Connection

Graduate school has been for me a search for answers. In the past three years, I have arrived at several key answers, added considerably to my list of questions, and perhaps most importantly, discovered that I was searching for answers in the wrong places.

I came to the MFA program from an undergraduate background in Biology. With no clearly defined post-college career goals in mind, my working life loosely followed a broad range of opportunities that came my way. Jobs ranged from junior high English teacher, Elementary school PE coach, and SCUBA dive master in places as far-reaching as Japan, Alabama, and Midway Island. The world of art remained a bit foreign to me, sequestered away in museums and galleries that I had little contact with. Pictures largely came to me from the pages of National Geographic and mountain bike magazines that I was obsessed with throughout college. The earliest and most profound influence in photography comes from my father, who is an avid picture-taker. He has thoroughly documented every first day of school, every birthday party, and each rest stop on family trips. Events of significance were always marked with a few clicks of the shutter, and celebrated all over again with the family slide show as soon as the film was back from the lab.

Beginning with a trip to Europe after high school, with National Geographic as my template, I would photograph in saturated Kodachrome my adventures and travels without really knowing the specifics of why I was making pictures or what I wanted from them. I held unrealistic dreams of one day becoming my own romantic version of a National Geographic photographer--getting paid lots of money to travel to exotic places with my Nikon around my neck photographing exotic animals, deserted islands, and newly discovered ancient cities. Showing my pictures to friends and family in my own version of the family slide show always brought praise, but I gradually began to realize that the kinds of pictures I was making would not sustain my interest in photography indefinitely. It was time to add more ingredients and stir the pot.

The new ingredients came in the form of encounters with working photographers and influential professors through audited classes at the local university. I was introduced to the work of established artists, and as a result, my idea of photography was broadened considerably. My coveted National Geographic gradually faded in comparison to the newly discovered work of Paul Caponigro, Walker Evans, Harry Callahan, Edward Weston, and Sabastiao Salgado. These photographers were not bound to a specific story line. Their work penetrated deeper into metaphor, visual juxtaposition, and the presence of objects in space. I found unique responses to life and its problems in these pictures. I could feel intense intimacy from Callahan’s photographs of his wife Eleanor. Walker Evans straightforwardly revealed the strengths and struggles of rural families in depression-era Alabama. Weston showed me a Rodin sculpture in a bell pepper; Caponigro an entire universe in the skin of an ordinary apple. These photographers saw more than the surface of the world. Up to this point, I had been mostly concerned with presenting how the world physically looked. In these new pictures, I began to see not only how the world looked to these photographers, but also how it felt and the internal responses elicited from the experience of seeing.

Having just begun to scratch the surface of photography as an art form and as a way of seeing, I was accepted into art school. With little previous exposure to the art world, most of the artists and -isms that were casually thrown about by professors and students were completely foreign to me. I still wasn’t exactly clear as to why I was making photographs at all. I felt as if I had been thrown in the deep end of the pool without my water-wings. With each new semester’s worth of classes, I expected enlightenment. I wanted concrete answers like the solutions that were readily available in my biology classes from undergraduate school. How does a muscle work? A muscle is driven by the interaction of actin and myosin at the molecular level which occurs when enzyme ‘A’ lowers the activation energy in reaction ‘B’ by making a double carbon bond with positive ion ‘D’. The answers were straightforward, linear, and fully established by the scientific method. They could be studied, learned, and regurgitated for the midterm. I expected similar, well defined answers to my art questions. Why does one makes pictures? What makes a good picture? How should one go about making good pictures? I was searching for concrete facts, tried-and-true methodologies, and universal truths.

Searching for these answers from my professors, my art history classes, and from the other graduate students in the department is how I squandered away my first half of graduate school. I tried to adopt different professors’ methodologies and approaches to photography, borrowing words and language from other students or visiting professors all in an attempt to find the answers. If my own working practice didn’t match up to others’, I would assume I was approaching things the wrong way and quickly abandon my process in favor of another process that another photographer or painter was having some success with. I became detached and ambivalent about most of my work. Slowly, I began to understand that I was seeking answers in the wrong way. Art is not a science. There is no linear progression. There are no concrete rules. There is no set of universal answers to making and thinking about art, only my answers. There is no one correct approach, only my approach. There is no true path, only my path. Gradually, something that Lawrence McFarland, my eventual committee chair, asked me the first week of school began to make sense to me. The question was, “What do you want from photography, and what do you want to give back?” I was finally beginning to formulate an answer. When I stopped trying to adopt other approaches to photography and began to pay close attention to my own work, I began to find tentative answers. I accepted my own process and began to understand my pictures. I found that among all the reasons I am drawn to photography, the one overwhelming factor is a need for connection. I am constantly distracted by my internal dialogue which takes my mind into the future or back to the past, leaving my body disconnected from its physical location. I have recently found a quote from Henri Cartier-Bresson that sums it up in this way:

“One must always take photographs with the greatest respect for the subject and for oneself. To take photographs means to recognize--simultaneously and within a fraction of a second--both the fact itself and the rigorous organization of visually perceived forms that give it meaning. It is putting one’s head, one’s eye, and one’s heart on the same axis.”(68)

Before graduate school, I photographed as a way to show my friends and family the places I was visiting. I brought back images of thatched huts in the jungle, monkeys peeking from behind lush vegetation, and sweeping vistas of terraced valleys. These were the impressive views of the kinds of images I knew people wanted to see. I have shifted from this larger view to a more intimate view that roots me in the specifics of the moment. I have been practicing Buddhism for the past several years with the same goal in mind. I meditate as a form of practice. It is practice bringing my mind and my body into alignment, and practice being more fully present in the moment. The goal is to incorporate this synchronization into all aspects of my daily life. Photographing is another way I attempt to achieve the same goal. Sogyal Rinpoche, a Tibetan Buddhist educator, states, “Everything can be used as an invitation to meditation. A smile, a face in the subway, the sight of a small flower growing in the crack of cement pavement, a fall of rich cloth in a shop window, the way the sun lights up flower pots on a windowsill. Be alert for any sign of beauty or grace.”(122). Photographing helps to awaken me to moments of ‘beauty and grace’ as well as reflect these moments in the resulting images. My most recent hand-tinted work (Slides 1-4) is an expression of this effort. Applying layer upon layer of translucent oil paint to a black and white image not only adds vivid color to the image, but also a greater sense of depth. I emphasize these elements by coloring only a portion of the image, leaving most of the photograph black and white. This results in the illusion of a hole in the picture plane, revealing a contrasting space present in the image. In this way, I want to reveal hidden moments of grace overlooked in everyday experience. Making these pictures also serves to reveal these moments in my everyday life. I want these images to be dynamic and a little bit difficult to process. Opposing planes keep the eye jumping back and forth between the picture plane of the black and white and that of color. I utilize contrasting textures (Slide 1), opposing perspective (Slide 2), placing day and night in the same image(Slide 3), and opposing the present with a sense of the past(Slide 4) all work to further separate the black and white from the color. These opposing views occurring simultaneously in one image also make sense to me metaphorically in response to how I see myself present in the world. My struggle for connection is often a losing battle--the full extent of my personality is often closed off from the world by my insecurities, my shyness, and insulating habitual patterns of avoidance. These images represent, for me, glimpses of my unrestrained self, my Buddha-nature, that are only revealed in small amounts.

Similar issues can be seen in my black and white work. A need for connection drives my picture making. With a vocabulary of rich blacks, highly detailed texture and attention to light in the finished prints I accentuate the poetic moments found in the world around me. During graduate school, I have photographed in and around Austin and also had the opportunity to travel to several different countries. Going to another country removes all that is comfortable and secure. Travel also allows me uninterrupted time to make pictures. When photographing in Austin for a few hours at a time, I find the experience to be a hunt for images. With limited time, I attempt to force good images to happen quickly. When working this way, I am not connected to my surroundings or the images I make. Photographing becomes a need to fulfill the obligations of graduate school. With the uninterrupted time that a trip affords, I allow myself to be freely taken in by my surroundings. I respond freely to my environment, my thoughts, and my feelings. I am more closely connected to the resulting images. As Eliot Erwitt puts it, “Very good things come from leisure and contemplation. Photography is nothing more than intense leisure and contemplation that end up in a good black and white print properly fixed and rinsed so that it doesn’t fade too soon.”(19).

The images I choose to print must meet several requirements. I want the pictures to reflect something of my response to place while still functioning on more than one level. I also look for images that transform the mundane into something deeper and almost spiritual. For example, on a recent trip to Cuba, I was fascinated by the necessity to repair rather than replace consumer goods. It was such a contrast to our throwaway culture. With a ban on imports from the US since 1959, Cubans have had to repair and maintain whatever automobiles were in the country. Even the most useless-looking shell of a car is carefully taken care of for spare parts. The image represented in slide #5 speaks to these observations. The care that was taken to protect this frame from the elements is quite beautiful. The bright white, almost glowing sheet floats above the rusting heap beneath it in stark contrast. The knot framed by the blackness of the underside of the car and the sweeping motion felt from the folds in the sheet allow other metaphors to be read into the picture, keeping it from functioning on only one level.

The image represented in slide #6 shows a bird in a cage out in the street. I felt this image was ripe with commentary about the Cuban situation. Cuba was liberated for the working classes, which with the current state of economic hardship due to the political system, only have the illusion of freedom. The bird is outside, yet still caged. The cage is framed by an open door leading to infinite possibilities as well as a closed door shutting out all possibilities. I want images that speak to me about my experience or my life in general, but I also need the images to be plastic enough for multiple meanings to be accessed.

One of my brothers recently remarked about the Albritton family that we are movers. Some people prefer to settle in to a place for a lifetime, but somehow that just doesn’t work for us. With my travel and living abroad experiences, I tend to agree, especially given the fact that the immediate Albritton clan is scattered over 8 time zones. However, despite all of the moving and traveling, we remain a very close family. I have come to understand that this close family connection is the firm base that has given me the confidence to venture out into the world. My fears of failure are completely negated by the support I feel from my family. This unwavering support has transformed my failures in photography and in life into very positive learning experiences. Several projects have explored this family foundation.

A series of images taken in and around the Albritton home place in Wilcox county Alabama was the first attempt at an investigation of my family. The house has stood vacant since my grandmother passed away in 1989. Grandma Albritton rarely threw out anything and as a result, the house stands as a time-capsule of our family’s history. I have always felt this house was at the center of something very unique about my family. In a series of photographs, I attempted to capture something of the character of this house and of my family. I chose to pay close attention to small details such as bits of patched wallpaper (Slide 7), a stamp stuck to the corner of a portrait of General Lee showing the same exact image (Slide 8), and the lace curtains that have not been changed since they were installed almost a hundred years ago (Slide 9). The resulting series satisfied my aesthetic for black and white images but failed to reveal enough about my family. Through the shortcomings of this project, I realized that place was only one factor that has shaped my family. The nature of family interactions and personalities was largely lacking in the house series.

Inspired by a set of audio tapes of my grandmother telling stories of her childhood, I decided that audio with video would more closely capture a sense of the closeness and complete acceptance present in my family. Through interviews with my father and his two brothers interspersed with stills of period photographs as well as present day footage of the house and its surroundings, I hoped to learn more tangibly where my values come from and why I see the world as I do.

The first section of the video, entitled The Pool, is structured around a journey to the family pool through thick Alabama undergrowth. Interviews with my father and two uncles reveals the reasons for the construction of the pool as well as the construction itself. Worries of their boys developing typhoid and polio swimming in the local creeks spurred my grandfather to grab a few shovels and a few friends and dig a swimming pool in the yard. This unselfish love and sacrifice my grandparents had for their boys is present in my parents’ relationship with their boys and will be passed on to my children one day. This video has been a discovery of this unbroken chain of values and love passed down from one generation to the next. Similarly, the craft and ingenuity that was involved with the pool’s construction appears in my own life. As my grandfather improvised all manner of repairs from pool building to repairs of rocking chairs, my father possesses the same skills in auto restoration and all manner of household projects, and with my current project of restoring a classic car, I notice the same attributes surfacing in my own life. It is the satisfaction of creating something new, the need to repair and reuse rather than discard. It is these values that surface in my own worldview, as seen in my black and white images. For example, the picture of a worker in Trinidad, Cuba repairing disposable lighters on the street (Slide 10) is an image that directly reflects this value system. It is evidence of how I seek my family in the world.

Finally, how do I address the second part of Lawrence’s question, “What do you want to give back to photography?” Through my final prints, in which I strive for technical excellence, I want to give back to photography a continuation of the photographic dialogue--adding and responding to my great influences in photography. I want to respond to Harry Callahan’s direct, unflinching view of his own life, Manuel Alvarez Bravo’s unaltered immediacy of vision, Robert Capa’s closeness to subjects, Sebastiao Salgado’s attention to the working classes of the world, and Minor White’s philosophy that life, spirituality, and photography are inextricably entwined. I hope to enter into a dialogue responding to the pictures that speak to me with my own answers and observations about life, living, and the unique way that I see the world.

Harry Callahan has said that photography is an adventure just as life is an adventure. Through photography, I aim to connect more fully to the adventure that is my life.