Raphael Shevelev

To See Ourselves

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Humanity’s major preoccupation is with humanity. We are, so to speak, of the genus homo narcissus, and that describes much of our concern. Portraiture is the natural result of the urge to record images of ourselves, in all manner of repose and activity. As Remy Saisselin wrote in Style, Truth and the Portrait (1963): “Like all art that has survived, portraiture is bound to history, social conventions, style, and so to time; yet insofar as it may touch us in the present, draw our attention, and set our minds to wonder, it escapes the temporal and is at once of the past as well as the present.” Many years ago I picked up a small, slim volume and opened it at random, coming face to face with a beautiful nineteenth century fin de siècle portrait of my own Eastern European Jewish grandmother as a young woman. But I was quite mistaken, for it was instead a mummy portrait from the middle of the first century A.D., excavated from the Roman cemetery at Hawara, Egypt. In 1911 Sir Flinders Petrie recovered 146 mummies with portraits, which, like the one of “my grandmother,” are splendid examples of artistic merit. They are very far removed from early pharaonic portraiture, stylized profiles with color applied flatly. Petrie’s discovery showed physiognomically-specific faces with excellent use of light and shade. The subjects are Hellenized individuals who were themselves, or descendants from, Romans, Greeks and Macedonians who had arrived in Egypt as soldiers, administrators, and merchants in the wake of the invasion by Alexander the Great. Paradoxically, the human need to provide a record of humanity’s stay on earth has suffered from some measure of condescension by artists who sometimes find it demeaning to use their talents to flatter the tastes of a patron. Yet, virtually all of the work of Frans Hals was portraiture, as was much of Rembrandt’s. Both became quite wealthy at this trade. Though both men sought to go beyond physical appearance and reach for what may lie beneath, it had not been until the arrival of Florentine and Venetian painting, that portraitists began to obey Leonardo’s admonition that the painter must depict “man, and the concept of his mind.” The reasons for our passion to create likenesses in clay and metal, glass and wood, cloth and paper, film, videotape and more recent technologies, are complex, and touch on the very reasons to understand our existence and to seek something beyond likeness itself. That search is fortunately endless, because portraiture finds its best expression in interpreting character, the relationship of the portrayed to their environment, and in the passage of the experience between portraitist and subject, all accomplished in the language of design and narrative. Portraitists may wish to honor patrons, to record the affections (or disaffections) of one human for another, to make social and personal comment, or simply to display artistic skill. Confucius encouraged the making of portraits of eminences, in the hope that future generations would have something to emulate. Even now, at a time when some of our environmental din is the incessant clicking of camera shutters, there is still the notion that portraiture singles out subjects as especially worthy of being portrayed. Because of my own predilection of trying to discover something beyond the surface, one of my favorite passages records what Oliver Cromwell is reputed to have said to Sir Peter Lely, painter of the Windsor Beauties: “I desire you would use all your skill to paint my picture truly like me, and not flatter me at all; but to remark all these roughnesses, pimples, warts and everything as you see me, otherwise I will never pay a farthing for it.” As a photographic portraitist, I keep trying to find subjects of similar sensibility. In service to that ambition, I generally try to make portraits of those who have passed the age of sixty, and are quite comfortable living in their own (blemished) skin. I have interest neither in glamor nor in epidermal virginity. I photograph only those with whom I’ve established some form of personal relationship, some trust. The expression of their surprise is my gift to them and their gift to me. It was King Charles I who realized the political value of grand portraiture, just as present heads of state see the political value of modern imagery. On a visit to Spain, he had seen the royal portraits of Titian and Rubens. Those kings looked like kings. Upon his return to England, Sir Anthony van Dyck was commissioned to paint the equestrian portrait by which we still know him. If the seventeenth century was the age of manners and gesture, the eighteenth became the age of conversation, and with it a form of literature and art, which, trying to penetrate the appearance of courtliness and mask, became an ancestor of modern psychology. By the beginning of the nineteenth century, portraits of ordinary people no longer looked ridiculous. Whereas in England, portraiture, despite its omnipresence, had generally not been the preferred genre of the artist, in America that situation was reversed, and one can easily conjure social, political and historical reasons. It was the extraordinary talents of Americans Sargent and Whistler, who dominated the last great age of portrait painting. The invention of photography in 1839 radically changed the nature of portraiture. The evolution of more modern digital media has revolutionized the nature of photography, and with it, the ability of photography to influence the older media. Photography’s disruption of the painters’ and sculptors’ duopoly in making likenesses has forced a sharing of this function with photographers, and has created greater freedom in all media to explore new realms of expression. This same realization, the ease with which the sitter’s physiognomy can be rendered by camera, has likewise imposed new obligations on the photographer. The challenge to all is the need to invest greater ingenuity in pursuit of more than mere likeness. Even a cursory look at the work of Andrew Wyeth, Raphael Soyer, … Read more

Come Let Us Play

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Creating is difficult and demanding work. Ask any creator. We know it requires a synthesis of imagination and high technical skill, but we frequently forget that the act of creating is also allied to humor and play. Play is thought of as a childish pursuit, not appropriate for adults in an increasingly technological and empirical world. There’s a story about a man who explains to his little daughter that his job is to teach adults to draw. “You mean they forget?” she asks. Yes, they do. So, before we go further into the meanings of creativity, I’d like to invite you to come play with me. Sometimes it is challenging, but as often it is great fun. I was a close observer of my grandson when he was little. Over the years I was enthralled with his rich and deep imagination, and his ability to invent fantastic “special machines” meant to accomplish all manner of tasks. He was a 21st century child, aware of much of the technology with which we live. I delighted in his endless imagination, which, incidentally, has helped to stimulate my own, I could also feel his frustration at not having the executive skills to realize his fantasies. So this is the tipping point, where, as they grow up, children are rewarded for empiricism and “the right answers” and increasingly encouraged to avoid fantasy and risk. It’s the real world. Even in California, as close as we are to the innovations of Silicon Valley, in public education there seems to be an inverse proportion in emphasis between imagination and executive abilities. We need to have both. And we have to recognize that frustration is a gift, admittedly well-disguised, an obstacle which rewards those who overcome. When I have taught courses at arts institutions on the creative process using the medium of photography, the last thing I could possibly have thought of was to begin — or even end — with discussions of cameras and lenses. I would enter the classroom and ask my students for a description of their equipment, and hear “Canon,” “Nikon,” Olympus” and other manufacturers. It was a trick question. What I really wanted them to be aware of was their own natural equipment, their senses, their brains, their anatomy, their acculturation and education. That’s the real photographic equipment. That’s the real equipment of the painter and the author, not the brush or the pen. It’s why I called the course The Eye’s Mind. I have little interest in the mechanics, and great interest in perception and understanding the narrative of pictorial language. Were I to teach a class on cooking, would I really begin with the anatomy and function of stoves and pans, rather than with nutrition and taste? That’s what manuals are for. Let us not be boring. For my students, their first assignment was to bring to class one or two pictures found in magazines, books, catalogues, even family albums that fascinated them, and discuss them. Getting them enthusiastic about images was the engine that drove their enthusiastic acquisition of technical ability so they could author their own. My friend, photographer Lady Ines Roberts, once told me that her engineer husband, Sir Gilbert, a delightfully smart, kind and generous-spirited man, invited her into his office and drew diagrams on the whiteboard of the focal length and acceptance angles of lenses, “thereby retarding my progress for two years.” At exhibitions of my own work, it’s always a man, never a woman, who approaches me with a compliment “I love your work,” and immediately follows with “What kind of camera do you use?” In a jocular moment, Brooks Jensen, the editor/publisher of LensWork reminded me that “When you buy a camera, you’re a photographer, and when you buy a violin, you own a violin.” Mechanical instruments, however necessary, should not be confused with artistic expression. Creation requires the willingness to be thought of as foolish, often wrong, and to value the words of our critics. It takes considerable courage. Think of it as a kind of exploration, where the process and the ends are uncertain. There are no maps. Innovation requires the defeat of habit. We are an explorative species, but we also seek the comforts of revealed truths and established taxonomies. When I was new to photography, I kept hearing about the compositional “rule of thirds,” in which a rectangular field is subdivided into nine segments, with the idea that any element of significance should be placed on one of the four internal intersections to make the greatest visual impact. My mental compass rebelled at the thought of this prepackaging. It was happily supported not only by looking closely at many images and reading the stories behind them, but by Leonardo’s words in his Treatise on Painting: “Those who create by rule, create nothing but confusion.” What really counts is the intellectual bridge between artist and audience, what Arthur Koestler in The Act of Creation called “the magic synthesis.” That synthesis depends on the ability of the artist to hold and guide the attention of the audience, often with the interruption of logical flow. That’s the connection to humor and play. Is it possible to experience the work of inventive comedians, surrealists, cartoonists, playwrights and architects without knowing that our senses are being tweaked and therefore intrigued? For those who wish to explore the subject of creativity more fully, there are fine books by Robert Grudin (The Grace of Great Things), psychologists Rollo May (The Courage to Create), Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (Creativity), and that delightful read by photographers David Bayles and Ted Orland, Art & Fear. You may also be interested in my own essay for the Royal Photographic Society and LensWork, Creation: A Journey to the Reflecting Pool. Innovation breeds innovation. Let us play. _________________________________________________________ © Raphael Shevelev. All Rights Reserved. Permission to reprint is granted provided the article, copyright and byline are printed intact, with all links visible and made live if distributed in electronic form. Raphael Shevelev is a … Read more

Originality

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I’m frequently asked “How did you do that?” I don’t mind telling, but with the following caveat: it’s the least important question that I’m asked, the one least useful to other artists, especially those who pursue the least line of resistance. Show me how you did that so I can do the same. There’s a better way, and a better question: “Why did you do that?” A long time ago I acquired a new primary care physician, who served my health needs (and my sense of humor) for 30 years until his retirement. He is a photographer, and kept interesting magazines in his waiting room. Many had remarkable images, mostly commercial work to promote products. Being an avid studio/conceptual photographer, I loved examining them, and for hours or days and nights later, I would try to reverse-engineer them. That taught me lot, because in the process I would necessarily introduce new elements from the rest of my education and acculturation. I could look at the superb work done (at considerable expense) by masters such as Pete Turner, and more recently by Annie Leibovitz, and find new ways of achieving similar effects for a few pennies and a dollop of imagination in my studio. Artists learn from each other, so in the strictest sense, some plagiarism is inevitable. At this point it’s a good time to remind ourselves of P.D.Q. Bach, the youngest and stupidest of the Bach family, the creation of musicologist Peter Schickele. PDQ was the only composer who learned his craft by using tracing paper. It is extremely unlikely that newer landscape photographers would not have learned from the experience and images of Ansel Adams, and that those who aspire to use photomontage would be unaware of the gifts of Jerry Uelsmann, and much more recently, my friend Valda Bailey. I’m not implying that it is useless to have asked those artists for information on their processes, but just that it is considerably more useful to work them out for oneself, and bring one’s own ingenuity to further the adventure. This led to my maxim “What’s the purpose of standing on the shoulders of giants, if the only direction of your gaze is downwards?” The lesson is: climb aboard, stand tall, but bring your own telescope. In the image below, Big City Traffic, I created the background by melding different photographs of the TransAmerica Pyramid in San Francisco for the background, and overlaying them with bidirectional evening traffic on Solano Avenue, Berkeley. I added some personal condiments. So why not take an MRI of your own intestines, scan it, add tennis balls, crayons, wine glasses and the head of a goat? It’s all more than acceptable! Just don’t be surprised when someone asks how you did it. Be kind. Tell them what camera you used. Good luck, be bold. _________________________________________________________ © Raphael Shevelev. All Rights Reserved. Permission to reprint is granted provided the article, copyright and byline are printed intact, with all links visible and made live if distributed in electronic form. Raphael Shevelev is a California based fine art photographer, digital artist and writer on photography and the creative process. He is known for the wide and experimental range of his art, and an aesthetic that emphasizes strong design, metaphor and story. His photographic images can be seen and purchased at www.raphaelshevelev.com/galleries

Still Dazzled

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My European refugee parents had ambitions for their only child. Mother wanted a doctor, and bought me a stethoscope for my twelfth birthday. It provided an opportunity to examine my friends, boys and especially girls, able to give optimistic diagnoses except in the case of my friend Harry, with whom I accomplished a medical miracle by diagnosing gonorrhea. I wrote the word down for him. I still don’t think I deserved the vicious scolding from his mother. I gave the stethoscope away. Father, noting his son’s penchant for argument, aggressively insisted on a law career, and it took begging “Uncle Ben,” the Dean of the Law School, to persuade Dad that I had no such interest. What I really wanted was so far from parental imagination that I might as well have insisted on becoming a photographer, a writer and an opera star. I had lost my way in the arts, an area entirely alien to my parents. I loved singing until my voice broke and dashed my dreams of becoming the next Caruso. I liked noodling around on the piano, inventing new cacophonic chords, which on rare occasions resolved into acceptable majors and minors, giving my parents scant if desperate hope. My passion for great classical music was further propelled by exposure to the Symphony Orchestra and a friendship with the conductor, who tried to teach me on the only instrument I could hope to master, the baton, which has a certain megalomaniacal attraction. A compromise was reached when, at the University of Cape Town, I read politics, philosophy and economics, the latter pleasing my father who hoped I would save more and spend less. But although I continued those studies in graduate school in America, and enhanced my parents’ social cred when I became an academic — “Our son, the Professor” — I still felt a gap in my life, most keenly when I visited art galleries and museums, and fell in love with impressionism and surrealism. In midlife I married a woman of great intellect and immense love, and finally dared, with her full support, to return to my passions and become an artist and writer. She said, “If you want to do it, do it!” And so I did. Now, facing the prospect of my eightieth birthday on December 10, 2018, I’ve decided on an alternative autobiography, expressed in three images: Arrival Dazzled By Art Still Dazzled By Art ______________________________________________________________ © Raphael Shevelev. All Rights Reserved. Permission to reprint is granted provided the article, copyright and byline are printed intact, with all links visible and made live if distributed in electronic form. Raphael Shevelev is a California based fine art photographer, digital artist and writer on the creative process. He is a Fellow of the Royal Photographic Society of Great Britain. He is known for the experimental range of his art, and an aesthetic that emphasizes strong design, metaphor and story. His images can be seen and purchased at www.raphaelshevelev.com/galleries. Still Dazzled was originally published in Pandemic Diaries on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.