At eighty-two, his beard thinning, gums receding slightly at the low tide line of his smile, John had the look of a man in the mid-winter of his life. He moved with a slow, gentle purpose, carefully organising his prints on the table with the deliberate, well-practised motions of a magician. Sixty years of work winnowed down to a selection of twenty, arranged in an old photographic paper box, each print sandwiched between thick sheets of watercolour paper. His eyes retained the quick bird like twitches of youth, and his terrier-like snap hadn’t lessened with age. Dissatisfied with one print, he tore it to pieces in front of the class with an exaggerated theatrical flourish, perhaps more performance than genuine frustration. “He does that for every class,” the host whispered knowingly in my ear. In either case, the effect was appreciated by all. One student noted how it was reassuring to see a master’s mistakes, although I wonder how many of us thought it a crude indulgence and a waste of expensive materials.
…as a teenager seeing Europe for the first time as part of an exchange project, I remember visiting a gallery in Copenhagen that was hosting an exhibition of Degas’ work. What struck me was the visible presence of brushstrokes in the thick oil paint, and for a brief yet memorable moment I felt a human connection between myself and the long dead painter. Watching John rip apart a large print I felt something similar, as if catching a glimpse of a personal moment in an artist’s creative process.
There should always be room in the world of high art for the bric-a-brac of modern suburban human life. I was pleased to see that one of John’s favourite photographs depicted a busy breakfast table, replete with Stork spread, triangular rounds of toast, teacups and a Heinz ketchup bottle daubed with a few rusty dribbles. We spend our lives making various messes and then putting things away, and there’s something quite wonderful about the easy aesthetic of the photograph that focused my attention. The scene looked like a rather lovely workday morning in the 1960s. The light suggests summertime, and I’m reminded of our own family breakfast table, with marmalade, coffee and chocolate spread stains on the multipurpose tablecloth. The familiar brands made a connection between our breakfast table and theirs (presumably John’s family), which on another day might have depressed me (are brands really the way we want to communicate with the past?). There is an odd but not entirely unwelcome nostalgia in discovering an old advertisement from one’s childhood, perhaps in an old magazine, or on an old VHS tape. Re-watching a treasured video tape of Predator, I would always refrain from fast forwarding through some of the ads, which through this strange blend of nostalgia and corporate messaging would transport me back to a time in the early 90s when I would almost obsessively watch and then re-watch my favourite tapes. I knew the dialogue to Aliens by heart. Every-single-word of it. That’s not to say that there is anything particularly fantastic about video tape. These were large, unsightly things that would occasionally squeal into a terminal tangle, stranded in the VCR, which would then have to carefully removed and re-spooled. It was much the same for audio cassettes. So perhaps it is a nostalgia that finds my smiling at John’s breakfast table, but I think there’s more too it than that. A still life, as my old art teacher would say, is a study in components, with each in its proper place. I think that’s also why I like landscape and nature photography – it’s so unfussy and yet somehow perfectly arranged.
