The Way in Which Each Sees the Other Confirms His Own View of Himself

Approaching portrait photography essentially makes me feel like this photograph. Or should I say, that attempting to portrait as a photographer makes me feel as though I were hanging at Annie Leibovitz's feet in this photograph above the many skyscrapers in New York City, New York. If only I could expand the sensation of flight as I begin shooting my subjects, inquiring about their days, touching their hands and moving their arms and legs around so that the lighting lies upon their clothing ever so delicately.

And I may ask myself: what about taking a photograph makes me feel as if I were inside another? It's simple. To lead in developing a specific moment of place and time, which has been the absolute end of photography, may also be found in the overwhelming vertigo that I may absorb as I peer over the edge of a gargoyle stone, realizing the effects of height and heft. And pull. Thrust may be more like it, but whichever be be truest, I understand that the relationship between subject and artist is a myriad of complexities. Dependent upon my intention, the shoot may be directed towards a moment of solemnity, though it need not be specifically that. If I were to photograph for fashion, art, expression, impression, or even competition, the shoot would much feel like the photograph generated. It is an act. Nearly a tightrope act, which would help suspend the drama in the photograph pictured above. Here in lies the spectacle of my metaphor: what is the intention of the photograph picturing Annie Leibovitz atop the Chrysler building in New York City, New York? Does John Loengard present a behind-the-lens portrait of a photographer so willing to achieve a shot that she'll climb one of the tallest buildings in all of New York? Where are the implications of that message? And what does it suggest for all photographers as a whole? And why Annie Leibovitz?

Here, Loengard blends the line between artistic portrait photography and documentary photography by including Annie Leibovitz taking part in the work that she presumably not only loves, but lives from. One of the ultimate portrait photographs, one does not get much more unconventional than this, yet conventionality is another argument altogether. 

The Zooffice Episode 5: Cup it Up!

A Few Words on Photography

"Our taverns and our metropolitan streets, our offices and our furnished rooms, our railroad stations and our factories appeared to have us locked up hopelessly. Then came the film and burst this prison-world asunder by the dynamite of the tenth of a second, so that now, in the midst of its far-flung ruins and debris, we calmly and adventurously go travelling." 
-Walter Benjamin from "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction."

With this same attitude -that our offices, our means of daily transportation and current fiscal responsibilities, have locked us up, hopelessly, there are degrees of self understanding that a person may need to travel through (pardon the pun) in order to perceive their self in relation to those creations around them. In the age of mechanical reproduction, we have rapidly become the age of digital reproduction. And in that age, the work of art has lost nearly all of its value as reproduction has even itself become a thing of the past. This new age lays out paths to imagery in abundance, paintings as obtrusive and permeating throughout computer screens, television sets, and banners that plague the highways. Commodified, art's history of exploitation does not peak at any particular point. Accessibility does. And accessibility may or may not be peaking at this very moment. For what is not accessible, really? Does it truly matter that my neighbor have the original Robert Frank photographic print, framed on his wall, and I the copy? Who will care? And at what point does value trump aura, atmosphere, initial response, or reaction? As long as we are liars, we will print and pretend that copies are in fact the original piece, and as long as we lie to ourselves, authenticity will not matter, though some would like to believe otherwise. Authenticity is what, anyways, besides vomit in the gutter at 3am in the morning. Talk about abstract.

The Zooffice Episode 4: Hard at Hearing

The Goose Who Thinks She's a Sandhill Crane

I may have a red mind about green habits -but then again,
I could have wings strewn about my hips, and have stood
inside the marsh until the rising tide drowns all the rabbits.

And this post will be part thinking, part screaming.
Part screaming only due to the fact that I have begun
to loose control over my interior temperament. Tantrum

They call it, but I've noticed that "they" call "it" many
"things". Like like like like like like like like like like
carnations, and blueberry muffins under melting butter.

The Sandhill Crane I call it. Like I see it, I say, and I
call it like they see it, I say. I say, they call it like they
see the I see the it. The "I" sees the "it" it doesn't, does it?

Triplets, like droplets, but meters of musicality. Musica
syllabically measures the movement in your palm,
as does slipping it into your pants, palm side down.

And the most fascinating aspect ratio doesn't form from
a y and an x, though the primate mammal would and
should differ there. Right there, now, in high definition.

At 8:54 post meridian the wolverines throw down their
garments and dance about the woods in carnival violence.
All there is, will never be, and nothing will, always.

I may have a violet mind, though not a violent mind indeed.
-but then again, the Sandhill Crane, bleeding from
her mouth, smiles still at the sun and her own opportunity.

Zooffice! Episode 3: The Freudian Slip

Brush Stroke

With the way your bangs roll down, you could shade the way land lies from the sun at its solstice.

And it's summer we're talking about. Unequal, equally unreal lives

lodged inside brown brazen eyes (and lids to match) run wild, horses wild.

Run while it's light out or run while around you is darkened. About the wind, your face,

zoysia freckled about you, hearken go the leaves, lightly tiptoeing

the sky. Summertime is slipping into the rough.

Run wild horses, run.