Review - Mike Smith's Warning Shots

“Is this still a red and blue world? I see it as dark as night. Not that it is obscure; rather, it’s opaque.” Eudora Welty, On Writing, 1949. 

Warning Shots by Mike Smith is not an easy book of pleasing pictures from the quaint, rural South. This is not a book filled with hope of a brighter future, at least not at first glance. It is dark as night.

It’s in this darkness of shadow that we see the first person emerge after a dozen photographs into the book. It’s Smith’s shadow cast onto the first few steps of a home whose lawn is decorated by black lawn-jockeys. 

For four decades, Mike Smith has photographed east Tennessee and the surrounding region with the kind of obsession one has that can only be described as love. I don’t mean a first love, or new love, or romantic love. I mean the kind of love that finds its way from your bones to your head and back to your heart. Welty also writes about the notion that you can write (or photograph) from love with straight fury. I sense fury throughout this body of work.

In Diana C. Stoll’s introductory essay, “Shooting in the Dark,” she writes, “These are not quiet or inscrutable metaphors - and maybe that is the point. In these benighted times, guesswork no longer has a place; so Smith lays it all out for us, clear as day.” Stoll couldn’t be more spot on. This book is anything but quiet.

Mike Smith began teaching photography at East Tennessee State University in 1981 and taught there until he retired in 2018. That, in and of itself, is an incredible accomplishment as it seems rare that one works in the same job or with the same company for an entire career. His work there greatly influenced generations of photographers, many of whom would point to Smith as the reason they studied photography and continue to practice.

This work was assembled during the 2016 election cycle. Given the dates the pictures were made, they suggest this climate isn’t as new as we might think, or better yet, think we’ve somehow outgrown. Too often, we don’t think about pictures because we aren’t required to. We are inundated with loaded images. We are spoon-fed pictures. We are lulled into a sugar coma by the ease of pictures that require little of us. This is not that.

Spending time with this book, with these pictures, makes me uncomfortable. I’m glad for it. If it doesn’t make the viewer uncomfortable, doesn’t evoke some visceral response, some reflexive withdrawal, there is something seriously wrong with the viewer. There is no safety, no safety net in these photographs.

The first chains placed on a slave brought from Africa, the first Native American pushed off the land, the first chunk of coal extracted, the first tree felled, this is our evidence and yet we are surprised by it and want nothing more than to look away or suggest something is “wrong” with “those people.” This is our inheritance.

These pictures, while made in Appalachia, represent a far wider reach than rural east Tennessee. In the closing essay, “Troubling Images,” Eric Paddock writes, “As Smith’s photographs penetrate to these sad, alienated and frightening layers of the region’s landscape, we know they lie below the surface in other parts of the country, too."

Images like this convince us we can know a place, point to it, but allow us to miss, perhaps withdraw from the much heavier, more painful work of looking inward, or asking of ourselves what part do we play in this?

*Editorial note: I received a complimentary review copy of Warning Shots from Kehrer Verlag.

Preview Warning Shots here.

Review - Sheron Rupp's Taken From Memory

It usually doesn’t take me six months to share my thoughts about a photobook, but nevertheless here we are. When I saw the first spreads of Sheron Rupp’s book earlier this year, I reached out to Kehrer Verlag’s public relations folks and asked for a review copy. The book arrived in early June and I knew before I reached the end it would be one of my favorite photobooks, and one of the most beautifully designed and printed books I’ve seen. That part didn’t take six months.

In July, my daughter was to give birth to her first child a few states away, so I stacked Rupp’s book in a neat pile of other work I planned to get to and prepared to become a grandfather. I looked at the book often, familiarizing myself with its pictures, the organization of the work, and the feelings – all the feelings – the book generated for me.

My granddaughter, Waylon Jane, lived for 24 days. In early August, my family and I found ourselves grieving in ways we never thought possible. On the surface, I tried to maintain some sense of normalcy, but inside, spiritually, emotionally, creatively, I was coming apart at the seams. I carried Rupp’s book back and forth to work, thinking I’d write about it at some point, needing to write about it at some point. It moved from my backpack back to my desk and then to the bookcase by our front door. Every time I walked by it, I was reminded that I wasn’t ready to write about it yet. And a couple of days ago, I picked it up, looked through it again and decided it was time.

One of the great gifts that books like Taken From Memory gives us is the opportunity to connect to something so beautiful, so tangible, and to be able to hold in our hands moments of inexplicable wonder and refined curiosity. It has the familiarity of a family photo album without a snapshot aesthetic. So much attention to detail is given that it’s hard to imagine making a handful of pictures like these much less the 75 included in the book. It is in every sense of the word, astounding.

The book’s design is wonderful in its own right. Measuring 12” x 11”, it ranks as one of my favorite photobook dimensions; not unwieldy or unmanageable, but large enough to appreciate the meticulous compositions, colors, and shadows Rupp’s work offers. All the details seem to be dialed in just so, a testament to designer Anja Aronska of Kehrer Design. As an object, the book is quite remarkably made and presented.

Taken From Memory feels like a body of work that could’ve been made exclusively in Appalachia, yet only 18 photographs were made in what the Appalachian Regional Commission regards as Appalachia. In addition to Kentucky, Ohio, and Tennessee, we see photographs from Vermont, Montana, Massachusetts, and several others states. So why does this feel so much like home to me when I’ve never even been to Montana? I’ve come to believe Taken From Memory holds the ability to transmit the feeling of intimacy and of seeing and being seen in a way that makes it more than just a photobook.

Every photograph contains, and ultimately reveals, something one could easily overlook at first glance, rewarding the viewer for looking a bit closer and staying a bit longer. As a photographer, I’ve often found that’s when the best pictures are made – when you stay a little longer and look a bit closer. As a viewer, I’m pleased to experience this in a book of photographs that offers no shortage of beautiful detail.

Rupp’s work implies a connection with the folks being photographed that I find rare in much of the work I see. Growing up, it was common to hear the phrase “never met a stranger” when someone was describing my grandfather, who could seemingly talk to just about anyone at any time just about anywhere. Rupp’s work suggest to me that she’s never met a stranger or at the very least, someone who stayed a stranger for very long. Perhaps that’s another facet of her work that makes Taken From Memory seem so much like home.

John Szarkowski (1925-2007), who served as the Museum of Modern Art’s director of the Department of Photography for nearly 30 years, said of one of Rupp’s pictures in 2006, “There’s a woman in the [Getty] show who I think is really good. [Looking through catalog.] Sheron Rupp. Don’t ask me why that’s such a good picture, it’s just a perfect picture.” (See below.) He continues, “The basic material of photographs is not intrinsically beautiful. It’s not like ivory or tapestry or bronze or oil on canvas. You’re not supposed to look at the thing, you’re supposed to look through it. It’s a window. And everything behind it has got to be organized as a space full of stuff, even if it’s only air.”

St. Albans, Vermont, 1991. © Sheron Rupp. “Don’t ask me why that’s such a good picture, it’s just a perfect picture.” John Szarkowski.

There is a perfect picture for me in this book. In it, a small girl leans against a wood fence. Her gaze is toward the hill across the way, beyond the Rose of Sharon bush much bigger than she is. Her hair is caught by a breeze coming through, which I imagine carries with it the fragrance of the Rose of Sharon I remember so well from my grandmother’s front yard. Maybe she’s playing hide and go seek and she’s counting. Maybe she sees something on the hill. I close my eyes and imagine Waylon Jane and the backyard lightning bugs of summer I’ll never see her chase and catch and let go again. I imagine her voice and her hair and her laugh in the hills she never got to see. And in my mind, it is a perfect picture, familiar and home.

Ironton, Ohio, 1985. © Sheron Rupp.

*Editorial note: I received a complimentary review copy of Taken From Memory from Kehrer Verlag.

Further reading:

LA Weekly Interview with John Szarkowsky

The New Yorker, Two and a Half Decades Observing Life in Rural America

The Heavy Collective, May 2019

Also of note, Susan Worsham’s interview with Sheron Rupp is featured in Ahorn Archive 1, which ships later this month - https://ahornbooks.com/product/ahorn-archive-1/

Kehrer Verlag

Photography as Transgression

We’d been married a little more than 48 hours when we decided to take a drive on a gorgeous day earlier this month. We’ve traveled many miles in our time together, mostly backroads, and I feel most comfortable on the road when she’s next to me.

We drove for a while and parked on the shoulder near the head of a narrow trail that would lead us to Summersville Lake. She’d been to this exact spot the previous year with a good friend but was unsure which of the two paths led to the rocky outcropping that was our ultimate destination.

First, we veered left and made our way down a slick path, stepping over exposed roots and rocks before realizing we needed to head in the other direction. We doubled back and picked up the main trail and quickly found the outcropping we were looking for. It was breathtaking. 

We took a seat on the warm rock and we breathed in the air off the water some 60 feet below. It was as if we had the whole place to ourselves. I thought briefly about stripping down and enjoying the sun on my body, but figured things might get awkward if other hikers showed up. We talked and we sat quietly, listening to the birds and wind. I made a few pictures with my iPhone, then reached into my camera bag and produced an instant film camera I’ve been meaning to use more often.

Her pink nails, the green rhododendron leaves, and my shadow caught my eye. I raised the camera, pressed the shutter, and listened to the film whine as it made its way out of the top of the camera. I said something about her pink nails and waited for the image to appear. I thought it might’ve been the last exposure, but when I saw the light on her face, without asking, I raised and pressed the shutter again.

This is the part when I remind you that in my practice of making photographs, I never make pictures of people without asking first. For me, I just don’t feel like it’s the right thing to do. I mean, I talk about it to large groups of people. I share how I always make it a point to deliver my standard line, which is, “Hi, my name is Roger. I’m a photographer. Would you mind if I made your picture?” Seems pretty straightforward and routine.

In that moment, without thinking, I took. I did not consider how she felt about having her picture made, though I am intimately familiar with her struggle (and mine) of being photographed. There’s part of me that thinks I like being a photographer precisely because it usually keeps me behind the camera. I didn’t know an exposure would come out, but nonetheless I failed to ask and in an instant, quicker than the instant picture could develop, I crossed into unfamiliar territory without even knowing it. What’s more, I didn’t even realize I’d upset her until she grew quiet. Still not thinking any film was left, I snapped another, which turned out to be the last exposure.

She was hurt and I became defensive, unaware of that I had done anything wrong. And that’s precisely the issue; I’d allowed myself to become unaware.  She reminded me that she is often uncomfortable with me making candid photos of her. I know the feeling. Few pictures of me exist that I genuinely like. “You didn’t even extend the same courtesy to me as you do with everyone else in the world,” she said. And she was right. It was like getting hit in the chest with a cinderblock. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing as we walked back to the car, her trailing behind me. Silence in the car, hurt feelings, and a different kind of drive home than the one we’d started the day with.

She knows me better than anyone. I think that’s why it hurt her so much. I made the mistake of thinking I had complete freedom, hell maybe even the right, to photograph her whenever or however I saw a moment unfold, to move about our intimate space without even considering she might not see herself the way I do.

I gave her the picture. I think it’s tucked away somewhere out of sight, somewhere safe where she controls who sees it and who does not. When I think about the picture before and the picture after, it will forever remind me of the picture in between.

The Patch: Connecting the FSA Photographs of Wolcott and Shahn

When I look at this photograph, I try to make a mental list of all the filters I might be applying to it, whether intentional or not, and the ways of seeing that undoubtedly influence my perspective. For example, I am a mid-forties white male studying a photograph of an elderly Black woman. There is no shortage of collections of photographs – or writings on such - by white men about Black bodies, about women’s bodies. Though this is not the primary focus of why I’m interested in this photograph, I must be aware that it affects how I see the picture. I am also aware of my place of origin, both as a person and a photographer, and how those are inextricably related to both coal and to West Virginia. I am also a student of historical photographs from the region, so I likely spend more time studying composition, location, time period, and the photographer who made the picture. I also consider how or if the subject matter of the photograph has changed over time, whether a particular building might still be standing, what a deforested mountainside might now look like some decades later, and so on.

At first glance, this photograph seems otherworldly, perhaps I can convince myself that if I squint just so, I can picture an astronaut on the moon bending down to collect a sample to study back on earth. Instead, I am left with a reminder that for as long as coal has been mined in these hills, we have been offered only the scraps that remain from toiling underground. That which has been thrown out, thrown away, discarded as no good and of no use, this is where we find ourselves.

I know that Marion Post Wolcott was around 28 years old when she made this photograph. She made this picture during the first year Roy Stryker hired her as the first full time woman photographer of the FSA (Dorothea Lange had been working since 1935, but part time). This picture was likely made on her first assignment and her visit to West Virginia. Stryker was known to punch holes in photographs he deemed not fit to print, which you can see below as two of the five images Wolcott made of the woman bear evidence of Stryker’s hole punch.

The series of five photographs made by Marion Post Wolcott of the woman picking coal from a slate dump in West Virginia in September 1938. Note the middle two images, which bear the evidence of Roy Stryker’s hole punch.

By my best guess, I reckon this woman to be in her 80’s. For argument sake, let’s say 80. This picture was made in September 1938, which would mean she was born around 1860. Was she born a slave? What was her childhood like during the Civil War? We can never know for certain, but suffice it to say, this woman had seen many things through the course of her life at the making of this series of photographs in Monongalia County, West Virginia.

Aesthetically, this photograph is hauntingly beautiful. Black and white photography still dominated most picture making at the time (Kodachrome had been introduced three years prior in 1935), but I can’t imagine this photograph much different as a color image. The entire frame, from corner to corner, is composed of a pallet of blacks, grays, and whites. The perforations (sprocket holes) visible at the top and bottom of the frame indicate a 35mm film camera, which by this time had been used widely by the public for two decades. If I had to guess, I’d say she was using a Leica.

While researching other FSA-era photographs of West Virginia, I noticed that Ben Shahn also made pictures in Cassville a few years earlier. One picture in particular stood out to me. It showed several miners’ shacks with crudely made outhouses perched on the hill behind them. Then, I noticed the pattern of the slate dump located behind the houses to the right of the frame. After comparing Wolcott’s and Shahn’s photographs, I’m convinced they were not only from the same coal camp, but damn near the same location. 

I am fascinated by the FSA photographs of West Virginia and the coal-producing areas of Appalachia. There is so much rich history contained in them seemingly waiting for us to visit them, spend time with them, learn from them, and hopefully sometimes connect with them.

The Patch, a shanty town at Cassville, Scotts Run, West Virginia. Ben Shahn, October 1935, Farm Security Administration - Office of War Information Photograph Collection (Library of Congress).

Area where I believe Marion Post Wolcott made her picture of the woman collecting coal in 1938.

Area indicating what I believe to be the shadow of a porch using Ben Shahn’s 1935 photograph as reference.

Composite of Ben Shahn’s 1935 photograph (cropped for detail) from Cassville and Marion Post Wolcott’s 1938 photograph (inset) from Cassville showing a woman picking coal from a slate dump. The composite is not exact, but I believe points to this being the same location.