Tag: Black & White

Categories
Street Photography

The Back of Things

A man walks south down Yonge Street with his left hand pressed to his hip.
Yonge Street south of College Street

Shooting street photography, I feel a tension between shooting from the front and shooting from the back. This tension has its correlate in the wider world of social relations. Most of us are conflict averse and would rather not face people head-on even though we know we should. Maybe somebody slights us and we feel we ought to stand up to them. It’s a matter of principle. It’s a matter of personal dignity. But when the time comes, we feel nervous. We hesitate and the moment passes.

Something similar happens with a camera in hand. We know that, at least in street photography, the best images happen when the subject approaches us. We get to look them in the eyes and examine their expression. If we shoot them from the back, it’s only because we’re cowardly. We tell ourselves we haven’t got the right stuff. Our inner critic yammers on until it makes us feel two inches tall and we wonder if we’ll ever be any good at our chosen craft.

And yet, as with any rule-bound practice, we discover that the rules take us only so far. There are occasions when it’s best to break the rules. Sometimes the view from the back offers its own interest, as it does here with the hand pressed to the hip, the posture of discomfort, the four rings on the left hand, the rumpled texture of the shirt. The scene from the back raises enough questions in its own right to sustain our interest.

I find the same situation arises with buildings. The front of a building has an obvious interest. But sometimes, the back of a building tells a story all its own and I would miss that story if I didn’t duck around the side and explore what lies behind.

Categories
Architecture

Star Trek: Strange New Worlds – S1.E3 Ghosts of Illyria

Black and white photograph of Ontario Place buildings rising from the ice covered waters of a thawing Lake Ontario.
Ontario Place

Strange New Worlds, the latest installment in the Star Trek franchise, explores pre-Kirk life in the Federation. In particular, we learn the back story of Captain Christopher Pike whom we first met in “The Menagerie” which aired in 1966. Anson Mount plays the current iteration of Pike, a character written according to a longstanding template that makes him indistinguishable from James T Kirk. When he’s not in the chair on the bridge, he’s riding a horse in Montana while sporting a rugged beard. Starfleet rules are really suggestions, but he only breaches them when higher values are at stake. And he carries himself with a good-humoured sex appeal that, sooner or later, will have some large-breasted alien swooning.

Why, you may ask, does a guy with a photo blog post a piece about Star Trek? Glad you asked. It turns out they’re filming Strange New Worlds in that strangest of strange new worlds, the city of Toronto. This became cringingly obvious in the first shots of episode 3, “Ghosts of Illyria.” The opening shots establish that the Enterprise is in orbit around an alien world, home to species called the Illyrians. The next shot takes us to the planet’s surface where an away team has landed only to find that the planet’s inhabitants are missing. We swoop across the surface of a large body of water and the camera rises to the horizon. A strange alien structure comes into view.

It’s Ontario Place. But in the future. And on another planet.

For more than 10 years now, Ontario Place has been a sad shell of its former self, serving no particular purpose other than to slowly rust away into the lapping waters of Lake Ontario. Doug Ford’s decision to make it a terminus for his new subway line strikes me as utterly pointless. Once built, the Ford line will be the subway ride to useless. But don’t worry. He’ll license a casino there to one of his mob cronies and all will be well.

The irony is that when it first opened in 1971, it reflected an optimistic vision of the future, or at least the future as its architect, Eb Zeidler, imagined it. At the same time as Zeidler was preparing his plans, Stanley Kubrick was giving us far out furniture on his 2001 space station and selling space travel as a glorified acid trip. The only thing missing from the original Ontario Place designs was a humongous lava lamp. It’s the kind of place you could go for a giant city-wide key party. The future was so much better back then.

In the Star Trek version of the future, Ontario Place is ground zero for a plague transmitted by photons. Once infected, victims crave light which of course produces photons and increases the likelihood of transmission. This futuristic plague’s version of masking is to turn out the lights. The only thing missing from this episode are the anti-darkness truckers who demand in the name of freedom the right to turn on the lights and infect their Enterprise crewmates. But I guess that would make it more like Toronto today than the Federation in stardate 2548.3.

Black and white photograph of Ontario Place buildings rising from the ice covered waters of a thawing Lake Ontario.
Ontario Place
Categories
Nature

Photo Accessibility

A black and white photograph of reeds extending from the water while their warped reflections appear on the surface of the water.
Mckay’s Harbour, Lion’s Head Provincial Park

Several years ago, in another context, I lamented the rise of what I described as photographic literalism. It’s a problem produced by search engines which rely on tagging to index photographs. In order to for photographs to rank well in Google searches, the associated tags have to accurately describe what appears in the photograph. We see the same thing on photo sites like Instagram and Flickr where often the photos that get the most attention are those with the best configuration of hashtags.

People have become fixated on the thingness of an image. This is a picture of X. This thing called X is a Platonic X that has about it an ideal quality of Xness. We can name it and classify it and slot it into its proper cubbyhole. Taxonomy is king! Long live the well-named!

While hashtags have their place, it’s important to recognize their shortcomings, too. Hashtags have no way to note ambivalence or vagueness, meanings that teeter on a fulcrum, feelings, the numinous experience, intimations of a spiritual life, visual poetry. And they have no way to register fleeting sensations: I looked here and suddenly I was taken back to my childhood. Instead, hashtags presume that a thing is a thing is a thing for all time.

Accessibility has given new life to the issue of photographic literalism. I’m quite happy to describe my photographs in alt tags for the benefit of those who are visually impaired. It’s a helpful measure for people who chance upon my web pages and want to understand how I have integrated visual media with my words. But, as with hashtags, it’s important to acknowledge the limitations of these tools.

A photograph is more than a representation of a thing. It may also be a provocation or an evocation. If it’s any good at all, it makes the viewer feel something. It is not so much the thing as it is the feeling that is the point of a photograph.

I think, in addition to the alt tag, there should be a poetry tag: a short ekphrastic statement about the feelings a photograph evokes. In the image above, for example, the alt tag reads: “A black and white photograph of reeds extending from the water while their warped reflections appear on the surface of the water.” Yes, but I might also write: “I was filled with a sense of calm as a gentle breeze rippled the shallow waters and, for a brief moment, I felt a sense of surrender.” Nothing overly flowery, something simple to suggest a state of mind.

Categories
Street Photography

Statistical Photography

Black and white photo of a woman wearing ear buds and smoking while texting on her cellphone.
Shot on SE corner of Queen St W and Bay St, Toronto

I’ve noticed that in the curation of my own photos, there’s a statistical process at play. I go out and I shoot and I shoot and I shoot. When I’m done, I dump my images into a folder and do a preliminary cull. Typically, half my photos go into the trash right at the start. I load the rest into Lightroom and begin a closer examination of my shots, flagging those I like best for post-processing adjustments like colour correction and cropping.

So far this year, 1 in 14 of these images have made the cut. That’s 1 in 28 of my total. In any given year, that leaves me with a thousand or so images of a certain quality which I then cull to a hundred or thereabouts, those I regard as suitable for print. In other words, I end up with 1 in 10 of the 1 in 28. If my math is accurate, that means that, on average, I make 280 images for every one that really satisfies me. That ratio is pretty consistent year over year.

No doubt other photographers function differently. Some take greater care at the moment they capture the image, making sure they release the shutter only if they know the image is good. For them, the ratio of satisfying images is higher. But that isn’t me. I can’t afford to be so precious. I subscribe to the Wayne Gretzky school of photography: the only thing I know for certain is that I don’t make 100% of the shots I don’t take. So I shoot and I shoot and I shoot.

As odd as it may sound, the global pandemic has provided affirmation of my approach to photography. The pandemic has made me daily mindful of statistical thinking and its importance to public health policy. No one action will guarantee that I avoid the Sars-Cov-2 virus, but if I wear a mask and get vaccinated, and if others do the same, then collectively we improve the odds that everyone will avoid the Sars-Cov-2 virus. It’s all a matter of statistics.

Applying the same kind of thinking to my photographic practice … no one photo may be a great photo, but if I keep shooting, and if I do my best with each shot, then, statistically speaking, at least a few of those shots are going to be good. The real trick is recognizing them when they happen.

Categories
City Life

History of Violence

Tow-Away Zone sign on a bent metal pole with tall buildings in the background.

One of the things the Black Lives Matter #BLM movement has tried to do is expand the meaning of racism. In the past, white people like me tried to exempt ourselves from responsibility by saying: “What, me racist? I haven’t got a racist bone in my body.” And, in a way, we were right if, by racist, you mean we don’t run around engaging in overt acts of racism.

The #BLM movement struggles to communicate the idea that racism is more than overt acts. It invites people who look like me to see beyond the obvious: to acknowledge that many institutions were designed from their outset to discriminate (and to commit racist acts on our behalf); to identify passive aggressive behaviours and microaggressions that neatly evade allegations of racism but commit such acts all the same; to own our failures to intervene when others do engage in overt acts of racism. People find it difficult to accept that simple omissions can be acts of racism too.

We can understand racism as a category of violence. If we look to violence generally, we find the same dynamic at play. It’s easy for most of us to avoid allegations of violent behaviour because we aren’t prone to engage in overt acts. I don’t physically abuse my wife. I don’t lose my temper and hit people when I don’t get my way. I don’t cut people off on the highway then get out of my car and threaten them with a baseball bat. So, no, I am not a violent person.

As with the #BLM movement, I get to avoid charges of violent behaviour only if I hold to a narrow definition of violence. But violence is more than overt acts. I can abuse my wife without laying a finger on her; it’s possible to engage in all sorts of manipulations that subtly wear her down. And I can do injury without ever striking a person; I can engage in implied threats or utter indirections that are nevertheless demeaning.

Further expanding my definition of violence, I see violence embedded in urban planning. For example, when infrastructure fails to accommodate increases in pedestrian and vehicular traffic, everyone grows frustrated and that frustration leaks out as anger. The people on the receiving end of that anger didn’t cause the frustration. They just happen to be convenient targets.

And when public services fail to meet the needs of the most vulnerable, not only does that do violence to those vulnerable people—the mentally ill, the homeless, the different—, it heightens the anxiety of everyone else and produces conditions ripe for moral panic: let’s round them up and warehouse them out of sight. This, too, is a form of violence and it implicates us all.

Then there is the violence implicit in our built environment. When we build in ways that fail to account for the human scale, we say in effect that people—all people—are incidental to the late modernist project. Concepts trump people. Ideologies transcend humans. Putin is not extraordinary. This kind of violence has been at work on us for decades.

Categories
Wildlife

Dreaming Black & White

A black and white photograph of a black bird perched on a branch with its beak open as if singing.

When colour film became commercially feasible, it didn’t exactly sweep the photography world off its feet. Part of the reason may have been the cost. Colour film might be commercially feasible, but black and white film was still cheaper. However, when digital photography put an end to the price differential, black and white still retained its appeal.

While there are probably many reasons why people continue to shoot in black and white or to convert their colour images, one possible explanation is that some people dream in black and white. A monochrome palette feels natural to them.

A cursory search with Google suggests there is no definitive answer as to why some people dream in black and white and others dream in colour. For example, this Penn State course blog cites two principal reasons for black and white dreaming: 1) some people just don’t dream that vividly and so recall their dreams as black and white, or 2) people lose the ability to dream in colour as they age. However, a post on Psychreg suggests that most black and white dreamers were exposed to black and white media (and therefore tend to be older because they grew up in the days of black and white TV).

Personally, I recall my dreams in colour, although I do confess that the colours tend to be muted if visual concerns are incidental to the dream. For example, if the dream concerns a conversation or an argument, colour doesn’t really matter and so I don’t remember it. To that end, I share my two most recent dreams, both of which involved conversations.

Dream 1: Maya Ang;1ou

I dreamt of Maya Angelou. Instead of being dead, she was running for governor. I had volunteered to help her out. She needed technical advice on how to keep the haters from inundating her email account and flooding her social media with hate-bots. My big contribution, apart from telling her to use proton mail, was to suggest she use a special spelling of her name and distribute it only to her closest most trusted friends. So we came up with Maya Ang;1ou. I can think of no reason on earth why, at this particular moment, it should occur to me to dream about Maya Ang;1ou.

Dream 2: Bloomsday

Honest to god, on June 16th I dreamt it was Bloomsday. I was riding my bicycle through the streets of Dublin when I came upon a dingy row house with an old tin plaque beside the front door. The plaque commemorated the deeds of the fictional Leopold Bloom: “On this day in 1904, a fictional character in a James Joyce novel did take a shit on this site.” Or words to that effect. I had arrived with a paring knife in hand and meant to pry the plaque from the wall so I could take it home as a souvenir. However, before I could start, a woman opened the door and gave me proper hell in tones only the Irish know how to produce. I looked at her, sheepish, and when she saw that I was harmless, only drunk on Bulmer’s Cider, she softened her tone and, looking from side to side, said she didn’t think it would do any harm for me to steal the sign, and what did she care since it wasn’t her as put it there in the first place.

A black and white photograph of a graffiti-covered double door in Dublin.
A Door In Dublin
Categories
City Life

Arrow

A woman pushes a bundle buggy along the sidewalk while, overhead, an arrow points off at an inclined angle.
Walking west on Scollard Street, Toronto

Speaking of clichés … arrows are a great favourite in street photography. I’m not sure why that is. A Freudian thing, maybe? Or maybe arrows imply a sense of direction which viewers find reassuring. At least it’s reassuring until the arrow points in a direction that isn’t terribly helpful.

What do we make of an arrow that points at an inclined angle? I’m inclined to think the people who installed this arrow had Elon Musk in mind. It points the way to Mars. Or maybe city planners put it there to remind us which way the skyline is headed.

Personally, this arrow makes me feel uncomfortable. It doesn’t fill me with existential dread or make me doubt my fundamental beliefs. It causes a feeling of discomfort more on the same order as when I’m at a church wedding and the officiant goes on too long and the hard pew presses against my tailbone and I have to shift in my seat every two minutes to relieve the twinge. It’s that kind of discomfort.

I can tolerate an arrow pointing off into space, but I don’t want to take that as a prescription for my life’s philosophy. If I had my druthers, I’d turn the arrow the other way around. Instead of staring off at the heights or beyond into space, I’d encourage people to stare down at themselves and their rootedness in the ground they walk.

Dreaming and star-gazing are fine. But balance these impulses with self-examination and a regard for our own place. We can ill-afford to neglect the ground we walk.

Categories
Street Photography

Photographic Clichés

A woman cleans the interior face of a store window, holding a bottle of window cleaner in one hand and a white cloth in the other.
Window Cleaning on Spadina Avenue

I remember hearing a story about a university student taking an English Lit course. The class had been assigned Shakespeare’s Hamlet and on the first day of lectures the professor asked: “So what did you think?” The student put up his hand and said: “It was great, but there were too many clichés.”

I have no idea if the story is true. In fact, I’ve heard it so many times, it’s becoming a bit clichéd in its own right. But the story points to the fact that every cliché was once an original thought. Before there were new age self-help gurus, there was Polonius saying to his son: “To thine own self be true.” And before we had hedge fund managers standing on ledges, we had Hamlet saying: “To be, or not to be. That is the question.”

Although photography hasn’t been around quite as long as classic literature, it has explored huge swaths of what it is possible to say with images. It has developed a canon of “great” images and these images have produced a kind of stylistic grammar. Want patient suffering? Look to Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Mother. Want the 1000 yard stare of collective trauma? Look to Steve McCurry’s Afghan Girl. Want puddle jumping? Look to Henre Cartier-Bresson’s Behind the Gare Saint Lazare.

Tourism has added to the range of our stylistic grammar. For example, if you Google “holding up the leaning tower of pisa” you end up with enough visual cheese to make a thousand pizzas. And, of course, there’s the selfie. Here I am in Times Square. Here I am in front of the Eiffel Tower. And here I am at the Taj Mahal.

As evidenced by today’s featured photo, I am a great practitioner of the visual cliché. In fact, I am absolutely shameless in my taste for visual cheese. I have a couple thoughts on this. First, trying to put my own spin on what the masters have done before is a great way to hone my craft. Second, let’s be realistic. With eight billion people on this planet, the majority of whom now walk around with cameras in their pockets, the chances of me coming up with anything original are minuscule. Even if I do come up with an original idea, it’s likely that other people are coming up with the same idea simultaneously.

In such an environment, it makes more sense simply to revel in cliché. Own it. Roll around in it like a pig in mud.

Categories
Street Photography

The Migraine Dress

A woman walks along Queen Street West in a Zig Zag patterned dress.
Woman walks along Queen Street West in a Zig Zag patterned dress

I get migraine headaches. They are textbook classic migraine headaches. Most of the time, they follow the same pattern. First, I see a hole. A spot goes missing from my visual field. Maybe I’m reading, and as I move my eyes from left to right, the words on the right disappear as I shift my gaze. It’s as if all the words tumble into a black hole. Or maybe I reach for something and I notice that my hand has disappeared. It’s an odd feeling to lose track of your body parts.

Next up are the fortification hallucinations, jagged lines shaped like the parapets of a medieval fort, but unlike fortifications, these lines shimmer, and they’re lit up like electric arc lights. When the fortification hallucinations start, the whole world lights up and quivers. The woman’s dress shown above, looks a lot like the start of a migraine headache. Clearly, this woman does NOT suffer from migraine headaches; if she did, she would avoid this dress like the plague.

These preliminary stages are called the aura. There is speculation that they are the source of stories about poltergeists. Many people, myself included, report an extraordinary sensitivity to sounds and strange auditory sensations. While this is probably caused by a sudden rush of blood through the ear drums, I can understand how premodern migraine sufferers might have thought they were hearing ghosts. At the same time, I experience a taste/smell of icy mintiness. And let’s not forget about the numbness that typically affects my left hand and the left side of my face (because the migraine headache affects the right side of my brain).

Of all the preliminary stages, my favourite is transient aphasia which typically lasts between 10 and 15 minutes. I use the word favourite loosely. It’s such a weird experience to hear words inside my head but find myself unable to communicate them. The experience makes me feel horribly for those (like Bruce Willis) who have permanent aphasia because of a brain trauma or progressive dementia.

On a couple of occasions, I have had a journal close at hand when I happen to be entering the aphasic stage of migraine and so, as an experiment, I have recorded whatever happens to enter my head as I pass into and out of my aphasic state. The results are odd and I have shared them on my other site, nouspique.com.

Then comes the headache proper. Most of the time, medication keeps the worst of it at bay. But there are times when nothing helps. It feels like somebody has taken knitting needles and a hammer and has pounded the needles up my nostrils through my brain and out the top of my head. The next day, it feels like I have a hangover from the bender of the century.

Why would anyone wear a dress that looks like that?

Categories
Street Portrait

Curiosity

A woman with a heavily tattooed arm, and wearing strong makeup and a hairnet, sits in Toronto's High Park.

Curiosity is a mental posture worth cultivating in the pursuit of street photography. There is something to be said for revisiting the mind of a three year old and asking Why? Why? Why? wherever we turn our gaze.

I’m not a Roman Catholic, but curiosity has led me to delve into Roman Catholic theology. I am particularly taken by the writings of the Jesuit philosopher, Bernard Lonergan, whose monumental work, Insight, rests on a simple observation: all human beings are born with an unrestricted desire to know. Curiosity.

For Lonergan, curiosity is the default condition of human consciousness. At one time or another, virtually all of us stray from that default condition, pulled by what he describes as distortions in our thinking. Many of these distortions happen because of the socializing process we call growing up. Adulthood has many things to commend it, but sometimes its demands can stifle curiosity.

Street photography (or any photography for that matter) can be a wonderful antidote to the dangers of growing up. It stimulates curiosity by encouraging us to look at our world in fresh ways. This is especially important when we encounter people as the subjects of our photographs. Curiosity pushes us to see beyond those habits that distort our seeing, habits like the impulse to judge and the entrenchment of personal bias. Curiosity demands that we see the more that rests inside each person we encounter.

Alongside curiosity, I find a delight in difference. This delight doesn’t find expression in a salacious voyeurism: look at this strangeness I’ve captured. Instead, it’s more an expression of relief. It’s such a relief that people don’t look or think like me. What a dull and narrow world that would be!

Categories
Street Portrait

Handling Dark Skin in Post-processing Software

Candid street portrait of a Black person wearing decorative earrings.

It’s well-established that film was optimized for light-skinned subjects. Manufacturers dodged allegations of racism by arguing that the principal market for film was light-skinned purchasers. They were simply meeting demand. If racism accounted for the fact that there was less demand from dark-skinned purchasers, that was a social problem. Not something that companies like Eastman Kodak could do anything about.

Except that they could. Part of the problem was that white photographers were complacent and simply assumed there was some immutable technical reason why film was the way it was. A notable exception came in 1977 when Jean-Luc Godard went on assignment in Mozambique and refused to use Kodak film.

It turns out manufacturers could address the issue if given the right incentive. For example, the vintage ID-2 Polaroid camera came with a boost that enhanced the flash by 42% which is exactly the additional level of light that black skin absorbs. The reason for the boost was to meet the requirements of the South African government. At that time, the apartheid regime required Blacks to carry a passbook and the photographs had to accurately reflect the skin colour of the subjects. It seems manufacturers were happy to meet the demands of apartheid but not the demands of a Black family trying to make a photo album.

Despite claims that the shift to digital photography has solved the problem, that isn’t universally true. Facial recognition algorithms have a persistent problem accurately detecting darker skinned faces. And since the principal function of these algorithms is to assist law enforcement and border controls, current shortcomings continue to promote the racial biases historically embedded in these roles.

For an individual photographer, or even someone wielding an iPhone, post-processing apps have made it easy to accurately correct for different skin tones. In my own work flow, I rely on programs like Lightroom and Nik Effects. There are still challenges, especially when people with radically different skin tone appear in the same frame. For the time being, I have adopted the practice of optimizing for the person with the darkest skin. It’s a bit like the practice news agencies have adopted of capitalizing the word Black. It’s one small step on a path to right relations.

Categories
City Life

Doors Open or Closed?

Gritty door with a sign on it that says: Stan's Pizza
Side door to pizzeria, Cumberland St N and Tupper St, Thunder Bay, Ontario

In my marriage, there are certain areas of domestic life that are subject to battles of the will.

For example, there is the question of cleaning the toilet. My wife insists that because I cause the greater mess, it’s my responsibility to clean it. I have suggested that we should take a more global approach to domestic cleaning. By way of illustration, I point out that I routinely wash the floor even though my wife does half the walking on it.

As an experiment, I’ve tried to measure my wife’s stubbornness as expressed in days without cleaning the toilet. Ordinarily, she is fastidious about these things (she absolutely refuses to use portable toilets and outhouses), but it turns out she’s not as fastidious as she is stubborn. We could go for decades without cleaning our toilet because she insists absolutely that it’s my job. It’s a matter of principle.

We have a similar battle of wills when it comes to our bedroom door. When I’m in the bedroom, the door must be shut. My wife doesn’t care.

My insistence on a shut door has nothing to do with fear or anxiety. I don’t worry that urban ninjas are going to break into our house and storm the keep. It’s more a symbolic matter. I need a sense of enclosure. Completeness. An open door is ambiguous. It allows for a leakage into the wider world.

Intellectually, I enjoy ambiguity. I love to read stories that leave me hanging in indeterminate positions. I love arguments that see-saw on a fulcrum. But as an emotional matter, I can’t abide an open door.

My wife is the opposite. If she watches a movie, she likes it when all the story lines come to clean resolutions. Art house films drive her bonkers. But as an emotional matter, she’s comfortable with open doors and the leakages they imply.

I’ve noticed lately that if I let the toilet go for a few weeks, I wake up in the morning and find that the bedroom door has been left wide open all night. And so the battle rages.

Categories
Street Photography

The Naked Truth

A man stands naked on a busy street corner.
Butt naked at the intersection of Church & Bloor, Toronto

I could stand butt naked (or is it buck naked? I’m never sure) on a busy street corner, and nobody would notice.

That seems to be the way it is for me. I write. I photograph. I create. But I attract very little attention to myself.

In the world at large, it seems as if people are scrabbling over one another for attention. Despite talk about cancel culture and deplatforming, never have so many of us had so much access to tools designed to amplify our voices. In fact, our apparent anxiety about cancel culture and deplatforming implies that we regard widespread attention as a right. We have the right to develop a personal brand. We have the right to carry media studios in our pockets to promote that brand. We have the right to be famous.

I regard myself as a bit contrarian and, certainly when it comes to digital culture, I feel like I’m forever walking into a serious headwind. Still, I feel that my time has come. No, I don’t think I’m on the cusp of becoming famous. Only that I’m better prepared for an inevitable and impending oblivion.

In her Norton Lectures: Spending The War Without You, Laurie Anderson has this to say about our creative impulses:

We’re also the first humans who face the possibility, some say the probability, of our own extinction. And we’re the first humans who are trying to find the words for this. But here’s the thing about stories. A story is usually something you tell to somebody else. And if you’re telling a story to nobody, is it still a story? And this is our awesome job. We are the first humans to try to do this: to tell a story to nobody.

I’ve pulled the quote from the second of the CBC Ideas broadcasts starting at 36:20.

Laurie Anderson gives me hope because she makes it clear that I’ve devoted my whole life to the bleeding edge of our latest (ultimate?) cultural trend: I’m seasoned in the art of telling stories to nobody. I have no expectation of fame or even of a modest reputation, and I have no confidence in a posterity to receive my creations.

That isn’t as depressing as it sounds. It’s simply to note that I act on interior motivations. I do what I do because I have to. Obsession. Compulsion. Call it what you will. I prefer to think that I am motivated by the immediate pleasure I feel at the very moment of creation. It is a quiet and private satisfaction and it is enough.

Categories
Street Photography

Feeling Down

A man stands naked on a street corner and stares down at his schlong.
Toronto Pride, Church & Bloor St E

While yesterday’s post concerned bodily autonomy in the face of state power, today’s post concerns the related matter of photographic autonomy in the face of media power. Ironically, most contemporary public conversations happen on media platforms that are privately own. These are the virtual equivalent of POPS or “Privately Owned Public Spaces.” The problem with POPS is that, although they feel public, the usual constitutional protections, like freedom of expression, don’t apply. Private ownership means that the owners of Instagram and Facebook and Twitter and Telegram and Tik Tok and YouTube get to regulate whatever happens on their respective platforms and nobody gets a say. All those arcane clauses in your TOS or EULA documents, those are the law of the land.

In Instagramistan, for example, nudity is pretty much verboten. Assuming you can reach a real person there, you can argue with them until you’re blue in the face about artistic merit or breast feeding or innocent incidental nudity. It doesn’t matter. Their decision is final and there is no further recourse.

This means that nudity as speech, nudity as a way to change hearts and minds, nudity as protest, can’t even get a foothold on these platforms much less convey a message. (Some platforms, like Twitter, don’t regulate nudity, but that could change if/when Elon Musk assumes ownership.) Never mind that nudity as speech has a long and venerable tradition, from King David dancing in his ephod and flipping his schlong (think Scotsmen dancing at a ceilidh) to Lady Godiva protesting oppressive taxation to the Doukhobors in Canada who protested, well, just about everything.

In the context of Pride, public nudity may be celebration, it may be foreplay, it may be strategy, it may be a lot of things. It may also be an assertion of the simple fact that embodiment is fundamental to human experience. Not just queer human experience. All human experience. And attempts to regulate how we talk about embodiment often infantilize important aspects of that experience, like the joyful gift of sexual pleasure, the mystery of its genderedness, and its many frailties that usher us to our deaths.

This is one of the reasons I maintain my own private domain. It’s a fallback. Here, at least, in my own space, I can do my modest part to push back against the ridiculous prudery of Instagram and Facebook.

Categories
Street Photography

Bodily Autonomy

Two naked women walk down the middle of a busy street.
Walking Down Church Street, Toronto

As often happens, noisy news from the US drowns out what’s happening in my own back yard. With the May 2nd leak to Politico of Justice Alito’s draft opinion overturning Roe v. Wade, talk about abortion rights has formed a tsunami of toxic discourse that has washed over the border and threatens to sweep away Canada’s quieter conversational habits.

Then June arrives with Pride and I’m reminded that conversation in one sphere doesn’t happen in isolation, but leaks into other spheres. To the extent that abortion laws concern themselves with matters of bodily autonomy, their language and reasoning ends up contributing to conversations about sexuality, gender and identity, too. To what extent does the state have an interest in the bodies of its citizens? And how far can it go in asserting its interest? These are questions that we can ask in nearly every sphere of public engagement.

Taking a long view of history, we can be forgiven for thinking there is a general trend that favours bodily autonomy. We have shifted away from the view that treats the body as property. Feudalism and indentured servitude give way to natural rights theory. Humans have a transcendent quality that eludes bondage, or so goes the narrative. We abolish slavery. We acknowledge that the same rights inhere in women which means that women are not subject to masculine authority. We acknowledge that the same rights inhere in people who express their sexuality differently. And so it goes.

Until it doesn’t.

I find it odd that the pro-life crowd lean to the libertarian end of the political spectrum. A rational person who enjoys coherence in their public conversation might expect a libertarian to favour bodily autonomy. I guess we shouldn’t expect coherence from people who call themselves pro-life while renewing their NRA memberships. As a famous American poet once said: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” It seems an incidental fact that the poet in question was also gay.

If we are to be consistent, we should also reinstate laws that criminalize suicide since those laws were premised on the view (from feudal times) that suicide is an offence against the state because the body exists by right of the state. We abolished such laws because they were cruel. That was the same motivation for the abolition of abortion laws. But these days people seem inured to cruelty. For the sake of consistency, maybe we should abolished compassion altogether and be done with it.