of the problems are actually caused by the bullet.

Fake Blood and (Almost) Real Emotion

In the world of theater the distance between a dancer’s dressing room and backstage is often separated by a dark corridor that serves as a symbolic division between the worlds of fantasy and reality.  To make that walk accompanied by a ballerina is the stuff of bucket lists. I do it on a regular basis and it never gets old.

Last night I made that walk with Atlanta Ballet dancer Nadia Mara and it proved to be more symbolic than usual. Two hours later, Nadia would lie center-stage, spot lit, drenched in fake blood dying from a theatrical gunshot wound that was delivered with terrifyingly real emotion. All the while, I took aim with my camera and recorded every gory detail as if I were a participant rather than a photographer. I felt the weight of the moment and tried to imagine what that experience would actually feel like. Sadly, that scene is often played out in real-life scenarios that don’t have the benefit of suspended disbelief.

On this evening, Nadia was accidentally shot by her stage-lover, and real life friend, Jonah Hooper, they have danced and died in each other’s arms many times before. Still, the moment felt fresh and the emotions seemed raw. Increasingly, everywhere I turn these days the killing ritual is paying another visit. Has it always been this persistent or has my awareness become more acutely tuned to its hideous frequency? I guess maybe that’s the point of this on-going exercise I’m conducting.

 

I’m beginning to think that contextual and situational circumstance, much like this theatrical illustration, is absolutely at the center of my belief about gun rights and gun control. That isn’t groundbreaking news to anyone, but it is a good starting-point for my becoming more at ease with this controversial subject.

Later, I walked from the theater with another good friend of mine, Scott Freeman. Scott is a terrific writer and an even better person; he works as Managing Editor of ArtsATL, and he has written many stories on a number of controversial subjects. He is a trusted confidant and often engages me in thoughtful conversation. Tonight was no different.

I decided to ask Scott how he came to terms with his decision to write difficult stories and he gave me some good advice. “Charlie”, he said, “I asked that question years ago, and a good friend told me this- Never be paralyzed by the possibilities of the future”. “How did that work out for you?” I asked. “Well”, he said, “I received a death threat and someone tried to burn down my house”.

“Thanks Scott!” I said with a smirk. His story definitely lightened my mood. We parted ways and headed off in different directions to report on what we had just witnessed in the theater. Scott would write his review, and I would edit my photos.

 For some strange reason I thought about Petey and wondered what he would think about all of this.

NRA comes calling

Earlier today the phone rang-- it was the NRA. They wanted to talk to my youngest daughter who is twenty years old. I almost hung up the phone but I decided to hear what "Brian" had to say, it was predictable....

"Did you know your Constitutional rights are being stolen away from you by Obama, along with Hillary and the rest of the liberal media!". I felt like a sleeping dog that had been poked. Really? I asked-- how is that? Brian sensed a fish on the line so he decided to "set the hook". Well, Mr. McCullers, I'm glad you asked. Let me play you a short message from Wayne LaPierre (the current CEO of the NRA), and then I'll get your response....  ok, I muttered with the hook half lodged in my cheek.

Mr. LaPierre was really animated and upset! It was a well-crafted recording that was designed to make me mad as Hell. But I wasn't mad.... I wanted to hear what he had to say. He told me that my way of life was being threatened and it was up to me to do something, NOW!  Mr. LaPierre went on to tell me the same facts that Brian had mentioned (only more emphatically), that "my 2nd amendment rights were slipping away from me and it was only going to get worse when Hillary takes over the White House". Was that really the best strategy to assume what the voters have yet to decide??

The recording ended and I was returned to Brian so he could finish me off with the gaff hook and haul me in the boat. "What do you think about that, Mr. McCullers! Is that really the future you want for Savannah (my daughter whom he referred to by name...). My inner-fish began to fight back-- how dare he present a veiled threat in such a vile manner! Well, Brian, I've heard the 2nd amendment referenced several times in the last few minutes- please tell me how do you interpret it? Silence.....

and more silence.... Brian, are you still there? 

Brian blustered, "The NRA is a national organization based in Washington D.C. that yields tremendous influence...." Brian.... I interrupted, I want to know how do you define the 2nd amendment!.  More silence and then a dial tone. He hung up on me. A glorified telemarketer hung up on me!  

I don't think I was being obtuse or confrontational,  I really wanted to know his view on this issue. It's a shame that he decided to cut the line assuming I was about to spit the hook. In retrospect, I think we are very similar (Brian and me), he wears a gun on his hip to dissuade an unwanted intruder and I arm myself with a desire to understand the right and the responsibility for that particular freedom. I don't dislike Brian or his right to bear arms,  I just wish we could have talked a little longer so I could have possibly understood his politics instead of simply being subjected to his posturing.

 I really would like to come to terms with the right to bear arms to defend myself against an oppositional militia and what that actually means. I hope Brian calls back tomorrow-- and I hope he brings better bait.

The view from Gabby's seat.

  

The view from Gabby’s seat:

A few years back I visited my daughter in Washington, D.C. and she gave me a glimpse into the Capitol, the Senate, the House of Representatives and the Supreme Court Chamber. All were fascinating places to visit, each location oozing with implied influence.

                    

                    

Two nights earlier, President Obama had delivered his State of the Union address that mentioned Arizona Representative Gabriella Giffords’ recovery from an egregious attack of gun violence. Ms. Giffords struggled to stand and speak, but sat heroically and defiant against this uninvited intrusion into her life.

That day, as I walked around the empty House Floor and surveyed this powerful landscape, I imagined where all the power players sat a few nights earlier, but there was one seat in particular that I wanted to see. It was Gabby’s.

I wanted to try to sense her character and vicariously consider her point of view.  Sitting in her seat, I felt empowered—even more so as I imagined the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Supreme Court Justices seated in the next few rows.

The next day I walked along the National Mall and photographed the monuments-- but I did so with an questioning eye, confident that I had set my belief about gun control to a fixed point in the sands of controversy.  Any counter-thought toward gun control would certainly ricochet from this hallowed seat of Ms. Gifford’s, and fall harmless to the metaphoric ground.

That night, I walked the distance between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument thinking about many things, gun control was one of them. I began to consider that it was actually the process of the policy that bothered me most.

           

      

The next day I ventured back into the Capitol and photographed in Statuary Hall beneath the towering Rotunda. The marble statues seem to whisper their silent words of wisdom, tempered in both rebellion and allegiance. I tried to listen—but this revolutionary message of reclamation and defense was hard to hear. There was just too much chatter.

                        

            

 

About that time, my daughter wanted to show me an odd feature of the rotunda. Apparently, because of the architectural design, you can stand at one end of this large room—speak normally, and be heard clearly on the opposite side of the room. A convenient form of espionage that could exploit the uninitiated… In this place, even whispers resonate—as long as you are aware, attentive and aligned. 

Perhaps this metaphor is worthy of more than a simple anecdote. Maybe it’s the small voices of conscience that cut through the clutter that provide the greatest clarity. A message that transcends the marble renditions of our forefathers and delivers its tempered advice directly to the ears of the living. Are we truly defending our 2^nd amendment right to arm ourselves against an unruly militia, or are we simply exercising our right to sovereign and independent expression?  Are we more concerned with Amendments than Commandments—and if so, why and is that even an issue? Tolerance is a virtue, understanding is an obligation and there is wisdom in diversity. The pursuit of Life, Liberty and Happiness—what does that even mean?

btw- I think it's ironic (or at the very least, entertaining) if you google my blog name, then this is what appears:

                                                    

The death of Petey.

The death of Petey.

Let the truth be told-- this is a little embarrassing. But if you can't let yourself be vulnerable on the Internet, then why bother??

As a child of the sixties the dinner table was often filled with conversation about current events. Any observer of that time knows those issues can provide for volatile and opinionated views. My table was no different.  However, when the conversation turned abrasive-- or too difficult for the mind of a child to comprehend, I would often retreat under the table and visit my best friend "Petey". Petey was a very good companion to an only child, but there was something else about Petey-- he was invisible and could only be seen by me. He was my first "Bestie".

One year, Petey visited at Thanksgiving. I emerged from our secret place beneath the table with Petey perched on my finger so everyone could meet my best friend. Instead, my extended family looked at me oddly and my uncle proclaimed that I might need to be evaluated by a competent pyscho-therapist. Of course, I had no idea what that meant and wasn't concerned in the least that no one could see my feathered friend. I took Petey back to his home beneath the table and returned to my dinner.

A little later in life, around twelve, my father gave me a 20-gauge shotgun for my birthday and took me quail hunting to celebrate. I had hunted with my father many times before, but never with a loaded gun! I was there to pet the dogs and walk the fields with my father. Now it was different. Now I was armed.

Let's just say that I'm not a natural born killer.... It took several hunts before I fired my gun, and when I did I missed badly. My father, a very observant man, picked up on that fact quickly. He never confronted me openly, only encouraging me to sight the flight of the bird and systematically squeeze the trigger. 

When the dogs flushed the next covey of quail I followed his instructions and felled the bird. My best dog retrieved the fallen bird and dutifully dropped it at my feet. I picked the bird up and watched it die in my hands. I placed the warm bird in my jacket and noticed the crimson stains on my hands.

That night at dinner we ate the birds that had so beautifully flown to their death on that cool, gray November afternoon. I bit down into my dinner and felt the sharp crunch of a shot pellet that was deep inside the breast of the bird. Immediately, I realized something complex and frightening had occurred. I knelt beneath the table to find Petey (whom I hadn’t seen in years) to cleanse my guilty conscience, but he wasn't there. "Petey" was gone and he had taken my innocence with him.

Last week as I was writing this blog, I looked behind me and noticed the dead bird that is pictured above. He had evidently fallen victim and was pridefully placed at my feet by one of my adoring cats. I picked up this still-warm bird and tried to come to terms with the situation. The killing ritual had visited me again.

I remembered Petey and pined for the days of lost innocence. I carefully placed the bird on the scanner and memorialized the moment. Why this? Why now? Perhaps the right to bear arms is even more complicated than I first imagined....

Dance Varmint

.....Dance Varmint.

The process has begun and it's now time to step to the soapbox for a simple declaration: I don't have a definitive stance on gun control. Or if I do it's deeply rooted and conflicted with guilt, memory, love and fear. A laundry list of your basic emotions that can be called upon to support my beliefs and/or justify my conscience. The truth is that guns, for some strange reason, seem impartial and oddly comforting to me. Perhaps the mug shots of the offenders who surrendered these guns would be more terrifying and intimidating.

The fact is that guns seem to simultaneously comfort and frighten me. It's not the gun that scares me so much, as it is the distorted mind that employs it's devious delivery. More specifically, it's the death of the innocent that makes me sick to my stomach.  I imagine that most rational people think that unjustified killing is a boil on the butt of humanity. But, of course, how does one define "justify"?

I'm glad you asked--

justify:

1 show or prove to be right or reasonable: the person appointed has fully justified our confidence.
2 Theology declare or make righteous in the sight of God.
3 Printing adjust (a line of type or piece of text) so that the print fills a space evenly or forms a straight edge at one or both margins.


For the sake of argument, let's eliminate the third definition and consider the first two entries.


Better yet, let's focus a little tighter and consider the inherent visual narrative of a confiscated gun. You want circumstance and reason? Maybe it's here and maybe it's not. This much I know, each gun has a unique barrel-signature that imprints itself on each bullet that it fires. It also imprints that same indelible signature upon the lives of countless victims, defenders, sportsmen and prey. It's messy and begs resolution. The answer is deeply personal and, for me,  elusive.

Perhaps it would help to observe this dilemma through the lens of a subjective analysis-- the photograph. Let's experiment with the object and literally solarize a polarizing subject.  Let's turn shadow to highlight, evil into good and right into wrong-- let's introduce metaphor.  Guns are good, guns are bad-- perhaps (of course) they can be both.

metaphor:
- a thing regarded as representative or symbolic of something else, especially something abstract.



I think the real question is Why are guns both the sinner and the savior? In other words..... let's consider the ways and justify the means.


oh, btw:

consider:
-think carefully about (something), typically before making a decision: each application is considered on its merits.

McCullers- Richochet week 1

Week 1: Hello, may I shoot you?

I have spoken these very words more than once.

For photographers the context of this phrase usually occurs after you have noticed someone compelling and you want to memorialize the moment. If a gunman uses this phrase you can assume that you are in big trouble. The only memorializing that will be done is on your tombstone. One identical phrase, two different scenarios both meanings dependent on context. Please say hello to your new frenemy- the gun.

The assignment at hand is to introduce a current body of work, that we will consider, analyze, and modify according to class discussions and critiques. Following is a brief introduction to the subject matter, methodology, conceptual intention, and artistic ideology that is defined my latest body of work known as "Ricochet".

As I sit typing these words the "countdown clock" on CNN is ticking off the hours and minutes remaining until President Obama addresses the nation tomorrow night regarding his proposed legislation on gun control. That is an appropriate backdrop for a body of work that centers on a cache of confiscated hand-guns that are stored in the weapons vault at the City of Atlanta Police Department. The fact that the weapons vault is directly adjacent to the room where confiscated drugs are stored is worthy of it's own blog-space, but I digress....

The walk through the halls to get to the weapons vault was aromatically charged with the slight, pungent smell of marijuana.  I considered the irony and quietly mused, "Had I taken a wrong turn and wound up on the set of the tv show Cops?", sadly, no. I realized that I was on a journey to Wonderland to follow Alice down the rabbit hole and pop out in a Land called Oz. However, here the yellow-brick road was littered with shell casings and the creature in the corner was definitely smoking a hookak. Ultimately, this project is about the thorny, metaphorical paradox of chasing rabbits into holes and then killing them. Sometimes for sport, other times for food-- perhaps for power, defending your rights and (possibly) perverting our innocence.  Just to be clear-- this is not a story about hunting...

I immediately thought about the duality of this subject matter and how different it was from what I first imagined. The message, not to mention the medium, might well be muddled in a glorified gray area of opinion that was both calculated and passionate. Surely my well-balanced, moderate geo-political and progressive photographic beliefs would offset any radical ideologies that appeared as subtext of either fact or opinion. The beautiful banality of these images would certainly over-ride any misgivings and prejudice that might arise, right??  Or could it be that I am betraying my culture and my art in one broad stroke? Killer-photography without cameras, killing-guns without bullets, where is the foundation for logic? Apparently, the familiarity of my photo-chemical background and the sanctity of my 16-gage shotgun are at risk of being out-dated and harsh. These inviolable rights aren't as neatly packaged as they used to be. Acknowledging that small voice that resides in my conscience, Alice smiled and chided me to keep up! It as tho she was saying "Relax, we're just getting started".

Entering the vault I stepped into a room full of guns and immediately channeled my inner rabbit, I felt like prey. Shotguns, handguns and rifles (oh my!): each gun mounted on peg board hooks, identified, tagged, and cataloged into some ominous database that reconciled each gun to its questionable past. This passcode-protected display conveyed a sense of organization that somehow neutralized the killing karma that must be inherent in every back-story of every gun that is hung on the wall. Some of the guns were military and some were militant-- all were designed to do one thing. Whether it's to feed, defend or vilify-- when the finger slides to the trigger only passion remains.

I unpacked the scanner and selected my weapon(s) of choice, turned off the lights and started the process. For some strange reason, I thought about the cartoon of Buggs Bunny and his nemesis Yosemite Sam. Somewhere deep in the back of my mind I heard the echo-- Dance Varmint!!