Paul Czyzyk | Photography Blog

What interests me is learning. I always quote Lisette Model who said: “I have often been asked what I wanted to prove by my photographs. The answer is, I don’t want to prove anything. They prove to me, and I am the one who gets the lesson.” And likewise, DeLillo said, “I don’t know what I think about certain subjects, even today, until I sit down and try to write about them”. I‘m interested in the complexity of sight...not knowing how the pictures will turn out. What excites me is how they work photographically, as pictures, irrespective of what’s in them. A good picture has a life of its own…. you don’t call a poet who writes about real life a documentary poet.

God damn, we need a better word than ‘documentary’! There has to be one. Perhaps you or John Gossage can spend some of that aphoristic energy on tackling that? ‘Documentary’ for me was a movement within photography in the 1930’s to 1960’s, and is long gone now. An historic artefact. We can’t simply use that to describe everyone who makes photographs in the world as-it-is. Is Robert Adams’ work documentary? Eggleston? Winogrand? Shore? Myself? It’s silly and unhelpful to label work that way, it’s so much more than that.

During my years as an art critic, I used to joke that museums love artists the way that taxidermists love deer, and something of that desire to secure, to stabilize, to render certain and definite the open-ended, nebulous, and adventurous work of artists is present in many who work in that confinement sometimes called the art world. A similar kind of aggression against the slipperiness of the work and the ambiguities of the artist’s intent and meaning often exists in literary criticism and academic scholarship, a desire to make certain what is uncertain, to know what is unknowable, to turn the flight across the sky into the roast upon the plate, to classify and contain. What escapes categorization can escape detection altogether. There is a kind of counter-criticism that seeks to expand the work of art, by connecting it, opening up its meanings, inviting in the possibilities. A great work of criticism can liberate a work of art, to be seen fully, to remain alive, to engage in a conversation that will not ever end but will instead keep feeding the imagination. Not against interpretation, but against confinement, against the killing of the spirit. Such criticism is itself great art. This is a kind of criticism that does not pit the critic against the text, does not seek authority. It seeks instead to travel with the work and its ideas, to invite it to blossom and invite others into a conversation that might have previously seemed impenetrable, to draw out relationships that might have been unseen and open doors that might have been locked. This is a kind of criticism that respects the essential mystery of a work of art, which is in part its beauty and its pleasure, both of which are irreducible and subjective. The worst criticism seeks to have the last word and leave the rest of us in silence; the best opens up an exchange that need never end.