War Content

In February 2022 the world watched horrified as Russia invaded Ukraine. Comparisons to previous acts of war abounded, as a distinct anxiety about past conflicts on European soil invaded the news. As a consequence of the spread of recent technologies, however, this time the world quite literally did watch it happen.

This conflict might be the first major war on European soil since the establishment of the internet as a primary means of communication, and the difference is already made apparent. As well as the traditional media reports, social media vehicles are full of images, stories, details and personal accounts of the conflict. On top of the problem of having to ascertain the veracity of the images ourselves, we also are fed them through endless scrolling feeds that intermingle with images of cats, recipes, games, memes, jokes, advertisements, and an infinite amount of information that finds us at their mercy.

What are the consequences of receiving news of death and destruction on the same devices we look at porn and celebrity news? It is possible we have become desensitized of the reality of such issues and develop a detached relationship to the world. As Susan Sontag has postulated, images reinforce this sense of distance, as “photographing is essentially an act of non-intervention”. The gaze becomes a source of comfort because from our screens we feel protected and safe, watching rather than participating. Yet we remain curious and interested, rubbernecking a car crash. We are quietly shocked, but feel safe to carry on with our daily lives.

At the same time, these images reveal prejudices and stereotypes about who deserves pity and help. Much has been said about the dissonance in the coverage of this conflict compared to the vast number of other ones happening outside of Europe, as if the blondness and blue-eyed-ness of the Ukrainian people would make this invasion more concerning than the ones in other, less civilized parts of the world. It is the image of Europeans in distress that plays the fundamental role here. It is the image that breaks our assumptions about civilization and, due to a selective sort of empathy, our own sense of safety. These photographs and the videos are more shocking than the news of two countries at war thousands of miles away.

Watching the war in our phones, a dissonance between shock and apathy swirls around among the banalities of the daily image. The war is now content. The part where we challenge potential racism in selective empathy is also content. Many media companies generate revenue by incentivizing passive watching. I wonder what is the impact of the war on the revenue of these new media websites. Feeding on images of suffering through these channels, we become passive spectators of disgrace.

Claudia Andujar: A Luta Yanomami

Claudia Andujar: A Luta Yanomami (The Yanomami Struggle) is an exhibition about the work of the Brazilian photographer now on at the Instituto Moreira Salles in Rio. It traces her stylistic development from documentary photography, through expressive photographic works with a personal aesthetic, and into photography as a tool for activism. 

A jewish immigrant of Hungarian and Swiss origin, Andujar fled persecution in the years leading up to the Nazi regime and ultimately settled in Brazil. The exhibition follows her story as she meets and gets increasingly involved with the Yanomami people, an isolated native group deep in the Amazon. As she became more intimate with the tribe, periodically visiting and staying for longer and longer stretches of time, she came to believe photography could be used as a political tool in their behalf. By photographing them and showing her work, Andujar hoped she could raise awareness to the cause and help the Yanomami overcome the challenges they faced.

The exhibition opens with a powerful image captured by Andujar of a maloca engulfed in flames. A figure to the right of the building gives the viewer an idea of scale and also assures that the fire was intentional. The label explains that these structures, central to the life of the Yanomami, were routinely burned when they needed to move on, be it to adapt to hunting and planting seasons, to avoid disease or because a notable leader died. The image elicits symbolism of a vanishing culture, and at the same time poses the challenge of understanding memory and heritage in native societies. Nomadism, temporary structures and a focus on oral tradition are cultural elements that might be conflated with outdated concepts of primitivism. How to reconcile the role seasons and cycles play in Yanomami culture with the importance we ourselves put on permanence?

Claudia Andujar, um dos retratos tirados dentro das malocas, 1974-1976

This conflict comes to a head in the second room of the exhibition. Already more intimate with the Yanomami and more knowledgeable of their language and customs, the photographer creates a large series of portraits of members of the tribe. The curatorial text itself points that the sitters were reluctant to allow the session to take place. According to the curator, the Yanomami were concerned about the existence of an image of a person separated from the person itself. They also believed no material remains of a person should linger in the material world after their death, including their image. Nevertheless the portraits are in the gallery, and the exhibition notes that the Yanomami were “convinced” to sit for the portraits because they understood the importance of these photographs for their survival. It is impossible not to read this line as a quick dismissal of their concerns, which is worrying. On the other hand, it is clear the potential unfairness of the transaction, along with the information about the struggles of the Yanomami may only exist in the conscience of museum patrons because the exhibition took place. 

The photographs are infused with a bold contrast, where idiosyncratic faces emerge gracefully from the deep black background. Andujar's portraits narrate stories of individuals in the tribe and her intention to focus on personhood and individuality is evident. Using the language of photography, she urges the viewer to consider the internal world of each tribe member and compare it with their own, in an exercise of empathy.

Claudia Andujar, Catrimani, 1972-1974.

A third room in the exhibition develops on the theme of photography as a personal language when Andujar's work becomes much more authorial. In order to convey the energy and intensity of rituals and festivals she witnessed, the photographer indulges in the use of flash and motion blur, as well as double exposure. These additions imbue the work with more honesty. By leaning into (post)modern photographic aesthetic, Andujar shows us what would have been obvious to any Yanomami being pictured: There's a white woman with a camera here. The photographer makes herself unapologetically present in the photograph, because there is no use pretending otherwise.

From 1980 onward, as the threat to the Yanomami grew, Andujar stepped fully into the realm of activism. The deflorestation and pro mining policies of the military dictatorship caught up with the Yanomami, bringing disease and making their nomadic lifestyle more challenging. As a response, the artist transformed her expeditions in health care missions, bringing not only photography equipment into the forest but also doctors, vaccines and medical supplies. Her photographic work became part of the effort, as she took photographs to create help identify individuals and create a database. According to the exhibition, Yanomami do not have a permanent name, so for the sake of clarity they were photographed with number placards around their necks. Despite the negative connotations the images evoke, the curatorial text assuages concerns arguing that tracking each individual's health was paramount. Utilizing the popularity of the photographs, Andujar started a campaign to create a demarcation of land for the Yanomami, which succeeded in 1992.

The relationship Andujar and the Yanomami spans decades of struggle and dedication. While it is necessary to acknowledge her privilege and the asymmetric relationship between her and the tribe, her work comes across as more sympathetic than other photographers of indigenous people, such as Sebastião Salgado. Her commitment to the cause is undeniable, although it does not free the work from criticism. At the end of the day, an important point to raise is that all of these photographs were not made for Yanomami consumption. That as she photographed life and environment in the forest and in the malocas, she had us, the city dwelling traditionally educated photography consumers, as a target audience. The work was not made for them, although the exhibition presents solid arguments to support it was made on their behalf.

Claudia Andujar, Antiga missão batista Boas Novas, 1981.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the exhibition for me was the few clues that pointed to the Yanomami's relationship to photography. In a video interview, the artist suggests that when some of the women saw their own image for the first time they were not able to recognize themselves, unaccustomed with reading photography. In contrast, by the end of the exhibition, a Yanomami young man exhibits a collection of nude photographs of white females, among a number of things he acquired in exchanges with the ever encroaching white miners. It is beyond my means to comment about the sexuality of other social groups, or the difference of perception between mundane nudity in the flesh and pornographic nudity on photographs. I will risk suggesting, however, that this gap between not being able to recognize oneself in a photograph and understanding photography as a means of objectifying desire is important. It points to the idea that we all learn, at some point or another, to read, understand and use photography. The exhibition is a rich ground to reflecting about these issues, and the artist's work creates room for thinking about how humans see things, and what things they should see. 

50 Anos de Realismo: Is Photography Real?

50 Anos de Realismo: do fotorrealismo à realidade virtual, (50 years of Realism: from photo-realism to virtual reality) at Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil in Rio brings a survey of international photorealistic and hyperrealistic art to a Brazilian audience. Spanning from the 1960’s formal American photorealist movement, which produced paintings after photographs, to the more recent efforts in simulating new worlds in VR, the exhibition seeks to present multiple examples of practices and mediums that attempt to mimic reality as an artistic strategy. Despite the effort to produce likeness, very few of the works in the exhibition showed indication of a desire to fool the viewer into mistaking representation for referent, in trompe l’oeil fashion. By, for example, playing with scale, most artists seem to want the viewer to know what is before them is a painting or sculpture that just looks a lot like “the real thing”.

A conceptual issue across the exhibition, however, was just this: what is “the real thing”? This questioning is inherent to the humanities and the academic world. Both the problems of the ambiguity of the word “Realism” in the History of Art, and the issue of reality and how we perceive it in Philosophy are a source of a rich history of ideas and debates in academic writing. The fact that these questions were barely addressed was a missed opportunity of making a point that, if nothing else, sheds light on some key issues in the development of contemporary art.

It is possible to assume this avoidance of complexity was rooted in a desire to reduce academic jargon and create an exhibition that is accessible and enjoyable. But just starting from the principle that reality is simple and objective may lead to conceptual slippery slopes that create structural problems. For example, a pervasive assumption across the show was the idea that photography, in itself, represents reality perfectly, which implies that a painting after a photograph (a key component of many works in the show) is therefore a painting of reality. Many authors such as Susan Sontag and John Berger alert to the dangers of considering photographs as objective renderings of the world. We might fail to consider potential distortions caused by lens and camera, and perhaps more importantly, photographer’s choices such as framing and composition. Photography is not neutral or objective and the underlying assumption that it is, throughout the exhibition, curtails the show’s ability to enter a deeper level of discussion that would be very welcome in a world where we’re overwhelmed by photographic images.

It is undeniable however, that the exhibition is a success, apparently hitting record numbers in previous editions in São Paulo and Brasilia. The ability to create images and sculptures that are convincingly similar to people and things is indeed fascinating and I would be hypocritical if I said I didn’t indulge in it (I sent pictures to my mother). Some might say that getting more people in the museum is enough. While I agree that the discourse has to be democratic and that as art professionals we should put effort into being inclusive, I don’t think a bit of a challenge is bad. These questions such as the objectiveness of photography are out there, on the criticism of doctored photos for instagram, and in the rejection of fitness models in magazine covers. They are already part of the conversation in our society and don’t necessarily configure deep philosophical mores that would bore people out of visiting the museum. I think building bridges is always possible and a good show should attempt to do that whenever it can.