DOCUMENTARIES

I do love documentaries, and will watch just about anything that grabs my attention, from history to biography to any of the arts. Over the weekend I had the opportunity to watch two new examples, and they were instructive and jarring, beautiful and troubling.

Critic Roger Ebert, lover of movies and irascible celebrity film reviewer alongside Gene Siskel for so many years, is the focus of Life Itself (2014), a remarkably well done documentary that covered both his life and the fight against cancer, that left his face disfigured but didn't halt his drive or even production until the very last day of his life. I will admit that it was hard viewing the flapping maw that was once his chin (as well as the episodes of suction, but is is good that the reality of the battle be seen. I was amazed by the power and love of his wife Chaz, who he married at age 50. The documentary seemed very honest, and didn't seem to sugar coat his life, pointing out that he could be a curmudgeon and, well, prick, sometimes. But it showed that he was much more than what we often saw on the small screen, diverse in his talents, caring in his relations with his adopted family, and perhaps even affectionate for his sparring partner (who died in 1999). Sometimes the adjectives of "brave" and such applied to a person battling for their life can be overdone, but he seemed to keep good humor and willpower even as he struggled with pain and physical deterioration. The film certainly changed the way I thought of the man, and much for the better.

Through a Lens Darkly: Black Photographers and the Emergence of a People (2014) was a beautifully presented and informative exploration of historical and contemporary African American photographers, from the early days of the media, through the struggles of Reconstruction and Civil Rights, and up to modern support and expansion of black photographic art. The film is full of absolutely stunning pieces, many of which I had seen before, although there was quite a bit new to me. I have for a long time been somewhat familiar with a few black photographers, especially Richard Samuel Roberts, whose beautiful work is covered in A True Likeness (both the book and an ETV documentary). The documentary mixes a little of the producer's family's amateur work with the photography by and of important black leaders and individuals. Simply amazing work that I hope spurs viewers to look up and view and even visit exhibitions of the work of former and current photographers. It will empower, enlighten, and engage; I think it would be a good film to show high school and college students.

WOODMAN

Photography, like abstract art to some degree, poses difficulties for the critic in assessing value or beauty, beyond that of the image's appeal in itself. Some argue that the only important thing is how the viewer relates to it and does the work somehow alter their worldview or aesthetic. The background story, or intent of the artist, should not necessarily impact on the evaluation, but of course it does. And the history or inspiration of a picture or painting is occasionally more interesting than the work itself, in fact sometimes threatens to overshadow it. Art does not live in a vacuum. Recently I was introduced to the startling and beautiful images of tragic Francesca Woodman, who in a short time as a young woman produced a riveting body of work that influences photographers today. The daughter of artists, including a celebrated ceramicist mother, at age 22 she took her life, and like so many in any genre cut down prematurely, one wonders how that act deprived the world of genius, of images that could have changed humanity (and with art, it seems to me, always for the better). Of course, one can never know and can only judge what was actually contributed and left behind. Retrospective exhibits, the documentary The Woodmans, as well as printed collections such as Chris Townsend's Francesca Woodman, provide art lovers with an opportunity to see a small sampling of the images she produced (reportedly more than 10,000 taken over the span of around five years).


Not having much of a photography background, I sometimes wonder about the art of it, if photographers are rewarded more for taking a beautiful shot or for recognizing the most impressive shots out of hundreds they took on any one day. Is creation as much accidental as effort? I suppose this is true for almost any art. . .how many poems are thrown away, or repeatedly altered? How many canvases painted over or destroyed, the most appealing left hopefully in the hands of the reverent? Lyricists and musicians produce hundreds, even thousands, of songs, yet may only garner one hit. Not every artist, of course, but even the most celebrated ones seem to produce a pile of. . .well, shall we say that there are few masterpieces in the overall body of artistic endeavor. Abstract art is particularly open to this criticism, me thinks.


What I have seen of Woodman's photographs is amazing. I don't like all of it, but the body of work is remarkable, black and white images that capture the eye and draw the viewer in. Although commentators often focus on her nude images (both of herself and models), I don't feel that they were intentionally erotic, but an attempt to juxtapose a youthful, fresh, clean beauty against a decaying world, a darker existence; she seems to want to capture darkness, to strip the image to basic elements, and this often required nudity. Her subjects are often blurred, or covered by torn wallpaper, other photographs, or masks. Her backgrounds are uniformly consistent: old abandoned rooms with peeling paint and plaster, raw unfinished denuded walls, water stains and corrupted corners, floors cluttered with the detritus of years, brick and masonry exposed to the elements. I can almost imagine her scouting through neighborhoods looking for abandoned buildings or dusty attics, chasing out squatters for a moment so she can capture an image. It is a wonder she didn't use more dead animals, or that she didn't take pictures of the poor or street people. She clearly enjoyed experimenting with shadows and angles. Her blurred visions are almost spectral. Mirrors are often an important element. So much of the work seems to be saying, "Come look at me, come see how I am playing with light, learning, growing." Alas, it is almost heartbreaking to think of how amazing her work would have been in her more mature hand.


Some images stand out for me, and they are not the nudes (as lovely as she was). Francesca sitting next to a boyfriend, his face blurred by a sudden movement seems to bespeak of her dissatisfaction with love (though it may originally have been just one image culled from a series). Francesca dressed in black, looking like a widowed Italian woman, the only hint of ornament the trim along the edge of her neckline, her hands, made to look weather worn by shadows laid out in the crease formed by her thighs, her face and eyes seeming wary, elusive, sad. Francesca dressed in a nightshirt hanging Jesus-like from a door frame with a black chair in the forefront, the black and white tiles contrasting against the white walls. Her shadow series, made by blowing flour over her body leaving a dark outline of her shape, as if her camera had been an atomic blast.