I've been painting a lot.

I'm going to borrow an idea from Flusser, and then probably make a terrible mess of it. The idea is magic, and I'm borrowing it from his essay on photography. The underlying idea he's talking about is of a culture, usually an ancient one, that treats time as cyclic. Everything repeats. The sun rises and sets. Winter is followed by spring. The animals migrate, and so on. Flusser is interested in how such a culture transitions to a linear one, one of endless progress, where time is viewed as a straight line. He identifies writing as a technology that underlies this change, but that probably doesn't matter here.

You can name the linear time approach as Modernism, or Manifest Destiny, and probably a 1000 other names. Currently we have a lot of idiots in the tech industry describing the same idea as accelerationism.

In the world of cyclic time we have a lot of what I am going to call ritual magic in which some repetitive and usually tedious activity is done for probably unreasonably long, producing, sometimes, a result. A rain dance is ritual magic. You dance for days, and sometimes rain happens. Agriculture is also ritual magic. You dig a furrow with your stick. Then you dig another one. And another one. You plant a seed, you plant a seed, you plant a seed. Some months later, sometimes, food happens.

Washing dishes, sweeping the floor, doing laundry, painting a picture. These are all ritual magic. You manifest clean dishes, clean floors, clean clothes, or a picture, through a series of boring repetitive steps that go on far too long.

Modernism, the human urge to progress, constantly seeks to press the boring steps of ritual magic into a machine. We seek to rid ourselves of the tedious, the repetitive. The "work" of a human should only be the novel parts of the task, the decisions which differ every time through. If you repeat a step, you should automate that step.

We've been doing this forever. Prayer wheels, which specifically automate the tedious work of prayer, have been around for almost 2000 years. Agriculture has been automated more and more, since its inception (anyone who has done agriculture can appreciate this trend, farming is terrible.) Picture making has been automated with the camera, and now with generative AI.

Rather than manifesting a picture by tediously applying pigment to a surface one daub at a time, the camera largely reduces the process to one of making a small number of decisions. Mostly, you're making the choices that are specific to the picture at hand. Generative AI eliminates virtually all of the remaining repetitive tasks (setting up lights, setting up the tripod, checking batteries, blah blah blah) and reduces picture making almost completely to "what is specific to this task, what is novel."

Modernism is built around what is knowable. If you can know how a task manifests its result, you can build a machine to do the task (in principle.) You can automate picture making, farming, dishwashing. You cannot automate a rain dance, because you don't know how it works. You literally do not know the "mechanism" and so cannot "mechanize" it. In a meaningful way, there is no mechanism to know, but see below. Nevertheless, at some level, humans don't really distinguish between rain dances and agriculture. You do the thing over and over and over, and sometimes a result occurs.

It's "ritual magic."

The modernist version, in which the repetitive tasks are shoved into a machine, let's call that "technical magic."

A camera is technical magic, a painting is ritual magic. More or less. There's probably no strict line between technical and ritual magic, but there's definitely two big lumps at the ends of the spectrum.

Once you get your arms around this framing, you see it absolutely everywhere. Walking versus driving. Cooking versus ordering out. Religion versus secularism. It's all the same thing.

The observation I'm working my way around to is that people like ritual magic. We like the results of it, and we like doing it. It tickles something inside us.

Receiving a hand-written letter hits differently from a typed letter hits differently from an email. A home cooked lasagne is different from a restaurant lasagne, and is meaningfully "better" even if the latter is objectively better. If we have to do a lot of ritual magic, it's less fun. Ritual is boring and difficult.

Modernism struggles to insert itself here. Modern affluent people often look for ritual in modernist ways. They want to find themselves by traveling to South America and taking drugs in a clean and well ordered retreat. Nobody wants to just wash the goddamned dishes.

I think it's safe to say that the results of ritual magic are generally appreciated. You might not like my painting, but you appreciate the work of making it. What people generally try to dodge or dress up is the work of ritual magic. We want to use technical magic to produce the result of ritual. At this exact moment, we have a ton of people who are trying to use generative AI to become artists, to make art. It's not so much that the pictures suck, although they do, it's that there is an inherent conflict between ritual and technology. You cannot use technical magic to produce ritual results. You have to do the work.

If you serve someone takeout as if you cooked it yourself, you might get away with it but you'll know, and anyways you probably won't get away with it and now you've fucked up a relationship.

Humans have many ways of "knowing" things. The first is more or less rational, we follow chains of causes and effects, modus ponens and all that stuff. Philosophers like to get fancy about this, but roughly speaking we "know" about the world of stuff we can hit, or drown in, or set on fire. At the same time, though, we also like to "know" things through a process of feeling, of "faith" if you will. You can pretend that this is silly, but it's damn near universal. Humans have some sort of built-in affinity for mysticism. Maybe it's just our natural pattern matching mental machinery gone amok (we danced last year, and it rained, let's dance again) or maybe there's something meaningfully "real" that we cannot know by hitting stuff. Those questions are outside the scope of these remarks, and it doesn't matter for our purposes here.

Technical magic is essentially executed by moving from the epistemology of mysticism to the epistemology of rationalaity. If we can identify the parts of the ritual that are, in the terms of the rational way of knowing, are efficacious, then we can insert that ritual into a machine. The rain dance "doesn't work" in those rational terms, if you measure things you find that in the terms of rationality, of cause and effect, of science, rain dances do not produce rain. In mystical terms, in the faith-based way of knowing, rain dances work fine, however. To say "rain dances don't work" is to commit to the modernist epistemology, the way of knowing which leads to linear time, to progress, to science, and also to manifest destinty, colonialism, and so on.

You're welcome to reject mystical epistemologies! I have no particular dog in this hunt. But the day-to-day manifestation of those ways of thinking are rituals, and humans have a potent affinity for ritual. To acknowledge that you love getting a hand written letter more than you love an email is to reject modernism, and to embrace a kind of mysticism. The hand written letter is objectively inferior in every way, it's hard to read, it's slow to create, it's slow to deliver. It has literally no advantages, and yet, we like getting them.

To enjoy a painting is in a sense to reject modernism, and to embrace a mystical approach to the world. Again it is in every way inferior to a photograph, except some vague and contested "sense of artistry" or whatever the hell you want to call it. Whatever it is that you see in a painting as an advantage is essentially rooted in an epistemology that is not modern.

The only practical thing that comes out of all these ruminations that I've been able to find is this: don't think of washing dishes as a chore, but rather an an act of ritual magic which manifests clean dishes.

Beyond that I think it's useful to acknowledge that we, as humans, like these ritual things both as doers and consumers. We like at least the idea of cooking a meal from scratch, and we certainly like eating it. We should also realize what we're about, and not muddle up ritual magic with technical magic. The point is the process. If you cheat at the ritual magic and actually execute it technically, you're doing it wrong by definition.

If what you seek is food, by all means order out. If what you're actually looking for is the warmth of the human condition, buy some onions and whatnot, and cook.

Or, you know, make a painting.

Anyone who's taken any meaningful number of photos and looked at them has likely experienced the sensation that, while a photo looks like the thing, it doesn't look like the thing. This is the gap between the optical reality of whatever it is, and the so-called percept, the impression the thing makes on your mind. If you take a picture of a wrench or something, a "record shot," it probably works out ok. If you take a picture of a sunset, or a city street, or a child's expression, you're likely to experience the gap between optics and perception. Arguably this is the challenge of quite a bit of "serious" photography.

This phenomenon can turn up, to a degree, at the very moment of pressing the shutter.

I don't know about you, but I have certainly experienced this sort of a thing a lot: a long process of fidgeting to set up a shot, tinkering and moving and thinking and looking, and then at the moment of shutter press instantly realizing "no, that's not it." This is a deeply stupid thing which I hate, and have labored to train myself out of, but it's also quite real. Something about the shutter press itself tends to drop away perception, leaving you somehow more open to the optical reality in that instant.

I am vaguely developing a theory that this might be what Garry Winogrand was on about when he said “I photograph to see what the world looks like in photographs.” This may or may not be the exact quotation, and it's possible he said much the same thing many times, I don't know and it doesn't matter. My point here is that perhaps what he was actually doing was not never getting around to making the all-important contact sheets. Perhaps his work was done at the shutter press. Perhaps all he needed was that moment of pure optical seeing, and that satisfied him.

If you pay attention, you might have noticed that in this sense we live in a society that is filled with Maiers and Winogrands. Millions of people with a phone record photographs of myriad objects and scenes, photographs they may never look at again. I don't know about you, but I have frequently experienced someone scrolling through their photos, 100s or 1000s of them, to show me something they just remembered. "I saw this weird cat" or "there was a guy riding a bike with a hat" or whatever. There are two things here that seem noteworthy: first, that we collectively now record random visual facts that we recall later in conversation, and second that we record 1000s of other visual facts that we will never recall later.

The first strikes me as the visual analog of other social interactions "I heard a joke" or "let me tell you this funny story" or "I had such a frustrating time at the bank today." We, or at least some of us, now integrate purely visual phenomena into this normal flow of human interaction. "I saw a weird dog, let me show you." This constitutes an extension, and modification, of the ways we interact, and that's interesting. McLuhan would probably make something of it. A culture that does this is somehow different from one that does not.

The second one, though, that's Winogrand again. Somehow, people are recording visuals without much expectation of ever looking at them again. They may rationalize it thus, but in reality their phones simply have far too many photos to ever meaningfully be used to salt later conversation. Their actions, the taking of so many photos, point to something else just as the same actions point to something else in Winogrand and in Maier.

I theorize that they're looking at the world in a photographic way. For whatever reason, some people are interested in what the world looks like in photographs, in the sense that they savor that moment of the shutter press, that moment of pure optical seeing. They find value, I submit, in that moment and that way of seeing the world.

As a person who, after a fashion, draws, I am coming to understand that there are more ways to see the world than I imagined.

When you draw things from life, you observe the subject in a completely different and new way. You have to notice the details, the relationships between this bit and that bit, and so on. You notice how large the gap between the bottom of the nose and the top of the lip is, whether the eyes tilt up or down at the outer corner, and so on. A lot of very very small things.

If you learned to draw the way I did (which I think is essentially the modern approach to teaching drawing) you do a lot of exercises and whatnots to "see" optically, to step around the perceptual layer, and to see just as the camera sees. This can, in theory, be the end of it. My technical abilities, and I suspect virtually everyone's technical abilities, simply aren't good enough to make that work. At some point you have to develop a kind of dual vision, combining the perception with the purely optical vision. Only then can you really bring whatever it is to life on the page.

My problem is that I'm simply not accurate enough to take a purely optical approach. There are some savants who can do it this way, but I'm pretty sure they're very rare and that normal working artists work just like I do. That is, they combine a perceptual vision with the optical one, using the percept to make adjustments to the drawing. "No, her face is a little more round" or "it's a bit darker under the bridge" or whatever. In this way, interestingly, the drawing comes out aligned with the percept. The problem of "it's correct, but the thing doesn't look like that" literally does not occur. If the drawing doesn't look like the thing (which happens a lot!) it's a technical problem. You've simply failed to put the right bits in, and leave the other bits out, or you've muddled up an important relationship. It happens!

It goes beyond simply leaving out the inconvenient power lines that are the bane of all landscape photographers. You're leaving out everything that doesn't support the perception, and emphasizing the things that do. The drawing is in some sense (perhaps aspirationally) optically correct, but nevertheless it constitutes a rendering of the perception and not of purely optical vision.

Drawing, and more specifically the teaching of drawing, teaches one to see the world in a more camera-like way, but also forces the intrusion of a lot of details that people like Winogrand may have never noticed. Winogrand saw the pretty girl, and then he saw her through the viewfinder, and then he saw her again at the moment of the shutter press. Winogrand saw the girl in, probably, at least three meaningfully different ways, and still he likely never noticed the gap between nose and lip, and could not tell you about the tilt of her eyes. There are a lot of ways to look at a girl, or at a rock, or a bird, or a sunset.

Drawing is a giant pain in the ass, and you have to bring a pencil everywhere. A phone, though, everyone's got a phone. Everyone can see the world that way, now. Literally anything that's even slightly eye catching can be examined in that "shutter press optical truth" fashion, and as a side effect, the captured frame can be recovered later if you like.

I never really understood the desire to see the world that way. I've never taken photos without the intention of eventually generating a photograph, probably on paper. This is kind of standard photographer philosophy, right? "It's not done until it's printed!" kinds of sneering are commonplace. That you are not a real photographer unless you print is, for all practical purposes, unquestioned dogma. Thus it is that we find Winogrand and Maier such mysteries: "why oh why didn't they print? It is beyond understanding!!!"

It's possible, though, that just as I see the world through the eyes of a (ham-fisted) guy-who-draws, and it's genuinely fun, that Winogrand and Maier and 100 million other other people are finding pleasure in seeing the world through the eyes of someone-who-photographs.

Whatever it is that's going on, what is certain is that the action of photographing occurs many orders of magnitude more often than the "making of a photograph" in the traditional sense. Statistically, the percentage of photos that are made with the intention of printing them, or even sharing them, or even showing them to a single other human, rounds to 0.0. Something is going on here, and the traditional views of photography simply are not relevant to whatever that is.

I don't think I'm really part of that? I still take photos for downstream purposes, never just for the action of doing it, but I am certainly the odd one out here.

AD Coleman firmly holds the opinion that a photographer, as an artist, must choose their photos. To simply shoot a bunch of pictures is not enough. To him, Vivian Maier essentially does not exist as a photographer. This is a position with which I concur, and which I have argued for at some length over the years. Photography is choosing.

You choose where to stand, where to point the lens, when to press the shutter. You choose frames at the contact sheet. You choose final prints and arrangements. Unless you proceed through to the end, the job is not done.

You can shoot 100,000 frames and choose 12. You can shoot 12 frames and choose 12.

But you must choose.

Colberg has a piece up arguing against projects. You have to subscribe to a thing to read the whole thing, so I don't really know or care where he goes from the part I've linked to. The thrust seems to be that "the project" is a straitjacket in a bunch of ways, some harmful. On the one hand this is obviously true.

On the other hand, you have to choose. In order to choose, you need some sort of rubric, it is the essence of choosing. If a rubric doesn't in some sense constitute a project, I don't even know what any of those words mean.

In the olden days, before say 1990, you'd just choose the bangers. "Chicago, 1968-1978" you dig out the contact sheets from that decade, sort out the ones from Chicago, and circle all the bangers. Pick the best 20 of those in terms of technical details, and you're done. There's your show.

And then we moved on, that got played out and while there are still people trying it on just like that nobody much cares unless it's a Big Name retrospective.

The rubrics for choosing have gotten more complex. We demand some sort of connections, some sort of theme, some sort of meaning in the collective pile of final pictures.

Again, I don't care when you choose. Shooting-to-order is just choosing early. Digging through your midden of contact sheets is choosing later. It doesn't matter.

If Colberg's eventual point is that your project has to be kind of fluid, then I have no argument with him. It's stupid to pin down a hyper-specific rubric too early (although, to be fair, limitations can stimulate creativity.) Let the rubric float a bit, and you'll be a lot happier in the end. Colberg also seems to suggest that photos shouldn't be constrained to a single project, which, again, I agree with. This is just allowing a photo to fit more than one rubric.

On the one hand, homeboy is clearly drawing on his experience teaching idiots in MFA programs, but on the other hand, who the hell cares what corners idiots paint themselves into? An idiot can paint themselves into a corner with any set of tools whatsoever, so the fact that they're crying in a corner might not be evidence that the tools you've given them are bad.

Figuring out a rubric for a body of work isn't easy. Lots and lots and lots of photographers cannot do it at all. The Goldsmiths vanity MA seems to produce a steady stream of people who haven't the foggiest notion, because it is run by a guy who hasn't the foggiest notion. There are loads of people who take pictures for money (where the rubric for choosing is supplied in the form of what we normally call "a brief") who are completely helpless when confronted with doing it for themselves. They take a bunch of pictures on some theme, and throw out the blurry ones. The pile of sharp and in-theme photos grows without limit, but no meaning ever emerges, and it's not clear that the photographer even knows what that might look like or that it would be desirable. They helplessly watch the pile grow until they tire of the theme, and move on to a new theme. Rinse and repeat.

Most people who take photographs never even bother. They hold up their phone and tap the button. They make one choice once, and that's the end of it. They post the photo somewhere, or show it to their friends, or whatever. I do this! I take photos to send to people: "is this your ring?" "are these the right makeup wipes?" "look at what my dumb dog is doing!"

These things are not "art photography" though, they're something else. None of these people is making any kind of statement. There's nothing to say except the immediate content of this photo, right here, right now.

To be honest, I remain completely stymied in my own "practice."

I know (in some sense) that it's not just bullshit, because I see things in which someone chose some pictures and meaning emerged. I see things that I made in which this happened. At the same time, I struggle with the idea that maybe it is all bullshit, that the rubrics are essentially arbitrary, and that the so-called meaning is just pareidolia. My answer, though, has been to stop taking pictures. I am not going to go and shoot on some random theme and hope that something emerges, because I know that ends with a midden of pointless photos.

It's possible I am coming to that point that Cartier-Bresson arrived at. When you draw something you know you've definitely made something. It might be shitty, it might be bad, but god damn if you didn't actually make a thing that has your fingerprints on it.



To abandon the idea of the rubric is to abandon the entire enterprise beyond the "look at what my dumb dog is up to" project. If choosing is bullshit, then photography as an artistic venture is bullshit. I don't see any way to save it.

I dunno man.