Susan Meiselas with Phong Bui - The Brooklyn Rail
Susan Meiselas with Phong Bui - The Brooklyn Rail:
"Consequently, my concern is not the concern of the concerned, but just to not pull back from that act. I think part of the impact of postmodernist inquiry or criticism, in some ways, inhibited that action. And that’s very costly. I want to put things into question but not paralyze people in that process. For example, what happened in Nicaragua, I wanted to register the voices of the subjects that are embedded, I hope, as objects in my photographs. By knowing and recognizing its limits, the voice of the protagonist within the picture, challenges the image as a fixed moment in time, all of which constitute another way to reevaluate, reconsider this act of photography. At the same time, I’m aware of the differences of how memory registers those images, when we saw them, if we did, and later they get transferred to our mind, and remembered when we read a book, differently than seeing them now in an exhibition."
Rail: And it’s a far cry from Carnival Strippers to Nicaragua!
Meiselas: That’s because I had no idea how to work in the field, nor did I have any kind of framework before going to Nicaragua. At least in Carnival Strippers, there was an immediate structure of the girl’s show that was visible to me and I could peel the layers, to go from the front of the fairgrounds, which was a public viewing to the private zone, through the dressing room, to the back of the tent. But when you land in a place you don’t know, and it’s just everyday life, so to find a narrative structure, what you are seeing, what’s happening, how to find the differences between one place and another, how to relate to people, and so on, is nearly impossible. I would say that it wasn’t until the drama of the insurrection took place that I began to see a process unfolding, evolving, whether it was the graffiti on the walls, which was always a signature, indicators, or different kinds of demonstrations that would follow. That was when I really felt this sense of an evolutionary process that drives the Nicaraguan book forward.
Rail: Having watched both films, which came with the two books, it made me realize that your process is equally and integrally invested in both taking the pictures and talking to people. You seem quite natural at it, especially the latter.
Meiselas: Well, I think people always know their own lives better than you can possibly imagine them. One of the things I’m quite pleased about in this exhibit is that we were able to include the open soundtrack...
Rail: You once said, “We take pictures away and we don’t bring them back.” Is that what compelled you to go back [to Nicaragua] in 2004, coinciding with the 25th anniversary of the Sandinista revolution? At which time you took mural-sized prints of some of your memorable images and mounted them in the locations where they had originally been taken. And this was revealed in the film Pictures from a Revolution. What were the reactions among the people, especially those that you talked to?
Meiselas: I had no idea if the pictures would resonate from history in present day memory. The question was and is, “How do young people, who weren’t present at that time, relate to it?” I think this is the essence, to continually question what you do. This, again, goes back to the “Concerned Photographer” that we spoke about earlier. In other words, the “Concerned Photographer” can’t start off with a concern and not continue to be concerned. There you go. It’s sort of the play of language but not really. I think what was unfair and sad about Johnson’s review was his simplistic notion of opportunism. It’s as if when I went to any one of these places I knew what was going to unfold.
...In fact, when I brought the Spanish version of the book, that’s just been reprinted, to Nicaragua, they asked me to bring the murals back to the 30th anniversary, which is in eight months. I don’t know if that’s what I’ll do, but I’ll try and figure out how to respond. In other words, is there a dialogue with the community that can be meaningful? Likewise with Kurdistan. I’ve been really searching for what would make sense there. People are trying to transform their lives. It may not be relevant to look at their past right now because it may not be useful. It wouldn’t make sense to just go and decorate the landscape with my photographs. So I just think of this as an ongoing project of interrogation. Frankly, I don’t know the answers.
...
Rail: That’s how I feel too. One more question: Why haven’t you been able to spend time in Bosnia and Somalia?
Meiselas: Since everyone else went there I didn’t feel I needed to be there. I stayed in Kurdistan instead. Now with so many people taking photographs, whether it be with cell phones or digital cameras, professional or amateur, the question is what do you do that contributes to the thinking about photography? I think those experiences tend to come from encountering real issues in the field. Not just having ideas, sitting away from the reality.
Rail: How do you mediate between spending a great deal of your time in places subjected to serious turmoil, which is your real passion and work, and New York City, where you live and rest in between?
Meiselas: Well, you know, there was a time I lived in New York and going back and forth to El Salvador I thought it was more dangerous to live in New York than there in El Salvador, which was hard for most people to understand. It’s not only the violence in the literal sense, but it’s the violence of being ruptured with the familiar, going to the unknown, and having to travel places where you have no idea what might evolve. So it’s a psychological violence that you put yourself through, to disrupt yourself, to uproot, throwing yourself into places where you don’t belong and you try and find a reason to be there that makes that act coherent and justified and that’s what I mean. It’s not just about pictures; it’s about the whole role.
Rail: That doesn’t sound that romantic anymore.
Meiselas: I don’t think it’s romantic. But it’s realistic.
"Consequently, my concern is not the concern of the concerned, but just to not pull back from that act. I think part of the impact of postmodernist inquiry or criticism, in some ways, inhibited that action. And that’s very costly. I want to put things into question but not paralyze people in that process. For example, what happened in Nicaragua, I wanted to register the voices of the subjects that are embedded, I hope, as objects in my photographs. By knowing and recognizing its limits, the voice of the protagonist within the picture, challenges the image as a fixed moment in time, all of which constitute another way to reevaluate, reconsider this act of photography. At the same time, I’m aware of the differences of how memory registers those images, when we saw them, if we did, and later they get transferred to our mind, and remembered when we read a book, differently than seeing them now in an exhibition."
Rail: And it’s a far cry from Carnival Strippers to Nicaragua!
Meiselas: That’s because I had no idea how to work in the field, nor did I have any kind of framework before going to Nicaragua. At least in Carnival Strippers, there was an immediate structure of the girl’s show that was visible to me and I could peel the layers, to go from the front of the fairgrounds, which was a public viewing to the private zone, through the dressing room, to the back of the tent. But when you land in a place you don’t know, and it’s just everyday life, so to find a narrative structure, what you are seeing, what’s happening, how to find the differences between one place and another, how to relate to people, and so on, is nearly impossible. I would say that it wasn’t until the drama of the insurrection took place that I began to see a process unfolding, evolving, whether it was the graffiti on the walls, which was always a signature, indicators, or different kinds of demonstrations that would follow. That was when I really felt this sense of an evolutionary process that drives the Nicaraguan book forward.
Rail: Having watched both films, which came with the two books, it made me realize that your process is equally and integrally invested in both taking the pictures and talking to people. You seem quite natural at it, especially the latter.
Meiselas: Well, I think people always know their own lives better than you can possibly imagine them. One of the things I’m quite pleased about in this exhibit is that we were able to include the open soundtrack...
Rail: You once said, “We take pictures away and we don’t bring them back.” Is that what compelled you to go back [to Nicaragua] in 2004, coinciding with the 25th anniversary of the Sandinista revolution? At which time you took mural-sized prints of some of your memorable images and mounted them in the locations where they had originally been taken. And this was revealed in the film Pictures from a Revolution. What were the reactions among the people, especially those that you talked to?
Meiselas: I had no idea if the pictures would resonate from history in present day memory. The question was and is, “How do young people, who weren’t present at that time, relate to it?” I think this is the essence, to continually question what you do. This, again, goes back to the “Concerned Photographer” that we spoke about earlier. In other words, the “Concerned Photographer” can’t start off with a concern and not continue to be concerned. There you go. It’s sort of the play of language but not really. I think what was unfair and sad about Johnson’s review was his simplistic notion of opportunism. It’s as if when I went to any one of these places I knew what was going to unfold.
...In fact, when I brought the Spanish version of the book, that’s just been reprinted, to Nicaragua, they asked me to bring the murals back to the 30th anniversary, which is in eight months. I don’t know if that’s what I’ll do, but I’ll try and figure out how to respond. In other words, is there a dialogue with the community that can be meaningful? Likewise with Kurdistan. I’ve been really searching for what would make sense there. People are trying to transform their lives. It may not be relevant to look at their past right now because it may not be useful. It wouldn’t make sense to just go and decorate the landscape with my photographs. So I just think of this as an ongoing project of interrogation. Frankly, I don’t know the answers.
...
Rail: That’s how I feel too. One more question: Why haven’t you been able to spend time in Bosnia and Somalia?
Meiselas: Since everyone else went there I didn’t feel I needed to be there. I stayed in Kurdistan instead. Now with so many people taking photographs, whether it be with cell phones or digital cameras, professional or amateur, the question is what do you do that contributes to the thinking about photography? I think those experiences tend to come from encountering real issues in the field. Not just having ideas, sitting away from the reality.
Rail: How do you mediate between spending a great deal of your time in places subjected to serious turmoil, which is your real passion and work, and New York City, where you live and rest in between?
Meiselas: Well, you know, there was a time I lived in New York and going back and forth to El Salvador I thought it was more dangerous to live in New York than there in El Salvador, which was hard for most people to understand. It’s not only the violence in the literal sense, but it’s the violence of being ruptured with the familiar, going to the unknown, and having to travel places where you have no idea what might evolve. So it’s a psychological violence that you put yourself through, to disrupt yourself, to uproot, throwing yourself into places where you don’t belong and you try and find a reason to be there that makes that act coherent and justified and that’s what I mean. It’s not just about pictures; it’s about the whole role.
Rail: That doesn’t sound that romantic anymore.
Meiselas: I don’t think it’s romantic. But it’s realistic.
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