Still Motion

Lately I have been going through old photographs, mainly because they need to be sorted through following the loss of my grandmother a couple of years ago and my stepmother a few months ago in April. These photographs have almost nothing to do with me. Many of them feature places I have not been and people I cannot recognize. And yet, when I look at them, when I hold them, when I try to understand them, they become a part of me. I don't have a problem with this, but I can understand that it might be troubling for some people. My perspective, and therefore my experience, is paramount; I cannot escape it. Whatever I may discover in any of these photographs is limited to my own assumptions and ideas.  

Who is responsible for this beautiful photograph? Probably one of my great aunts, because I am guessing that the napping subject is my great grandather Rosario. I remember hearing that they travelled extensively, and the majority of the photographs that came to me via my grandmother are of her family and quite often feature her father abroad. But this photograph is different. There is something remarkable about it. It seems that the photographer's motivation arose partly from a sense of playfulness, as if the idea was to capture Rosario in a moment without him knowing. But what strikes me is how he is part of an accumulation of masses that appear to be acted on by some unknown force. Why would the photographer, who for so many other photos repeatedly centred the subjects, leave so much space above and to the right of Rosario? The way the photograph is composed, Rosario is part of a diagonal heap, culminating (and reinforced by) the chair behind his head. A photograph like this makes me consider how when things become photographed they lose their connection to real spaces. If I really study this photograph I can understand the physicality of his environment a little better - it seems very simplistic, with Rosario in a chair with a slightly reclined backrest, and beyond him a chair leans against a wall. Just to the left of the leaning chair I can make out a light vertical line, which suggests to me that it is evidence of a corner of the room. This is significant, because it suggests the room's dimensionality, which works against my visual impression that the objects in the photograph are part of a continuous formal whole. Because until I become that studious, the objects are just shapes and the light is just a variety of tones.

There is visual tension in this photograph that is activated by my engagement with it; as I shift my perception from appreciating the flow of the tones and forms to being able to distinguish differences in planes, angles, and subjects, I also shift from a purely aesthetic position to a culturally determined position (I guess the latter is what Barthes called the studium). My impression is that despite appearing in a position of tranquility and rest, I get a sense that Rosario is travelling at a great speed (perhaps indicated by the position of his tie). But also, because the photograph is framed with so much empty space above him, it gives the sense that he is moving toward the emptiness. I see Rosario as an astronaut hurtling toward an ever-increasing emptiness, while the passage of time and mortality push down on him, literally dumping him in the bottom of the frame. He is not sleeping - he is concentrating, thinking of that special place that helps him relax. He knows the journey is long and hard, but he has prepared for this flight all his life.

And why not?