In the last few years whenever I take a week off work in the summer I divide most of my time between fixing my motorbike, which never gets ridden, apart from to the MOT test centre and back, and days spent taking a large number of dressing-up photos. There is a growing sense of futility attached to both activities but nevertheless I haven't quite reached the end of the road with either pursuit just yet. Maybe soon, though...
With the self-portraits, previous years efforts are now seen as glaringly misjudged and having been pointless. But this is not too depressing, as long as there is still a chance that something good eventually comes from it all, something that looks interesting, embeds ideas and has some personal honesty to it, even if ignored or riduculed.
I also get more aware of using myself as subject is increasingly time-limited. I think long-time self-portrait photographers like Cindy Sherman or Elina Brotherus benefit from not having a particular strong appearance, their faces, and bodies aren't strikingly individualistic. In fact they look like an encapsulation of 'averageness'. This serves them well. It extends the resonance of their work, as they more readily can be seen as 'everywoman'. There is a balance to the face (equal thirds?) that makes them quite unremarkable, in a good way - almost unmemorable. If either was sat opposite on a train they would not stand out in the way that many artists who never paint themselves would do - such as Hockney or Hirst. In terms of physique, the same is true of Sherman or Brotherus. They are both slight to average.
My problem is that I look like me. It's not a particularly good thing conceptually (or attractively). So when taking TG photos I try to hide my me-ness as much as poss, along with those portions of me that look a bit too masculine (leaving not much to work with). As years go by the challenge becomes greater, as there is less and less of me that I can use to try and convey the feminine look that I want to appropriate the look and meaning of. It's a bit like being in my garden this evening around seven o'clock. As the sun descended its wide hot pool of light was slowly diminishing across the plants and grass, increasingly obscured by a neighbour's ash tree, until eventually there was only enough to hold within the palms of my two hands, then nothing but cooling shadows. My body is like that. Eventually there will be nothing to photograph. Then I will be finished photographing me and something else will be required. There are probably just two handfuls left right now. Or maybe that should be legs.
With these few days off work to get hyper productive I've persevered with the recent bed/lying theme. One little thing I've noticed, and I'm not sure it's really obvious, but the sheet I am lying on is sort of acting like a canvas, and my body and what I am wearing would then be regarded as simulating line and colour, as a literal embodiment of brushwork. In some today I discarded the sheet altogether, having listened to a Royal Academy podcast on Van Gogh last night, and being reminded of his use of decorative patterned backgrounds behind some of his sitters in his late portraits - a stylistic approach used by several painters in the early 20th Century.
Yesterday I took 1200 shots, and it was immediately obvious afterwards that all of them were total, disheartening failures. Today 1500 more (to wrap this idea up). Fortunately too many to have more than a cursory look through, so there might be something to find when I edit in a year or two.
Like in previous years, madly going for quantity over several hours in warm weather is quite fatiguing. I have water on hand and bananas, just like a tennis player. Surprisingly bananas, while made of fruit and lacking any chocolate in them, taste quite nice.
But the last couple of days it has been taking mini-breaks that is the really satisfying bit - thrillingly - enjoyable having the letters and journalism of George Orwell to get stuck into. They are like ice cream and chocolate combined. Once or twice in correspondence (to literary editors seeking a picture of him for publication) he has explained that due to his particular appearance, he 'didn't take a good photograph'.
With the self-portraits, previous years efforts are now seen as glaringly misjudged and having been pointless. But this is not too depressing, as long as there is still a chance that something good eventually comes from it all, something that looks interesting, embeds ideas and has some personal honesty to it, even if ignored or riduculed.
I also get more aware of using myself as subject is increasingly time-limited. I think long-time self-portrait photographers like Cindy Sherman or Elina Brotherus benefit from not having a particular strong appearance, their faces, and bodies aren't strikingly individualistic. In fact they look like an encapsulation of 'averageness'. This serves them well. It extends the resonance of their work, as they more readily can be seen as 'everywoman'. There is a balance to the face (equal thirds?) that makes them quite unremarkable, in a good way - almost unmemorable. If either was sat opposite on a train they would not stand out in the way that many artists who never paint themselves would do - such as Hockney or Hirst. In terms of physique, the same is true of Sherman or Brotherus. They are both slight to average.
My problem is that I look like me. It's not a particularly good thing conceptually (or attractively). So when taking TG photos I try to hide my me-ness as much as poss, along with those portions of me that look a bit too masculine (leaving not much to work with). As years go by the challenge becomes greater, as there is less and less of me that I can use to try and convey the feminine look that I want to appropriate the look and meaning of. It's a bit like being in my garden this evening around seven o'clock. As the sun descended its wide hot pool of light was slowly diminishing across the plants and grass, increasingly obscured by a neighbour's ash tree, until eventually there was only enough to hold within the palms of my two hands, then nothing but cooling shadows. My body is like that. Eventually there will be nothing to photograph. Then I will be finished photographing me and something else will be required. There are probably just two handfuls left right now. Or maybe that should be legs.
With these few days off work to get hyper productive I've persevered with the recent bed/lying theme. One little thing I've noticed, and I'm not sure it's really obvious, but the sheet I am lying on is sort of acting like a canvas, and my body and what I am wearing would then be regarded as simulating line and colour, as a literal embodiment of brushwork. In some today I discarded the sheet altogether, having listened to a Royal Academy podcast on Van Gogh last night, and being reminded of his use of decorative patterned backgrounds behind some of his sitters in his late portraits - a stylistic approach used by several painters in the early 20th Century.
Yesterday I took 1200 shots, and it was immediately obvious afterwards that all of them were total, disheartening failures. Today 1500 more (to wrap this idea up). Fortunately too many to have more than a cursory look through, so there might be something to find when I edit in a year or two.
Like in previous years, madly going for quantity over several hours in warm weather is quite fatiguing. I have water on hand and bananas, just like a tennis player. Surprisingly bananas, while made of fruit and lacking any chocolate in them, taste quite nice.
But the last couple of days it has been taking mini-breaks that is the really satisfying bit - thrillingly - enjoyable having the letters and journalism of George Orwell to get stuck into. They are like ice cream and chocolate combined. Once or twice in correspondence (to literary editors seeking a picture of him for publication) he has explained that due to his particular appearance, he 'didn't take a good photograph'.
