“They become meditative plates in which the living continue with all their baggage to be stopped and given a reflexive moment in which to breath out”.
“I went down there and saw all these little paintings of landscapes, houses, little beautiful scenes. The light on that picture is from reflections of cars going underneath the freeway. The whole roll was faint, faint, faint. And then there was the clown. There are so many places like this, it goes on forever.” On […]
“Everything about the city made me uncomfortable and raised questions: the landscape, the atmosphere, the situation, the agitation, etc. It seemed so imperfect. I wanted to understand this chaos.” To the West, is the Atlantic Ocean and the Americas. Facing East, the huge Sahara Desert. The city of Dakar in Senegal sits in between these […]
“I think something is amiss or awry with every photograph. What I’ve consistently tried to do is exploit those disjointed qualities and bring them to the surface”
“As we ponder the future fugue states of Europe, the diplomatic inadequacy of the New West and Russia, questions arise”
“It is not wasted on me that photography and art in general is ceaseless in its need to supply novelty that masquerades as artistic genius for the sake of entertainment on the part of the audience”
“The bucolic west is no longer a benign horizon in which to measure the imagination and fantasy of pioneer aspirations”
“The idea of art and politics co-existing is no more or less deeply problematic than the idea of them being separate. But nobody said it was going to be a picnic.”
“Takashi Homma is indebted to Robert Frank. This much is clear. He is as sick of goodbyes as are the best of the Swiss and as are the best of photographers”
“I’d say there is a duality that is keeping things unresolved. The narrative isn’t faux, it’s mine and not mine”
“There is a whole history of photography fronted by Rosalind Wolf Purcell, Akin and Ludwig, and a few others called “Formaldehyde photography”.
‘A compilation of five interconnected projects, Dark Rooms moves in cycles: birth and death, acquiring and discarding, the banality of routine.’