对谈 | Alec Soth And Hanya Yanagihara In Conversation

对谈

有译思,庄佳豪

Alec Soth(下文简称 AS):这一次我很努力在讲述自己的作品。或许过段时间我会把这些打趣的对话都收集起来。但现在真的说不出来。

Hanya Yanagihara(下文简称 HY):那别人问你时,你是怎么回答的呢?

AS:这正是我挣扎的地方。我可以给出一个超长的回答。但我一直给的都是很简单的回答 —— 我所到之处的画像与室内装潢:我都能感觉到这听上去有多无聊。一点儿也不迷人。但如果你说的是:「我沿着密西西比河旅行」,那人们就懂了。他们愿意继续听下去。

HY:我想人们现在或多或少都希望所有的视觉艺术家有一套事先准备好的说辞。

AS:我一直很喜欢自己作品的亲和性,人们可以很快地融入其中。这么讲可能是为了推销作品,但更多的是让人们与作品产生联系。我想二者是息息相关的。就像是一场巡回售书活动,总得说些什么。

HY:是的,但有些不同。因为作家的媒介就是文字,所以你必须要能够在一定程度上用文字来描述自己做的事情。诚然,作品应该为自己代言,它是独立存在的事物。你的任何解释都无法取代读书和对此产生反应所带来的体验。但就我了解的作家而言,还没有谁可以不必通过语言去解释或捍卫自己的作品,而作品本身就是语言创造的产物。

AS:没错。但我觉得小说和诗歌之间存在一种差异。所以如果有人问你:「你最新诗集与什么有关呢?」「呃,比如说光线、鸟类……」

HY:是的,是的,你说得没错。

AS:我觉得这就是我的现状。我的创作更接近于诗歌。叙述层面的东西少一些。

HY:你觉得你在解释作品时遇到的部分困难与某种 —— 我不知道该怎么去描述 —— 大概就是你在创作这系列前经历的艺术创作危机有关吗?能聊聊这个话题吗?

AS:呵,好家伙。

HY:这确实是创作的核心。

AS:没错,这是一切的基础。我只是担心这个故事可能有点儿冗长芜杂。

HY:我觉得很有趣。

AS:嗯,几年前,我开始冥想。这不是什么了不起的事。我只是想看看自己的大脑是如何运作的。但我觉得没有发生什么大的改变。后来我在芬兰赫尔辛基之旅中经历了一些事情。当时我在飞机上冥想。落地后,我走了很长一段时间,然后坐在湖边继续冥想。我确信这跟倒时差有点关系,但最后我发现自己完完全全有了一种神秘的感觉。这么说吧,我恍然大悟,意识到一切都是联系在一起的。这种感觉十分深刻。这改变了一切。第二天我有一场演讲,要向大家讲述自己的作品。我彻夜未眠,重新思考自己所做的一切。

于我而言,摄影总是与分离有关,与我感受到的社交距离有关。但如果我知道所有东西实际上都是有联系的,即便不能时刻感受到,我难道不也通过我的作品在增加或强化这种距离吗?所以此后不久,我就不再拍人像了。我不再去旅行,而是待在家里。我心甘情愿放弃这么多年来自己所走的路。坐着看周围的光线,我就感到很开心。就这样,一年过去了。

HY:你会拍摄光线吗,还是只是感受它而已?

AS:有时会拍,有时不会。几年前我买下了一小块地,盖了间农舍,后来废弃了。我开始到农舍那儿去,去感受天气与光线。有时我只是去那里看看书而已。我尽量不抱着创作的心态。顺其自然。

又过了一年,我开始意识到,是时候要工作了。我决定重新开启旅程,继续摄影,但我想:「嗯,我要以一种不同的方式去做。拍人像时,我想找到一种全新的方式与他们互动。不是开车兜风,随便抓几个人,说服他们去做不想做的事。」

HY:就是这种感觉吗?你早期的系列是这么做的吗?听上去很有侵略性。

AS:是有一点儿侵略性。并不是说我没有得到人们的允许,但有一种权力分配(power dynamic)在起着作用。最终,摄影师拥有这种权力。

HY:我想知道,你觉得自己是在寻求某种谦逊吗?或者说你只是希望能更正些什么?

AS:可能是某种更正吧。我刚开始从事摄影时,拍摄人物总是很紧张。这也说明了拍摄环境的平衡性。但随着时间的推移,我变得越来越专业。我不像从前那么紧张了。仿佛有这么一种感觉:风靡一时的摄影师来了。我可以处理好这种情况。这跟我刚入行时的情形完全不同。

冥想结束后,我开始思考:「我为什么要这么做?这对其他人有什么价值?」我需要弄清楚怎么重新去拍摄人物。我在 Fraenkel 画廊做了一个实验性的项目,花了很多时间在画廊里与人进行一对一地交流。有时我们会互相拍照,有时只是纯粹玩耍、闲逛。编舞家 Anna Halprin 也想参与其中,但 97 岁高龄的她体格过于虚弱,根本没法来到画廊。于是我拜访了她在加州马林县的家。我像拍摄其他人一样给她拍照 —— 保持着一定的距离。但这次给我的感觉很不一样。就像是我回到了某个地方。或者说是稍微净化了这个方法。

HY:此话怎讲?

AS:我感觉自己就像是一个年轻的摄影师;我只是在拍照而已。这幅作品难以描述,原因就在这儿。跟摄影基础课上一样,我只是花时间与人相处,给他们拍写真。

HY:你需要忘掉哪些东西?

AS:这是个好问题。我不会让拍摄对象为了顺应我的项目而去做些什么,或许更多地就是拍拍现成的东西,不期而遇,看看能否行得通。

HY:你觉得自己放下防备了吗?

AS:我不会用放下防备来形容。我觉得很舒服,没有在伤害谁。

HY:有个每位拍摄人物的摄影师都必须问、应该问自己的基本问题。拍摄人物时存在什么本质上的剥削吗?你觉得自己剥削过其他人吗?

AS:是的。那是肯定的。绝对有。

HY:为什么这么说呢?

AS:因为我利用人们达到我的目的。剥削的种类很多,程度也不一样。我不觉得我的剥削是最严苛的。但我很清楚地意识到,我确实是在利用人们。我坚信作家也有这种困扰。即使是具象画家也会有。

HY:你凭什么觉得人们愿意让你拍呢?

AS:人们都希望得到认可。人们为什么希望活跃在社交媒体中?就是因为他们想拥有身份,获得存在感。

HY:尤其是在《眠于密西西比河畔》这个作品中,你是以旁观者的视角看待其中一些人的,你会想:「多年来都没人想看他们。」所以当他们第一次面向世人时,多少是有点嘲弄的意味在其中。但在某种程度上而言,也是在致敬和纪念他们。

AS:是的。两种态度都有。我是说,接近一个人的体验通常都是非常积极正面的。之后的部分才是我真正担心的地方。大多数人不理解博物馆墙上的摄影作品。那是为绘画而设的。他们就是不明白。

这一系列中的所有照片都是事先安排好的。人们对自己将要面对的情况拥有更多了解。他们可以上网了解我的信息,弄清楚这一切。这更像是一个势均力敌的赛场。

以你为例。你绝对是一个了解摄影及其作用原理的人。我们虽然之前不认识彼此,但我认为我们在审美层面上存在着某种联系。我能感受到你对被人拍摄的恐惧。你自己提过这一点,我也能感受到。我不是要给你拍面部特写,也不打算拍裸照。现在这对我来说大不相同了。因为我知道如何掌控局面。

HY:但你觉得你可以吗?你有这些本事吗?

AS:你别说,我还真有。

HY:真的吗?

AS:是的。

HY:能讲讲你拍摄时最私密的一刻吗?是在镜头后面的时候吗?

AS:这是个好问题。

HY:我给你些时间思考。关于这个问题,我在你给我拍照时想了很多。我们之前聊过摄影师与被拍摄人之间力量不平衡的问题。我记得那是一种类似在子宫内的体验。你完完全全隐藏了自己,把自己包裹了起来。我觉得是一种近乎哀求的状态。你着迷于机器。我只需要静静地坐着,这没什么难度。但你要做的——我想说,我感觉你被我这个拍摄对象还有相机本身控制住了。我觉得你也很……你的嗓音很迷人,说话很温柔。你的出现让人觉得很安心。但那一刻,我又想起了那种谦逊,蜷缩在不舒服的位置,裹着厚布,等着相机来完成你希望它完成的事。所以我明白了,在你走到相机后之前,有一种类似舞蹈、类似交流的东西,有时比其他一切都更有操控性。但一旦你站到相机后面 —— 我知道人们不同意这个观点 —— 我觉得你被剥夺了能量,而非获得能量。我是说,我记得 Diane Arbus 总是将相机放在胸前拍摄。她就是放在胸前拍摄的,而不是靠眼睛。从这个意义上来说,这是力量的复原。她可以一边看着拍摄对象,与之对话,一边做一些他们看不到的事情。她重新掌控了相机。但当你看着相机时 —— 我不是很懂。你将自己作为人的一些东西交给了相机。我总觉得这让你失去了一部分力量。

AS:所以,在黑布下看着他人的那一刻让人难以置信。让人心满意足。这只是一个技术问题。但我必须拿掉黑布、放入胶卷开始拍照,那一刻就会带来这种焦虑。我可能会失去一切。我对此总是感觉到恐慌。眼神交流真的很重要。

 

这让我想到了禅宗摄影的理念。如果我是一名禅宗摄影师,我会透过双筒望远镜去观察。这真是一款惊人的发明,让你置身于图像中。那个东西远在天边,但你几乎可以触碰到它。

Alec Soth And Hanya Yanagihara In Conversation

Alec Soth (AS): I’ve struggled to talk about my work this time around. Maybe I’ll get my banter together over time. But I really don’t have it together now.
 
Hanya Yanagihara (HY): What do you say when someone asks?
 
AS: That’s what I’m struggling with. I can give a super-long answer. But the short one that I’ve been giving — portraits and interiors wherever I travel: I can feel how unexciting it is. It’s just not sexy. Whereas if you say something like, “I’m traveling along the Mississippi River,” people get it. They can hang onto that.
 
HY: I think all visual artists these days are more or less expected to have some sort of prepared statement.
 
AS: I’ve always liked the accessibility of my work, that people are let into it pretty quickly. Part of talking about it might be for sales, but it’s more about getting people engaged with the work. They’re related, I suppose. It’s like being on a book tour. You have to say something.
 
HY: Yes, but it’s a little different. Because the writer’s medium is words. So you should be able to use words to describe to some extent what you’re doing. Yes, the work should speak for itself, and yes, it stands alone as its own being. There is no amount of explaining you can do that will ever substitute for the experience of reading the book and having a reaction. But I don’t know of a single author who at some point has not had to explain or defend with language their work, which is also, of course, created with language.
 
AS: Right. But I think there’s a difference between the novel and poetry. So if you’re asked, “What is your latest book of poems about?” “Well, it’s about, like, light and birds and...”
 
HY: Yes, yes, you’re right.
 
AS: And I think that’s what is happening with me a little bit. I’m on the poetic side of the spectrum. It’s a little less driven by narrative.
 
HY: Do you think part of the difficulties you’ve had explaining the work are related to the sort of — I don’t know how you want to characterize it — but the crisis of art making that you had before you began this series? And will you talk a little bit about that?
 
AS: Oh, boy.
 
HY: It does seem central to the creation of this body of work.
 
AS: It’s true. Yes, it’s the basis of everything. I just worry that this story has become a little self-indulgent.
 
HY: I found it fascinating.
 
AS: Well, a few years ago, I started meditating. It wasn’t a huge part of my life. It was just interesting to watch how my brain worked. But I didn’t feel particularly changed. And then I had an experience on a trip to Helsinki, in Finland. I was meditating on the plane. Then when I landed, I went for a long walk and sat by a lake and meditated. I’m sure the jet lag was a part of this, but I ended up having a full-on mystical experience. The only way to describe it is to say that I suddenly understood that everything was connected. I felt it in a deep and profound way. This changed everything. The next day, I had to give a lecture about my work. I stayed up all night rethinking everything about what I do.
 
Photography, for me, has always been about separation and this feeling of social distance that I have. But if I know that everything is actually connected, even if I can’t experience it all the time, aren’t I just promoting or reinforcing distance with my work? So not long after this, I stopped photographing people. I stopped traveling and just stayed at home. I was completely content to give up the path I had been on for all those years. I was just so happy sitting around looking at the light. A year went by of doing this.
 
HY: Were you photographing the light or just experiencing it?
 
AS: Sometimes I’d photograph, sometimes not. I have an abandoned farmhouse on a little piece of land that I’d purchased years before. I started going there to just experience the weather and the light. Sometimes I just read. I tried to never have an intention to produce anything. If it happened, it happened.
 
Then a year went by and I realized, wait a second, I have to work. I decided to start traveling and photographing again, but I thought, “Well, I’m going to do it in a different way. When I photograph people, I want to find a new way to engage with them. Where it’s not driving around, snagging people, talking them into stuff they don’t want to do.”
 
HY: Is that how it felt? Is that how you experienced your earlier series? You make it sound so predatory in a way.
 
AS: There is something predatory about it. It’s not like I didn’t get people’s permission. But there’s a power dynamic at play. Avedon talks about this all the time. In the end, the photographer has the power.
 
HY: I wonder, did you feel you were looking for a kind of humility? Or did you just feel that you wanted something to be corrected?
 
AS: Maybe it’s a correction. When I started as a photographer, I was so nervous photographing people. That made the playing field more even. But as the years went by, I got more professional about it. I wasn’t as nervous. There was this sense of like, here is Mr. Hot Shot photographer coming in. I can handle this situation. Which is definitely different from how I started.
 
After all of that meditation, I thought, “Why am I doing this? What value is it to others?” I had to figure out how to photograph people again. I did an experimental project at Fraenkel Gallery in which I spent a lot of time one-on-one with people in the gallery space. Sometimes we’d take pictures of each other, but we’d also just play and hang out. The choreographer Anna Halprin wanted to do one of these sessions with me, but she was 97 and too frail to come to the gallery. So I visited her home in Marin, Calif. I photographed her in a way that I have always photographed people — with a certain amount of distance. But it felt different. It felt like I had come back to something. Or slightly purified the system.
 
HY: Why?
 
AS: I just felt like a younger photographer; like I’m just taking pictures. This is why it’s hard to talk about this work. It’s like Photo 101. I’m just spending time with a person, taking their portrait.
 
HY: What did you have to unlearn?
 
AS: That’s a good question. Instead of getting the subject to do something for my project, maybe it’s more about taking what’s there and having an encounter and having it work or not.
 
HY: Did you feel disarmed?
 
AS: I wouldn’t say disarmed, no. I felt comfortable. I felt like I wasn’t abusing anyone.
 
HY: This is the fundamental question that everyone who photographs people has to ask themselves or should ask themselves. Is there something fundamentally exploitative about photographing people? Do you ever feel you’ve been?
 
AS: Yes. Oh, for sure. Yeah. Absolutely.
 
HY: Why?
 
AS: Because I’m using people for my purpose. There are different kinds of exploitation, different degrees of it. I don’t think mine has been the most severe. But I definitely have an awareness that, yeah, I’m using people. I’m sure that writers struggle with this. I’m sure even figurative painters struggle with it.
 
HY: Was Arbus ever exploitative?
 
AS: Oh, yeah. But she was also a huge influence. My earliest pictures didn’t have people in them at all. Then I looked at Arbus. There’s so much power. And that’s how I thought of people in my pictures — they’re like the gasoline. The power is undeniable. I originally struggled to get that fuel into the engine. But once I did, it started to drive everything. And then at a certain point I realized that I’m not taking these people into consideration. Or not enough consideration.
 
HY: Why do you think people agree to be photographed?
 
AS: People like to be acknowledged. Why do people want to be on social media? They want to have an identity and presence.
 
HY: Especially with “Sleeping by the Mississippi,” there were some people where you look at them as a viewer and you just think, “No one has asked to see them in years.” And so the first way they’re being seen is in a way that opens them to ridicule to some extent. But yet also honors them and memorializes them to a certain extent.
 
AS: Right. It does both of those things. I mean, usually, the process, the experience of approaching a person is very positive. It’s really the part after that I worry about. Most people don’t understand photographs on a wall in a museum. That’s for paintings. They just don’t get it.
 
All of the shoots in this series were set up in advance. People knew more about what they were getting into. They could go online and read about me and figure out the whole thing. It’s more of an even playing field.
 
Take you, for example. You’re a person who definitely understands photography and how it works. We didn’t know each other, but I thought there could be a connection on some aesthetic level. But I could feel your apprehension to being photographed. You stated it, but I could also feel it. I wasn’t interested in getting in your face or having you take off your clothes. That’s something that’s different for me now. Because I know how to manipulate a situation.
 
HY: But could you have, do you think? Do you have those skills?
 
AS: I really think I do.
 
HY: Really?
 
AS: Yeah. A week ago, I was invited to take a picture in someone’s old mansion in Salt Lake City. The owner told me that there was a ballroom on the third floor. But then he said his wife didn’t want me to photograph there, didn’t even want me to see it. I know I could have gotten in there if I wanted to. I just don’t feel pushy in that way anymore.
 
HY: If it had been five years ago, would you have pushed?
 
AS: Oh, totally. In a second. Yeah, yeah. I would have been in there. In fact, that would have been my only goal.
 
HY: Is it a different kind of respect for the people? Or is it almost — is it sort of a challenge to yourself?
 
AS: I suppose part of it is respect. But I also have a sense now that it doesn’t matter as much. Enough is enough with the ego gratification.
 
HY: Some of the most intimate and the rawest photographs in this series are of spaces. There’s this idea of taking a portrait of someone through their space: Not through the space that they want hidden off, but the space they occupy. Not the ballroom, but the bathroom. This is something you’ve maybe been doing all along. And so when you talk about humans really being the kindling that sets fire to an image, I understand what you mean, but there’s a kind of charge to photographing the small spaces of someone’s life. Is that something that you consciously decided to do with this series?
 
AS: When I started this project, my only intention was to spend time with another person in a room, any room. But after I photographed Anna Halprin, I decided it should be in the subject’s home. This makes them more comfortable. It’s also more stuff to help reveal what might be going on inside of them.
 
I started thinking about “Message From the Interior” by Walker Evans. That book only has twelve pictures. They’re all interiors and only a few of them have people, but there’s so much to look at.
 
When I was in high school, I used to deliver Chinese food. I loved that moment when the customer opened the door and I could peek into their interior world. It always felt magical and mysterious. Being a photographer is an excuse to invite myself inside and look around. Sometimes I wish I could just look at the person in the room without ever talking.
 
HY: The poem from which you found the title for this project [“Gray Room” by Wallace Stevens] is about a fundamental distance between the speaker and the subject. And an elemental connection between the two.
 
AS: That poem makes so much sense to me. This is how photography works — this appreciation of all these surfaces, all this beauty. But you can’t quite get inside. It’s about making do with that.
 
HY: And in a way, it’s a very beautiful celebration of the limits of this medium. And I suppose an honest admission that as much as we think photography — and, let’s say, especially portrait photography — captures something, it does, but it doesn’t capture everything. Nor should it be expected to.
 
AS: There’s a shared solitude.
 
HY: You mentioned Peter Hujar and Nancy Rexroth in an email. And I know that you’re a great admirer of Hujar, as am I. Why?
 
AS: Hujar’s influence was like a spiritual aura hovering over this work. He had this incredible intimacy in his pictures. An interiority about them. But also an ability to just make pictures. That was the feeling that I wanted. I didn’t want to try to connect all the dots into a grand narrative. I just wanted to make photographs that were loving and affectionate and tender.
 
HY: I don’t know if you saw the show that Jeffrey Fraenkel held [at his gallery in San Francisco] a couple of years ago of Hujar’s work.
 
AS: I didn’t, no.
 
HY: It was a really beautiful show. It wasn’t that large. But he curated it very beautifully; the pairings were very good. There was this one couplet of the famous picture of David Wojnarowicz with the snake. And next to that was a lesser-known picture of a dark, roiling sea. And then next to that was one of his beautiful horse pictures. And then next to that was a sink with a clutter of objects in and around it. You don’t think of Hujar necessarily as an object photographer. Certainly someone like Arbus was only a portrait photographer. Or at least most prominently. And yet many of his works, you’re right, had that same quality. He was able to somehow suffuse them with the same kind of intimacy as if they were portraits. I think what I have found that I respond to in his work as I look at it more and more is that there’s a mutual respect that runs through everything. When it’s a picture of a horse or a picture of a disabled child or a picture of a former lover. And that kind of graveness, that gravity, is really, I think, what unites them for me.
 
AS: The word that I would use for Hujar is “tenderness.” That’s the feeling that I get from Hujar over and over again. No matter how sexualized.
 
HY: Yeah, me too. But then Nancy Rexroth is a very different kind of photographer.
 
AS: Very different. Nancy Rexroth is someone that I see as quite removed from the world. She and I have corresponded over the last few years, but we’d never met until I took her picture. I always imagined her living in an all-white room on the second story of an old house like Emily Dickinson. It was so surprising to see her living in a crammed apartment bursting with color in Cincinnati. But there was still something reclusive about her place.
 
HY: I thought of her when you were talking about light and watching light.
 
AS: When I think of her, I imagine her alone in a room, dreaming about her childhood. And when I think of Hujar, I think of him in a room with another man looking at him tenderly. So they’re two very different photographers. I’m probably some mishmash of both, in a way. With other stuff mixed in, too. I don’t photograph people I know. The more I know you, the less likely I am to take your picture.
 
HY: Because you just can’t see anymore? Or you can’t…
 
AS: I don’t understand it. I honestly don’t understand it. It just doesn’t work. I have to get on the therapist’s couch.
 
HY: What is the most intimate moment that you have when you’re making a photograph? Is it when you’re behind the camera itself?
 
AS: Good question.
 
HY: While you think, I’ll talk. When you were photographing me, I thought a lot about this. We had talked about the power imbalance of being the subject and the shooter beforehand. What I remember about the experience was that it was a very womblike experience. You were literally hidden, shrouded. You were almost in a supplicating posture, I felt. You were enthralled to the machine. And all I had to do was sit still, which wasn’t very difficult. But what you had to do — I suppose what I’m trying to say was it felt like you were being controlled both by me, the subject and by the camera itself. I think you’re also very... you have a lovely, soft voice. You’re a very reassuring presence. But I was reminded in those moments of the kind of humility it takes to be crouched in an uncomfortable position beneath the hot piece of cloth waiting for the eye of the camera to do what you wanted it to do. So I understand that in the moments before you get behind the camera, there is a sort of dance, there’s an exchange, sometimes more manipulative than others. But once you get behind the camera — and I know people disagree with this — I felt you were disempowered rather than empowered. I mean, I thought of how Arbus always held her camera at her chest. And shot from there rather than up against her eye. And in that sense, it was a restoration of power. She was able to talk and look the subject in the eye while at the same time doing something they couldn’t see. She regained control of the machine. But when you were looking into the machine — I don’t know. You give up something of yourself as a human to the machine. That makes you less powerful, I always think.
 
AS: So that moment, the moment of being under the dark cloth looking at the person is incredible. It’s really satisfying. And this is simply a technical matter. But there’s this anxiety that’s caused by that moment when I have to take off the dark cloth, put in the film and take the picture. And all the possible things that I could lose. I’m always panicked about that. But the looking is really something.
 

It makes me think about the idea of Zen photography. If I were a Zen photographer, I would just look through binoculars. Binoculars are amazing. Because you’re thrown inside the image. And that far away thing, you can almost touch it.