Julia Margaret Cameron’s island outpost

Dimbola Lodge on the Isle of Wight

2 weeks’ holiday on Hayling Island in April afforded me the first opportunity to go and visit Julia Margaret Cameron’s home on the Isle of Wight. Named Dimbola Lodge after Dimbula in Sri Lanka, where her husband’s business in tea and coffee plantations had taken her in the 1840s, Dimbola was her family home from 1860-1875. By all accounts, the home became her abundantly creative domain for family and photography, and it was here that she turned her chicken house into a studio for her wet plate processing (not preserved today at the site) – a time-consuming and dextrous version of photography, in which the tasks of arranging and sitting her subjects for portraiture were further extended by glass plate developing and then positive print production. In the 1860s especially, she devoted herself to this work, saying to a would-be reviewer,

I work with more zeal and rapidity than can be supposed, and this I can illustrate to you when I tell you that I took last week 35 life-sized Portraits and printed 62 in 5 days time and I work without any assistance printing my own prints – varnishing my own glasses – continuing till 2am & recommencing at 7am.
[“A letter by Julia Margaret Cameron”, Graham Smith and Mike Weaver, History of Photography 27:1 (2003), p.66]

Display of the ‘Freshwater Circle’
Visiting it today, and indeed with the label ‘museum’, I found it hard to recover the vitality and energy of her story in this place. The building is somewhat tired in places, accommodating enough for tourist pilgrims needing a tea-room stop but somehow missing the dynamism of, say, Lacock Abbey as Fox Talbot’s home. Of course it is much smaller – a gentleman with a country seat (and the National Trust’s later patronage) is not the same as a society lady married into a shrinking colonial business. I found myself asking whether this effect of geographical and historical ‘outposting’ is something to do with the way UK heritage is set up to receive and commend the efforts of patriarchal success, but not matriarchal success. The museum has some wonderful prints to show, but it also gives us Cameron’s bedroom in a flurry of Victorianised domesticity with inordinate attention to furnishings (which are also proudly announced as speculative), while in the same breath elevating a roll call of those more esteemed figures with whom she was associated.

It is the creep again of the fine art vaunting of Cameron, to which I am giving more attention elsewhere, that relocates her work within a high modernist intellectual tradition – something that isolates her vision in black and white austerity and certain emulative acceptability (usually to do with male subjects as themselves, and female subjects as models). In a way, this develops reasonably enough on a body of work that doesn’t lend itself to mundane identifications of place and situation – her studio photographs (which form ninety-nine percent of her output) deliberately play to her ideals of truth and beauty, with minimised background setting, close-up framing, and painterly compositions. The strands of this more serious discourse around her tend to eclipse the possibility of finding something different about her at Dimbola. I would love to see a family tableaux vivant recreated, or her effusive letters (written at about the same pace as her print production), but the museum would rather show cabinets of old cameras. I would love to get a sense of her church life, her neighbourly interaction, whether she went to ‘take the air’ down on the beach, but instead we get a ponderous voiceover that retells what every photo-history resource repeats about her (the amateurism of her soft focus and its reception). My kids loved the dressing up room, and I wonder if they too were reaching for a recreation of JMC’s spirit here – her dressing up went beyond play, into the sincerity of assuming Christian identification with figures such as Mary and the angel at the tomb. There must be other ways to highlight this, to bring a rich, resonant, feminine, spiritual credibility to light. I think the floor is open for something new here, but it remains to be seen at Dimbola.

Dreaming of the resurrection

Natal, 2018

I almost don’t know how to write. It’s Holy Week (or Still Week, as in Denmark; or Suffering Week, Germany). This year, more than most, I find myself small in the face of Christendom’s elegiac, centuries’ old commemoration of Jesus’ last hours. I’m feeling it partly because of my husband’s seried, close attention to the preparation of church services, one on every day until Easter Sunday. I’m feeling it too because I’ve been following the Lenten journey as presented in Biola University’s online series of reflections: a frankly outstanding and deeply sensitive collective of images/music/texts coordinated in commentary and Bible reading. But I’m also acutely aware of a sense of timing in the publication of my new work, Natal, for an exhibition which opens on Maundy Thursday. Selected for the Chaiya Art Awards, the piece became my answer to the exhibition’s posed question, ‘Where is God in our Twenty-First Century World?’ Here I explore some of the ideas behind the piece.

The figures stand in a poised relation, on the left a semi-naked man we might recognise as Jesus, and on the right, a full-term naked pregnant woman. This is my friend Helen, who posed for me when I embarked on a series of work about motherhood and iconography. My writing and photographs, as well as my appearance on One Born Every Minute in 2014, all drove the creation of work about the rite of passage that is giving birth. Born Again has become the project title, for which Natal is the first in production. But Helen didn’t meet her companion until I thought about the exhibition question. I’d had in mind to show her with an effigy from a cadaver tomb, those unusual forms of church monument where the body of the deceased is carved in stone as the likeness of a skeleton – her life and the life she carried were to be contrasted with their opposite. But then I stumbled across the portrait of Jesus here, by Fred Holland Day, in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Taken 120 years ago in Boston, USA, Day posed himself as the dead Jesus for The Entombment in 1898. His austere pose, and the controlled identification with such a statue of stiffness, were a catalyst for a whole host of connections.

In the first place, I thought that the subject of the dead Christ has become archetypal of a certain strain of Christian doctrine – his death is central to the gospel stories of course, but why and how others have said it matters has tended, traditionally, to focus on the death’s substitutionary power (he died so that we don’t have to). It follows a neat logic, but its doctrine is necessarily fixated on something quite closed, on endings, on the mortal. Even those outside believing doctrine, such as Nietzsche, capitulate to the final (human) ideology of death, when he pronounced ‘God is dead’ in the same decade as Day’s picture. It was Hannah Arendt who I first read for a theology that reframed this for me with the concept of the natal. Isn’t that what Holy Week leads to? Isn’t the resurrection where the money is? And isn’t that about the exploding horizon of a humanity now defined by new life, new birth, and what Jesus said he came for – life to the full? I’ve since read others around this subject (Tom Wright’s Surprised by Hope, and W. H. Vanstone’s The Stature of Waiting among others), but I also increasingly want to raise the question of a woman’s perspective here. Like what has been said of the film Mary Magdalene, released in the UK last week, can we recover a ‘position of feminine difference from the misogynistic, patriarchal disciples’ (Michele Roberts on Front Row, 14th March). If we can, what might it look like?

A ‘Tribe’ of photography & childhood

Heidi Kirkpatrick’s Garments of Light, 2015

Tribe is a photography exhibition currently on display at the Fox Talbot Museum, Lacock (3rd February – 20th May 2018). A group exhibition of 7 US women artists, the impetus behind the work is given its manifesto in the words of curator Lori Vrba:

We are earnest American Women of Photography walking in the footsteps of the greats who have come before us. Dorothea Lange, Imogene Cunningham, Berenice Abbott, Diane Arbus, Mary Ellen Mark, Margaret Bourke White, and Sally Mann… we honour the path you have paved and feel called to excellence because of your life’s work.

We, as women, have shared our lives intimately throughout history in the cycle of nourishment. We have instinctively supported the greater good as mothers and daughters and sisters in childbearing and caregiving. We nurse the world together. We are Tribe.

Our work is feminine without apology. We are drawn to that romantic notion of story-telling, memory, nostalgia, the natural world and family. As artists, we come together within our medium for inspiration, collaboration, postulation, and celebration. This connection provides a deep well of power that we as makers are strengthened and sustained by. It is our commitment to Tribe that not only elevates the work itself but keeps us moving to the lunar rhythms of a passionate and sensitive creative life.

It’s a strong statement, echoing the current climate of female voices in self-assertion and collective affirmation. It finds some of its resurgent energy in what is a year of remembering women’s suffrage, and in particular at the Fox Talbot Museum, a year of celebrating the work of women photographers. The group is vividly and dynamically articulating something unusually singular in what is habitually a profession of atomised, individual, art practices. It does so, unembarrassed, with a kind of lived-in (lived-through) ideology, not one dreamed in idealism and words. To my mind, this is the new stature of the feminine in the twenty-first century – less about feminist politicisation, more about feminine vocalisation. It has a greater degree of expressed reflexivity, the inherent values of womanhood (though their inherency may itself be a matter of fluidity). It touches on the ‘lunar rhythms’ that I described in my previous post.

In the exhibition, it is the value of childhood that I noticed weaving through the 40 or so works on display. Heidi Kirkpatrick’s vintage child dresses (above), with their cyanotype photographic detail, imbue cloth with an immersive, organic experience of the world – ‘Faith’ and ‘Hope’ alongside ‘Willow’ and ‘Fern’. Like the photographs on the small tiles of mahjong and dominoes, the objects themselves speak of absorption and connectivity, and the photographic is a tangible extension of this. In Heather Evans Smith’s series, works from Seen Not Heard include her daughter in portraiture whose surroundings compete with relational expression. Furnishings, bushes, and their interactions with legs and arms, are chameleon-like situations of domesticity and play. Childhood emerges enmeshed. Kirsten Hoving and Emma Powell, in contrast, are a mother and daughter whose scripting of scene turns on the abandon and adventure of a grown protagonist, Svala. This mythical heroine is at the centre of a ‘photographic fairy tale’, in which Icelandic landscape ricochets with ‘magic and metaphor’. The reverberations invoke the childish connotations of story, where purpose and self-discovery are a voice for our own stories.

Childhood through the lenses of these artists has its own way of being seen. Its qualities are not particularly soft or diffuse, but they are poetic. Photography, then, reveals its latent visionary capacity, a view of coopted, relational, even tribal, world. In such constructive hands, photographs reveal perhaps some of their more feminine traits.

Blue supermoon, and two superstars, at Lacock Abbey

Sharington Tower in the Moonlight I

Photographing celestial events is something I can’t resist. I’ve had my camera trained on the Venus & Jupiter conjunction of 2012, two eclipses in 2015 (one lunar and one solar), and tonight’s blue supermoon. My approach is decidedly non-technical. With wildly varying results, I find out things at the time that either help or hinder what is a remarkably difficult scene to capture. Things such as realising that I can’t see the settings buttons in the dark, or that sitting in the car can create a frame and shelter from the rain. Lens misting between sequential shots when the temperature outside is below freezing – that made for a long night.

Tonight, unexpectedly, was a story in motherhood as much as in moon-gazing. The business of my business often doesn’t fit the procedural, strategic, model of efficiency that one might imagine of photographic employment. That’s primarily because it’s a form of photographic self-employment that meanders around artistic impulses, constellations of interests (rather than programmes), and unpredictable hours. But it’s also because I am a mother. My visit to the nearby Abbey, at around 6pm, was loudly scrambled in between toast-parcelling tea to my 7- and 4-year-old children, enthusing about the sky while getting 3 bodies into 3 layers of clothing each, yelling out ‘who last saw the tripod’, stopping the kids running into the road to find the moon, checking the alignment of moonrise online, and wondering if this was a good idea. Today it felt like a cheerleading crowd of enthusiasm, on another day it might have felt like being shot down in flames. Admittedly the enthusiasm was carried by me later in the evening as the cold, the mud, and the dark didn’t seem so exciting; at one point the serious conversation about ghosts and faces in the trees took place in between exposure counting (for the ghosts to go away) and making shadows of our own (with my phone’s light so I could see where I was putting the tripod). But the kids found the stars amazing, and my daughter pointed out a silhouette that I would have missed, while we played ‘I spy’ waiting for more height.

Here’s the thing: both the kids and the moon invited another way of working. The individualistic self-directed self-determining professionalism of orderly working practice is the norm. It’s like doing photography in the daylight, even like Talbot’s way of doing photography might have been. Photography at night, however, is somehow wayward, tinged with suspense and the hovering feeling that you are not in control, not even the centre of your universe. Having kids around is precipitous and galactic; seeing the moon so luminously brilliant asks that you look twice, through doubling exposures, and reflected uncertainty. My UV filter played tricks in these images, creating a rather fitting additional blood moon in an in-camera reflection. I also had over twenty dud shots. But in that slightly crazed patterning, there’s also a bigger, slower, slowed, identification: the moon carries on in stately rhythm, the superstar kids grow in their orbit around me, and the world is miraculously held together. When I spent time tinkering with the images later, that’s the feeling I was soaking up, and that’s where I want the images to come from.

Seeing church and theology in stereo

Cardboard stereoscope with inbuilt stereoscopic photograph, from Jumièges Abbey, Normandy.

I’m continuing a blog series which is exploring more experiential ways of engaging with art and theology, with particular reference to photographic technologies. Today, I completed a two-week course from FutureLearn with the University of Edinburgh, ‘Stereoscopy: An Introduction to Victorian Stereo Photography’. Free to access, and wonderfully user-friendly, I checked in over a period of two or three days to whistlestop the 40 or so points on this course. Each was characterised by images, short commentary, links, references, or videos: a byte-sized diet of amuse-bouches on the fascinating technology and contexts of early Victorian stereographs. The online learning platform itself has theological implications for the experience of art and images, though these are not my subject here. Rather, the stereoscope itself is.

They are remarkable images, involving ‘the simultaneous perception of two monocular projections, one on each retina’, as described by Charles Wheatstone in 1838. His invention of the stereoscope created a handheld viewing instrument with mirrors (for drawings in the first instance), but it was the later lenticular stereoscope designed by Sir David Brewster whose lens-based design is remembered. A pair of photographs, each fractionally different as taken from different points, are usually presented together on single cards, which are then inserted like slides a couple of inches in front of the lenses. In my foldable, cardboard ‘readymade’ above, the images are part of the box – a tourist souvenir I picked up at Jumièges Abbey while on holiday in Normandy a few years ago. Optically, the lenses aid the eyes to focus beyond the picture plane, at which point the wall-eyed convergence (as opposed to cross-eyed convergence in front of the picture plane) perceives the images as one, with the illusion of 3D projections across its surface.

Many a stereoscopic photograph of an abbey ruin was produced during its boom period in the mid-nineteenth century. Roger Fenton (1819-1869) was a master of such views of church architecture. His photographs range from atmospheric ruins in romantic settings (for example those at Furness Abbey, 1860 and Glastonbury Abbey, 1858) to sculptural studies of light and stone detail (for example at Rosslyn Chapel in 1856 and Westminster Abbey in 1858). The ruin carried a pictorial emphasis which imbued typical tourist scenes with an expansive melancholic vision, deliberately evoking the spiritual undertones of the picturesque ideal. Views by Fenton and others such as Francis Frith were readily commercialised by companies specialising in stereographic production, who capitalised on the Victorian appetite for armchair travel. It’s easy today to align the romantic effect with our own somewhat nostalgic attribution to a sentimental style, but the theological weight of a church’s representation should be remembered for carrying some substance at the time. Oliver Wendall Holmes famously evoked what was almost a supernatural experience in looking at stereographs, ‘a dreamlike exaltation of the faculties, a kind of clairvoyance’ (in the 1861 essay, ‘Sun-Painting and Sun-Sculpture’), and he gave specific significance to the Dome of St Paul’s and Canterbury Cathedral, with the presence(s) of divine authentication as amplified by the power of the 3-dimensional lens. The images still hold a certain magic today, and my research will continue to explore the spiritual resonance of looking at, among other things, the Palestinian landscape and Victorian diableries in stereo. It is, specifically, a corporeal and immersive way of seeing, which occasionally received enthusiastic religious attention and explanation.