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Jeff Cowen has a collection of five prints in the New York Historical Society’s library, taken in the 1980s, showing the working life of the Meatpacking District’s sex workers. For more, there is West Side Rendezvous, a book of photos by Katsu Naito, all portraits of the sex workers taken in the early 1990s.

(via Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York: Meatpacking Prostitutes)

Jeff Cowen has a collection of five prints in the New York Historical Society’s library, taken in the 1980s, showing the working life of the Meatpacking District’s sex workers. For more, there is West Side Rendezvous, a book of photos by Katsu Naito, all portraits of the sex workers taken in the early 1990s.

(via Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York: Meatpacking Prostitutes)

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Door Jams (Schiffer Publishing) has all kinds of doors, and sometimes gates, from sleek metal entrances in midtown Manhattan to ebullient spraycan paintings in Brooklyn and Staten Island, to the grand sculpted portals of cemeteries in Queens and the Bronx. With more than 300 doors to show, at two or even three to a page, there had to be some method of organization and Markman has gathered similar doors together, butting the pictures up against each other in pairs and sometimes making a composite image of several doors, which runs without a break across the spread. The linking theme might be style — doors with crosses, doors in arches, improvised doorways secured by padlocks and chains — or simply color; Markman has a good color sense. Sometimes the relationships between doors are looser and more intuitive, like a kind of visual music. These designerly “jams” are often highly effective, though the fusion of images does reduce the impact of individual shots.
…
I like the photographs in their own right, so that’s how I’m showing them here. In the pictures that fascinate me most, the doorway becomes a kind of artwork by a combination of accident and design. This is the process I described in a recent post about the incidental pleasures of street art (I first heard that Door Jams was forthcoming when Markman wrote to me in response to that piece). The picture at the top, showing what appears to be a photograph of a bearded man, is a perfect example. It’s reasonable to speculate that the person who stuck up the picture intended it to be seen as art and perhaps also considered the painted background, the black, yellow and red stripes, to be key to the effect, which it is. Then, later, the face appears to have been blanked out with black paint, an operation carried out with some precision, presumably by a different person, who has also obscured a written element in the bottom righthand corner. Who could say at what point the four official NYC notices secured by gray tape arrived, but they have also become an integral part of the composition, as Markman captures it here, in his own work of photographic art.
It’s highly likely, if we were to locate the door now, somewhere in Manhattan’s East Village, that it would have changed again. It might even have become unrecognizable. Doors of this kind are constantly in flux. The rectangular surface, sitting in its frame, offers a ready-made picture space, a site for painting, spraying, stenciling, and improbable bursts of collage (a woman’s face, a bowl of fruit — see below) or drawing (a ghostly, dark-eyed cowboy etched in chalk). In one of Markman’s more extraordinary finds, a door has been remodeled as a Louise Nevelson-esque box-maze of blocks, recesses and rivets, like the threshold of an artist’s prison chamber. Doors like this seem to tell tales about hyperactively creative occupants or neighbors, who might be painters, sculptors, musicians or illustrators — it’s hard to imagine that designers would tolerate the mess.

(via New York: Allan Markman’s City of Spectacular Doors: Observatory: Design Observer)

Door Jams (Schiffer Publishing) has all kinds of doors, and sometimes gates, from sleek metal entrances in midtown Manhattan to ebullient spraycan paintings in Brooklyn and Staten Island, to the grand sculpted portals of cemeteries in Queens and the Bronx. With more than 300 doors to show, at two or even three to a page, there had to be some method of organization and Markman has gathered similar doors together, butting the pictures up against each other in pairs and sometimes making a composite image of several doors, which runs without a break across the spread. The linking theme might be style — doors with crosses, doors in arches, improvised doorways secured by padlocks and chains — or simply color; Markman has a good color sense. Sometimes the relationships between doors are looser and more intuitive, like a kind of visual music. These designerly “jams” are often highly effective, though the fusion of images does reduce the impact of individual shots.

I like the photographs in their own right, so that’s how I’m showing them here. In the pictures that fascinate me most, the doorway becomes a kind of artwork by a combination of accident and design. This is the process I described in a recent post about the incidental pleasures of street art (I first heard that Door Jams was forthcoming when Markman wrote to me in response to that piece). The picture at the top, showing what appears to be a photograph of a bearded man, is a perfect example. It’s reasonable to speculate that the person who stuck up the picture intended it to be seen as art and perhaps also considered the painted background, the black, yellow and red stripes, to be key to the effect, which it is. Then, later, the face appears to have been blanked out with black paint, an operation carried out with some precision, presumably by a different person, who has also obscured a written element in the bottom righthand corner. Who could say at what point the four official NYC notices secured by gray tape arrived, but they have also become an integral part of the composition, as Markman captures it here, in his own work of photographic art.

It’s highly likely, if we were to locate the door now, somewhere in Manhattan’s East Village, that it would have changed again. It might even have become unrecognizable. Doors of this kind are constantly in flux. The rectangular surface, sitting in its frame, offers a ready-made picture space, a site for painting, spraying, stenciling, and improbable bursts of collage (a woman’s face, a bowl of fruit — see below) or drawing (a ghostly, dark-eyed cowboy etched in chalk). In one of Markman’s more extraordinary finds, a door has been remodeled as a Louise Nevelson-esque box-maze of blocks, recesses and rivets, like the threshold of an artist’s prison chamber. Doors like this seem to tell tales about hyperactively creative occupants or neighbors, who might be painters, sculptors, musicians or illustrators — it’s hard to imagine that designers would tolerate the mess.

(via New York: Allan Markman’s City of Spectacular Doors: Observatory: Design Observer)

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In its second year, still in its infancy, the projects that fill the Photoville shipping containers at Brooklyn’s Pier 6 are an eclectic mix. There is one volume there, however, that isn’t lacking in the slightest for immediacy, simplicity and poignancy. Here’s the short lead-in to the project:
What would a person in complete isolation want to see? Men in solitary confinement at Tamms supermax prison in Illinois were asked to request a photograph of anything in the world, real or imagined, and Tamms Year Ten found photographers to make the images.
As someone deeply and persistently interested in the meaning and perception of photographs, each image on display is fascinating considering both ends of the transaction. What did the inmate, cut off from human contact, want to see? How was that interpreted by a photographer? And, in what ways was it received?
Please take a look at the other images (linked below). I also encourage you to lend your support to the project to help end tho particularly barbaric form of state-sponsored torture. As we do here every day, however, I wanted to focus and reflect with you on just one of these images. (You can click the photo for full size.)
The photo above is described by this copy:
Charles asked for pictures of four intersections in the south side of Chicago that he used to know very well: 63rd and King, 63rd and Calumet, 48th and Wabash and 61st and Indiana. Having been in prison for 22 years, he wrote: “I feel forgotten, cast away but God uses this time to show how he never forgets about us no matter what, and I will like to thank you all for everything you do and everyone at Tamms Year Ten. I do feel bless having you all in my life.” This is S. King Drive and E. 63rd Street. Photo by Jason Reblando, 2012.
- See more at: http://www.bagnewsnotes.com/2013/09/photo-requests-from-solitary-s-martin-luther-king-drive-and-e-63rd-street/#sthash.E68AlOsx.dpuf

via Photo Requests from Solitary: S. Martin Luther King Drive and E. 63rd Street — BagNews

In its second year, still in its infancy, the projects that fill the Photoville shipping containers at Brooklyn’s Pier 6 are an eclectic mix. There is one volume there, however, that isn’t lacking in the slightest for immediacy, simplicity and poignancy. Here’s the short lead-in to the project:

What would a person in complete isolation want to see? Men in solitary confinement at Tamms supermax prison in Illinois were asked to request a photograph of anything in the world, real or imagined, and Tamms Year Ten found photographers to make the images.

As someone deeply and persistently interested in the meaning and perception of photographs, each image on display is fascinating considering both ends of the transaction. What did the inmate, cut off from human contact, want to see? How was that interpreted by a photographer? And, in what ways was it received?

Please take a look at the other images (linked below). I also encourage you to lend your support to the project to help end tho particularly barbaric form of state-sponsored torture. As we do here every day, however, I wanted to focus and reflect with you on just one of these images. (You can click the photo for full size.)

The photo above is described by this copy:

Charles asked for pictures of four intersections in the south side of Chicago that he used to know very well: 63rd and King, 63rd and Calumet, 48th and Wabash and 61st and Indiana. Having been in prison for 22 years, he wrote: “I feel forgotten, cast away but God uses this time to show how he never forgets about us no matter what, and I will like to thank you all for everything you do and everyone at Tamms Year Ten. I do feel bless having you all in my life.” This is S. King Drive and E. 63rd Street. Photo by Jason Reblando, 2012.

- See more at: http://www.bagnewsnotes.com/2013/09/photo-requests-from-solitary-s-martin-luther-king-drive-and-e-63rd-street/#sthash.E68AlOsx.dpuf

via Photo Requests from Solitary: S. Martin Luther King Drive and E. 63rd Street — BagNews

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Thus prepared, my own photographs fall into two broad categories.
Some are contemporary versions of the earlier traditions of field documentation and art photography: black-and-white images, taken early in the morning, when the archeological sites were relatively empty, in which the central and unrelenting focus is the ancient architecture and its setting — the pure forms of the structures, articulated by shadows and sun angles.
The others were taken in the dizzying heat of the Yucatan afternoon, when the tour buses arrive en masse, and the mood of Chichén Itzá is transformed.

(via “Everyone a Tourist”: On the Photography of Monuments: Places: Design Observer)

Thus prepared, my own photographs fall into two broad categories.

Some are contemporary versions of the earlier traditions of field documentation and art photography: black-and-white images, taken early in the morning, when the archeological sites were relatively empty, in which the central and unrelenting focus is the ancient architecture and its setting — the pure forms of the structures, articulated by shadows and sun angles.

The others were taken in the dizzying heat of the Yucatan afternoon, when the tour buses arrive en masse, and the mood of Chichén Itzá is transformed.

(via “Everyone a Tourist”: On the Photography of Monuments: Places: Design Observer)

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The people in Owen’s book Suburbia, are still under the “spell” of the American Dream. They live in California suburban communities where, according to Owens, “everyone… lives ‘the good life’, which means having attractive homes, high paying jobs, swimming pools and shiny cars.” But, instead of idealizing this “good life” as Newsweek’s editors did, Owens wanted to make a “documentary project” that would be “a visual/anthropological view of America”; therefore he used a “documentary style” as plain and direct as any picture made by Walker Evans or by an anthropologist lining up “natives” in front of their huts. Seen from that perspective, as just another culture rather than as a summum bonum of human achievement, the American Dream becomes considerably more comic and ironic. 
He advertised in a local newspaper that he was “working on a photographic project about suburbia. I would like to photograph your home, your children, pets or whatever.” Therefore, the people in his pictures identified themselves not only as suburbanites but also as suburbanites who wanted to be photographed as such. One of the most important things about the barbecue man and his helpmate is that they are trying so hard to look “suburban”. Like virtually all of the other people in Owen’s book, they still believe in the Dream of the 1950’s – lots of steaks, boats, cars, bicycles, kids, motorcycles, Tupperware parties, and squeaky-clean kitchens filled with all the latest appliances.

via BILL OWENS: “American Photography and the American Dream” (excerpt) (1991) - Since 2008, AMERICAN SUBURB X | Art, Photography and Culture that matters.)

The people in Owen’s book Suburbia, are still under the “spell” of the American Dream. They live in California suburban communities where, according to Owens, “everyone… lives ‘the good life’, which means having attractive homes, high paying jobs, swimming pools and shiny cars.” But, instead of idealizing this “good life” as Newsweek’s editors did, Owens wanted to make a “documentary project” that would be “a visual/anthropological view of America”; therefore he used a “documentary style” as plain and direct as any picture made by Walker Evans or by an anthropologist lining up “natives” in front of their huts. Seen from that perspective, as just another culture rather than as a summum bonum of human achievement, the American Dream becomes considerably more comic and ironic. 

He advertised in a local newspaper that he was “working on a photographic project about suburbia. I would like to photograph your home, your children, pets or whatever.” Therefore, the people in his pictures identified themselves not only as suburbanites but also as suburbanites who wanted to be photographed as such. One of the most important things about the barbecue man and his helpmate is that they are trying so hard to look “suburban”. Like virtually all of the other people in Owen’s book, they still believe in the Dream of the 1950’s – lots of steaks, boats, cars, bicycles, kids, motorcycles, Tupperware parties, and squeaky-clean kitchens filled with all the latest appliances.

via BILL OWENS: “American Photography and the American Dream” (excerpt) (1991) - Since 2008, AMERICAN SUBURB X | Art, Photography and Culture that matters.)

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During a move from Los Angeles to Austin six years ago, photographer Ryann Ford kept coming across 20th century rest stops, each one different from the other. Humble in stature, these traditional rest areas, despite their charm, have become a relic of America’s roadside past, unable to match the conveniences of modern day travel centers with their fast food restaurants, wireless internet, and large bathrooms.
On her website, Ford expresses disappointment in the nation’s increasing preference for homogeneous travel centers, allowing rest areas to lose “the fight to commercial alternatives.” We talked with her about her ongoing rest stop project, why they’re so special to her, and the modern day travel centers that are replacing them along America’s roads:

(via A Disappearing American Original: The Roadside Rest Area - Mark Byrnes - The Atlantic Cities)

During a move from Los Angeles to Austin six years ago, photographer Ryann Ford kept coming across 20th century rest stops, each one different from the other. Humble in stature, these traditional rest areas, despite their charm, have become a relic of America’s roadside past, unable to match the conveniences of modern day travel centers with their fast food restaurants, wireless internet, and large bathrooms.

On her website, Ford expresses disappointment in the nation’s increasing preference for homogeneous travel centers, allowing rest areas to lose “the fight to commercial alternatives.” We talked with her about her ongoing rest stop project, why they’re so special to her, and the modern day travel centers that are replacing them along America’s roads:

(via A Disappearing American Original: The Roadside Rest Area - Mark Byrnes - The Atlantic Cities)

Video

Relics of the Future is a short documentary that follows Toronto-based fine art photographer Toni Hafkenscheid as he explores the world of once-futuristic architecture through his tilt-shift lens. In the 1960′s, these buildings and monuments were considered “visions of the future;” now they stand, as one interviewee put it, “on that fence between futuristic and nostalgic.”

(Source: petapixel.com)

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Without the use of a camera Portland-based artist Jim Kazanjian sifts through a library of some 25,000 images from which he carefully selects the perfect elements to digitally assemble mysterious buildings born from the mind of an architect gone mad. While the architectural and organic pieces seem wildly random and out of place, Kazanjian brings just enough cohesion to each structure to suggest a fictional purpose or story that begs to be told. You can see much more of his work over on Facebook, and prints are available at 23 Sandy Gallery.

(via An Architect Gone Mad: Mysterious Buildings Assembled from Found Photographs by Jim Kazanjian | Colossal)

Without the use of a camera Portland-based artist Jim Kazanjian sifts through a library of some 25,000 images from which he carefully selects the perfect elements to digitally assemble mysterious buildings born from the mind of an architect gone mad. While the architectural and organic pieces seem wildly random and out of place, Kazanjian brings just enough cohesion to each structure to suggest a fictional purpose or story that begs to be told. You can see much more of his work over on Facebook, and prints are available at 23 Sandy Gallery.

(via An Architect Gone Mad: Mysterious Buildings Assembled from Found Photographs by Jim Kazanjian | Colossal)

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Photographer Dave Jordano – fresh out of college after being born and raised in the Motor City – was part of the exodus when he headed for Chicago to start a commercial photography studio in the late ’70s. Jordano’s father worked for General Motors and joked that motor oil ran in the family’s veins. Three years ago, Jordano returned to Detroit and began photographing the neighborhoods, people, vistas and communities of his hometown. His resulting body of work is an endearing and sprawling document of a city close to his heart.
“This is the most emotional work I’ve made,” he says. “I don’t get tired and I just keep wanting to go back. I find more and more material every time I go.”
Unbroken Down is also an attempt to set the photographic record straight. Jordano believes that Detroit is more than a tale of decline and images of the associated urban decay. Yet, a lot of celebrated photography projects made in Detroit recently have focused on ruination as if the apocalypse passed through and kept going.

. (via Captivating Photos of Detroit Delve Deep to Reveal a Beautiful, Struggling City | Raw File | Wired.com)

Photographer Dave Jordano – fresh out of college after being born and raised in the Motor City – was part of the exodus when he headed for Chicago to start a commercial photography studio in the late ’70s. Jordano’s father worked for General Motors and joked that motor oil ran in the family’s veins. Three years ago, Jordano returned to Detroit and began photographing the neighborhoods, people, vistas and communities of his hometown. His resulting body of work is an endearing and sprawling document of a city close to his heart.

“This is the most emotional work I’ve made,” he says. “I don’t get tired and I just keep wanting to go back. I find more and more material every time I go.”

Unbroken Down is also an attempt to set the photographic record straight. Jordano believes that Detroit is more than a tale of decline and images of the associated urban decay. Yet, a lot of celebrated photography projects made in Detroit recently have focused on ruination as if the apocalypse passed through and kept going.

. (via Captivating Photos of Detroit Delve Deep to Reveal a Beautiful, Struggling City | Raw File | Wired.com)

Link

The history of the “South” and what it is to be “Southern” cannot easily be separated from its horrific legacy of abject cruelty and malevolence against African Americans… of slavery, lynching, segregation, Jim Crow laws and lasting prejudice. In this sense then, to be a “Southern” artist is to have then at least a partial association with these things. When I say association, I do not mean that Eggleston is a believer and a proponent of these abhorrent actions and mindset. I am sure that he is not. I simply mean that by reflecting these environs in such an atmospherically complex and “pure” way, the artist is then also representing the ugliness and legacy of this place for all to see. One simply can’t separate “Southern” from this history. It is the massive elephant in the room at minimum and at maximum, it is much of what it is to be “Southern”.

William Eggleston: Before Color is then surely a tour into this menace and heinous history and into the “Southern” legacy.