Cyberian Dispatch 2: Russia's Vast Galapagos

By Gabriela Bulisova & Mark Isaac

How to comprehend -- and then convey -- the enormity of Siberia and the incalculable volume of the world’s deepest and oldest lake? These are early problems for our project on Lake Baikal.

Russia is the world’s largest nation in terms of area, with more than 17 million square kilometers. But more than 77 percent of Russia is Siberia, still larger than any other nation on earth. In fact, Siberia alone is larger than all of the United States and Europe combined.

Lake Baikal is the deepest, and by volume of water, the largest lake in the world. All of the Great Lakes could be drained into Lake Baikal, and it contains more than 20 percent of all the freshwater in the world. It is also the oldest lake in the world, formed 25-30 million years ago.

Standing on the Western shore on the Great Baikal Trail, we can easily spot the sprays of snow on the peaks of the storybook mountain range on the Eastern side, in the Republic of Buryatia. Our eyes are rewarded by the endless dancing reflections of light on the Lake’s surface. But we cannot see 1,642 meters into its depths, to its murky bottom carved by a geological trauma. And we cannot see to the northern reaches of its crescent shape, beyond the villages that draw most of its tourists.

Around us are thousands of aspens and birch trees, decorated in gold, shivering in the emphatic wind, shedding leaves rapidly. But we cannot count the thousands of species of plants and animals that live in and around Lake Baikal, 60 percent of which are unique, causing it to be labelled “Russia’s Galapagos.”

On the shores, we can easily locate small sponges that have washed up on the pebbles and bleached white. But we cannot see the vast colonies of living sponges beneath the waves or the 350 different species of indigenous amphipods, crustaceans essential to the Lake’s health that find their home under rocks on its bottom.

Indeed, one of our most compelling findings thus far is that our lensed devices fail to do justice to the physical vastness of Siberia or Lake Baikal. Over and over, we remarked on and lamented this failure and worried about what it might mean for our project. But now we are mapping an alternate voyage. Instead of capsizing on the Lake’s biggest waves, we are drifting on its tender swells. We hope these modest crests will aptly communicate, not the enormity of Baikal’s size, but its immeasurable importance.

Willow Paule Photography Interview with Altantika Members

Untitled, from the series “Who Speaks for Me,” by Gabriela Bulisova, Mark Isaac and Taylar Nuevelle, 2017.

Willow Paule Photography is featuring an interview with two of Atlantika’s founding members, Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac. Please check out this article and its insights into their collaborative process.

https://willowpaule.com/interview-gabriela-bulisova-mark-isaacs-photography-and-collaboration-powerful-mix/

Cyberian Dispatch 1: Exile Begins

by Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

"You're going there willingly?"

That's been one of the most common responses when we tell people we're headed to Siberia. Yes, we chose to spend the next nine months in this place that is known primarily as a punishment and a place of exile.

The practice of sending people to the Far East began under the Tsars and continued under Communism. Somehow the authorities thought they could accomplish two things at once: punish people and use their labor to develop this vast and forbidding region. Common criminals, intellectuals and political insubordinates rubbed shoulders on the long trip East and after they arrived. And the political prisoners, some as notable as Dostoevsky, brought many elements of culture with them, causing Irkutsk, the city where we're now located, to eventually be nicknamed "the Paris of the East."

Stepping off the overnight flight from Moscow, we were hit by a brisk breeze and a certain something different about the air. Was it thicker, did it smell of the deep woods, did it have healing properties? Our new friend from the International Office of Irkutsk National Research Technological University, Assia, scoffed at this notion. "It's just the airport," she said, laughing. But we were convinced it was true.

Assia tried to reassure us that it was colder than a normal September. "It snowed yesterday," she reported, "but that's not normal for this time of year." We know that temperatures of minus 20 Fahrenheit are not too far in the future. But in the meantime, t-shirt weather is restored, with the first brilliant yellows rapidly emerging on the plentiful birch trees.

And the inviting weather made possible our first trip to Lake Baikal, the crescent-shaped "sacred jewel," the deepest lake in the world, containing one-fifth of earth's fresh water. We traveled on a boat from Irkutsk with Mikhail, who seems to know everything and everybody -- and has natural amphetamines coursing through his veins. As the boat made its way up the Angara River, the only river that drains from Lake Baikal, we caught sight of the mountains on the other side of the Lake, in Buryatia, the semi-autonomous land of the indigenous Buryat people. They appeared like a mystical wall, with ample snow already ladled onto the peaks, and no sign of human interference: not a ship, not a town, not a house.

The boat turned and chugged to Bolshie Koty, or Large Cats, a miniscule village that is accessible only by water during the summer months (and by car once the Lake freezes solid in January). After disembarking, Mikhail sprinted at an inhuman pace up a hill to an overlook where the Lake spread out in front of us and the view of Buryatia was even more surreal, the peaks appearing blue and white through an other-worldly haze. The entire village was visible at our feet, including a laboratory in a miniature wooden house that pursues research on the impact of pollutants and warming temperatures on marine life. After descending again, we met the biologists who are methodically trying to understand how best to protect the lake's ecosystem. Their beakers and petri dishes contained samples of Lake water and small sponges gathered from the bottom, and they showed us photographs of indigenous organisms, essential food for the Lake's fish, that are increasingly threatened by chemical spills and unusually high temperatures.

According to Buryat legend, a great earthquake caused fire to spew from the earth. The people gathered and cried, "Bai, gal!," or "Fire, stop!" in the Buryat language. And when their prayers were answered and the fire ended, the chasm filled with water, creating Lake Baikal. The Buryat tradition is extremely respectful of nature and its balance. But now, a second fire, that of climate change, threatens this equilibrium. In fact, the region around Lake Baikal is one of the places on Earth most threatened by global warming. Our project will explore the connection between these ancient and contemporary "fires," and call attention to the importance of preserving the Lake's pristine waters.

On the way back to Irkutsk, a generous sunset was unveiled on the left banks of the Angara, glinting through the spray from the boat. Undoubtedly, exiles suffered and died in this region in ways we can never fully comprehend. But those who were able to set eyes upon Lake Baikal must have had some small consolation. Baikal is still a sacred jewel, one of the most unique and precious spots on the planet. Having seen it only once, we count ourselves among the lucky.

Who Is Li'l Liza Jane?

By Mark Isaac

In furtherance of Atlantika Collective's emphasis on an "open circle" of collaboration, please check out this trailer for a documentary film that is currently being created by Dan Gutstein, along with his colleagues Emily Cohen and Erich Roland. The film centers on an iconic song that has been sung by musicians as diverse as African American slaves and members of the KKK. The song tells the story of an elusive American icon, Li'l Liza Jane, who isn’t always true to her man, turning him upside down and toward despair. The film centers in on a fundamental question that seems to have many different answers: "Who is Liza Jane?" This film is a labor of love for those involved in making it, and I invite you to experience the trailer, share it, and help create the buzz necessary to get the film fully funded.

https://www.lizajanemovie.com/

The Days

Bill Crandall

New song-in-progress, written about those despairing moments when you ask yourself, are we (the US) slipping into some form of actual fascism? Should I get out now, go somewhere else? Those times when the best you can hope for is in your inner world, in your own spirituality, whatever you choose to call that thing that gets you through. I was stuck for a third verse, then along came some sharp, courageous teenagers. First significant turn for the better in quite a while.

Since I so often go on about how art should be relevant, addressing the times, figured I should do so more directly myself:

The Days

I can’t take it all
I’d leave and leave it all behind
If I was made to
And you’d come along

But I can’t leave it all
I stay and ready for a fight
Will I wait too long
Or will it come around

The days I find You
Are the days that are good enough

And then here they come
Ok and leading on
They were made to
Lean on

The days I find You
Are the days that are good enough

A New Humanism in Photography?

by Mark Isaac

The latest Museum of Modern Art survey of contemporary photography has just opened, and as the accompanying New York Times article reveals, it is a striking departure from the last show two years ago. Rather than simply look at promising new photographers, the show focuses in on a broad theme, which in itself seems more appropriate. But the most striking difference is the turn back toward photography that embraces a discussion of the human condition -- and importantly, an element of humanism.

I personally have no beef with artists who choose to interrogate the image itself, and with an estimated 1.3 trillion photos taken in 2013, it may be particularly incumbent on photographers to understand those images and to make reasonable determinations as to when the provenance of new images is most appropriate. I think it is very fair to say that, at this particular moment in time, new images may be most important to make when they can contribute meaningfully to a better understanding of human relations and to bringing people together. In this way, the MOMA show (which I will likely not see, given my current sojourn in Europe) may be timely and point us in a useful direction. 

In fact, it is precisely in this direction that Atlantika Collective was aimed when it formed several years ago. Members made fundamental commitments to help each other finish projects, to be collaborative, to be transparent about our process, and perhaps most important of all, we added this line to our mission: "We believe in social responsibility, community, and nurturing a contemporary humanism through art."

I personally will, at times, continue to investigate photography itself, to ask a broad range of questions, and sometimes, to make (new and/or appropriated) images just for fun. But along with my fellow Atlantika Collective members, I do not plan to turn away from humanism, particularly at a moment when the politics and the culture demand it more than ever. If the Museum of Modern Art now calls it a trend, we warmly embrace that. Read for yourself, and tell us what you think:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/09/arts/design/museum-of-modern-art-being-new-photography.html

And a brief P.S.: The article notes that all 17 photographers in the show are under 45. I have a quarrel with the connection made by many, particularly in the art world, between youth and innovation, and I intend to do my utmost to help disprove this persistent myth. There are so many examples of artists innovating into their later years, and we should call out this mind set for what it is: a detestable ageism. Let's hold with the talons of an eagle onto the idea that you're never too old to get crazy.

What a Time to Be Alive

By Bill Crandall

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"To see the rot in no disguise, oh what a time to be alive"

Talk about art that is 'about something'. As Superchunk slides well into middle age, they come roaring back with a catchy-but-angry punk-pop fusillade of hooks and riffs that leave no doubt where they are aimed.

First Listen: Superchunk, 'What A Time To Be Alive'

It seems artists have sometimes struggled to respond to the scope of the great upheavals of the recent past. After 9/11 artists and musicians largely kept their heads down in the 'patriotic' furor. There were those all-star concerts to make us feel better, which is fine. But artists (like journalists) too often abandoned their contrarian impulses. Ask the Dixie Chicks - Bruce Springsteen was the only one to prominently come to their defense after they were blacklisted for speaking out against Bush. Tom Waits was one of the few singers to put what was going on into their work, and even he was pretty indirect and hesitant about it in the song "Day After Tomorrow".

Currently I'm reading "The Great Derangement" by Amitav Ghosh, about the absence of climate change as a topic of serious fiction and other arts. (It's something I'm thinking about and working on for a followup to my Mars concept album. What was going on back on Earth as humans made the great leap to space colonization? Was it calamity that drove them to consider leaving Earth forever?)

Where Is the Fiction About Climate Change?

All the more reason Superchunk's ferocious, melodic clarion call is so stirring. It's an un-hesitant punch in the face to those who, frankly, most deserve it. Using the tools and weapons they possess. And poignant coming from those one might presume to be weakened, on the decline. Will it matter, change anything? Well, only if you still believe that anything still matters. Music itself has never changed anything directly. But if it can change and bolster us, then who knows what we can do?

Georgians in Mykolaiv: Preserving Language and Culture

By Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

During the Soviet era, the expression of ethnic identity was discouraged or even punished, so people of many backgrounds were forced to suppress any public celebration of their roots. But after Soviet rule collapsed, the public embrace of one’s origins once again became possible. That is the case in Mykolaiv, where people from more than 130 different nationalities live together peacefully. Many of them are taking strong action to preserve their language and culture.

One of the best examples is the Georgian community. When conflicts broke out in the Abkhazia region of Georgia following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, tens of thousands of ethnic Georgians were killed and as many as 250,000 were forced to flee, some to Southern Ukraine. Now they are fighting to preserve their language and culture in their new homeland.

At the Mykolaiv College of Culture and Arts, we were invited into a classroom where the Georgian language is being taught to children of different ages. This language, which is unique among world tongues and employs its own very beautiful, rounded script, is alive in Mykolaiv thanks to the ongoing efforts of teacher Valeriy Ekhvaya, a leader of the Mykolaiv Georgian community who carefully tutors students in both reading and writing.

On the day we met him, he was awarded a certificate commending him for his work cultivating ties to other local minorities by Lalita Kaimarozova, an official responsible for outreach to all the national communities in Mykolaiv. His friends Yunus Aliev and Shamil Ismailov, members of the Azerbaijani community in Mykolaiv, attended to support him and to celebrate the long-term friendship of Georgians and Azeris. Among other things, when Georgia was attacked by Russia in 2008 following conflict in the South Ossetia region, Azerbaijanis offered support to the Georgian people.

But it is not only language that Georgians seek to preserve. We were invited to move from the classroom to the dance studio, where Georgian dance was joyously and energetically performed by beaming young people. And from there, we moved to a modern Georgian restaurant, complete with painted replicas of famous Georgian paintings, where we shared unique Georgian dishes, such as a flat bread with cheese and spicy stuffed pasta pillows filled with juices that must be slurped down before they are consumed.

The evening ended with numerous toasts about the importance of friendship among different peoples, and with the ceremonial drinking of wine from handmade, horn-shaped flasks, which have a unique construction: they cannot be put down until they are empty!

Art on social media

Bill Crandall

Of course plenty has been written about social media and art, I’m not sure I can add something new of value.

Like most artists, I’ve wrestled with the limitations of social media as a platform for art. I’ve seen too many artists post their work online, let’s say on Facebook or Instagram, only to receive a somewhat dispiriting number of responses even if the work itself is quite strong and interesting. Obviously people are deluged by the torrent of social media content, and increasingly task number one is not to let it take over one’s day completely. So the endless scroll requires extreme vetting - what is worth clicking on? The latest Trump outrage? Your friends’ smiling group shot at a hip event? Hedgehog Azuki’s daily cuteness? Since you know in advance you might click on a number of things that could really add up in terms of time, you can’t afford too many missteps.

For the record I enjoy Facebook quite a lot (probably too much), in part because I try to post quality stuff and my friends generally do as well. There’s some fluff to wade through, but not too much. I truly feel like I discover things I wouldn’t otherwise, in addition to keeping up with the (mostly) worthwhile musings of friends.

Personally I am somewhat averse to clicking on videos unless I know they are very short. For some reason even though I’ll read articles that take several minutes, those same minutes watching a video feel more like I’m falling down the rabbit hole.

So why would I post, as I did the other day, a 10-minute video? Which I myself wouldn’t be likely to click on? Who feels like they have ten minutes for anything? It’s some of my finest recent work: a song sequence from my music album that I’m quite proud of, thoughtfully paired with images in an interesting conceptual narrative. But not only is it long, it’s SLOW. Slow like a Bela Tarr film scene, I’d like to think. Actually not quite that slow. Maybe slow like 1970s movie pacing. It requires (and rewards) patient attention. Can our brains even handle that anymore? There’s been plenty of evidence that consuming short online reading has made it harder for the brain to settle into reading a novel. Our wiring is evolving. Is long-form anything already toast?

The video is part of a loose, experimental narrative of sorts, about the first people to leave Earth for another planet, knowing they won't return. It uses my original music and my photos combined with NASA public domain images. This is the segment toward the end as they approach their new home (Mars), descend in pure terror, and somehow land safely and begin to build a life. After a few years Earth has stopped responding to their communications. Has something happened back home, are they more alone than they realize? I tested it on a few of my high school students, they hung there and seemed to like it, but that was a projection in a darkened classroom, by request of the teacher. What realistic expectation should I have that people will pause their day for such an absurd proposition: “click here for ten minutes of something I created”?

Ukraine Sketchbook: Photo Workshop in Antonivka

by Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

Since we’ve been in Ukraine, we’ve met some incredibly warm and giving people, who have been kind enough to let us into their lives. One of those individuals is Dmytro Say, who is involved in so many projects locally that it’s impossible to know when he sleeps.

One of Dmytro’s most important efforts is on behalf of an orphanage in a small village north of Mykolaiv called Antonivka. Dmytro taught there for several years and now he returns to assist them with a variety of programs. He asked us to come with him to the orphanage and conduct a photo workshop for the kids there, who range in age from about 5 to 16.

Dmytro used an older car for the drive, which he warned is on one of the worst roads in Ukraine. After some truly outsized bumps along the way, we arrived in Antonivka and were warmly welcomed by the staff, who took us on a tour of the facility, which includes a museum of Antonivka’s history, first as a place dominated by a wealthy landowner, then as a very productive collective farm, and now as a place where many have volunteered to fight in the East.

But the most important part of the visit was the kids, of course. We met them first in a classroom, offering some pointers on photo taking strategies that would move them beyond the selfie. Then we all walked out on the steppe, known for its constantly blowing winds, sharing cell phones to take some experimental portraits and landscapes. When we were safely back in the classroom, we downloaded the photos, projected them on a wall, and discussed the results. The kids participated enthusiastically, showing a surprisingly advanced intuitive command of composition.

We don’t know if any of them will go on to become professional photographers, but we do know that Dmytro has forged a wonderful bond with some very loving and talented young people, and we were glad to become a small part of their lives.

A Taste of Bulgaria in Ukraine

By Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

At 4:00 am on October 24, a woman awoke in Ternovka to bake a traditional Bulgarian cake called a banitsa. The cake was baked to help welcome us to a community in Mykolaiv where many people of Bulgarian descent live. And it is a symbol of how warm and welcoming the community is, and how much they reach out to other cultures in friendship.

Later in the day, we arrived with our friend Sveta on Sofia Street, named for the capital of Bulgaria. We were met by her Bulgarian friend Nadya, and we all walked together to the nearby Children’s Art School #1, focused on serving local Bulgarian youth. There we saw many examples of outstanding artistic talent and dedication, including drawings and paintings that suggest a bright future for young local artists. Several Bulgarian teachers also modeled traditional costumes for us and sang songs whose melodies resonated through the ages and across national boundaries.

Our visit was made especially warm and productive by the Director of Children’s Art School #1, Irina Ivanovna Zaychenko, who explained that many ancestors of local residents fled to this area of Ukraine during the 19th Century in the face of a Turkish invasion. She also elaborated on many Bulgarian traditions, including the creation of handmade woven blankets that hang above the cribs of newborns to provide them with protection.

But the biggest highlight of the visit was the banitsa, a wonderful cake in layers of soft cheese and pastry dough, with a little bit of sweetness. Though we worried that Nadya’s mother had to work so hard to create it, it was extremely unique and special to taste it. It united us with the Bulgarian community in a manner that can never be undone.

As part of our ongoing photography project, supported by a Fulbright grant, we will feature a portrait of a member of the Bulgarian community and a photograph of the cake, which was chosen by the community as an item of great importance to their heritage. Ms. Zaychenko has also provided us with a short text explaining the cake’s special meaning.

We give thanks to Mykolaiv’s Bulgarian community for their warm welcome and feel honored to understand their culture -- and how it fits vibrantly into today’s Ukraine -- better than before.

--

Вкус Болгарии в Николаеве

Габриэла Булишова и Марк Исаак

В 4 часа ночи 24 октября в Терновке проснулась женщина, чтобы испечь традиционный болгарский пирог, называемый “Банницей”. Это блюдо приготовили для того, чтобы поприветствовать нас в Терновке, где живут многие жители города имеющие болгарские корни. И это символ того, насколько теплыми и гостеприимными являются болгарские люди, и как им удается жить в мире и дружбе с другими культурами.

Позже в тот же день мы прибыли со своей подругой Светой на Софиевскую улицу, названную в честь столицы Болгарии. Нас встретилa преподаватель Детской школы искусств №1 Надежда Орлова, и мы все вместе отправились в эту школу,  при которой функционирует центр Болгарской культуры в городе Николаеве. Этот центр замечательно справляется со своей миссией поддерживать связь поколений  и передавать болгарские традиции детям и молодежи.

Наш визит был особенно теплым и продуктивным благодаря директору Детской школы искусств №1 Ирине Ивановне Зайченко, которая объяснила, что многие предки местных жителей бежали в этот район Украины в XIX веке перед лицом турецкого вторжения. Она также подробно рассказала о многих болгарских традициях, в том числе о создании ручных тканых одеял, которые висят над кроватями новорожденных, чтобы обеспечить им защиту. Несколько учителей школы -этнических болгарок, специально для нас оделись в традиционные костюмы и пели народные болгарские песни, мелодии которых прошли сквозь века и через национальные границы.

Но самой большой изюминкой визита была “Банница”, замечательный слегка сладковатый пирог из слоеного теста с брынзой. Мы волновались, что Надиной маме пришлось так рано вставать и трудиться, чтобы ее приготовить. Но душа которую вложила эта женщина в это национальное блюдо и делает ее такой особенной.  Она действительно объединила нас с болгарской общиной.

В рамках нашего текущего фотопроекта “Проект национального самосознания:

Гармония, между людьми разных этнических групп в Николаеве, Украина”, поддержанного грантом Фулбрайта, мы собираемся среди фотографий множества национальных меншинств проживающих на Николаевщине представить и портрет члена болгарского общества и фотографию “Банницы”, которая была выбрана Зайченко Ириной Ивановной как элемент, имеющий большое значение для их культурного наследия. Г-жа Зайченко также предоставила нам короткий текст, поясняющий особое значение этого блюда.

Мы благодарим Зайченко И.И. - директора Детской школы искусств №1  за их теплый прием и за возможность ближе узнать и понять их культуру - и то место, которое болгарская культура занимает сегодня в Украине.

Mykolaiv Sketchbook: Roma Remembrance

By Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

We were exceptionally honored and pleased to be welcomed yesterday on a bus by members of the Romani Bacht ensemble to travel more than 200 kilometers northwest of Mykolaiv to a site that is very important to Roma history and remembrance. We joined local Romas and their friends in commemorating a massacre of 5,000 Romas, many of them women and children, that occurred in World War II during German occupation of this territory. A wreath was laid, songs were sung, and poems were recited near the village of Krivoe Ozero (Crooked Lake) where  a monument marks this terrible event. After solemnly remembering this tragedy, local residents also embraced their heritage with a celebration in song and dance -- and a meal -- before the long ride back to Mykolaiv. By the time we returned, late in the evening, we felt we had made a lasting link to new friends -- and we certainly honor and respect their outstanding contributions to local culture and their history. We are sharing a small number of photos that document the proceedings, but we also made connections that will further our project on ethnic identity and the reasons why so many peoples of different backgrounds have been able to live together peacefully in Southern Ukraine.

Mykolaiv Sketchbook: Druzhba Festival

Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

Following a whirlwind of activity in Kyiv, we took the night train to our new home in Southern Ukraine: Mykolaiv. Mykolaiv was named by its founder, Prince Grigory Potemkin, in honor of St. Nicholas, on whose day he won a significant military victory. The city is at the confluence of two major rivers, the Southern Bug and the Ingul. After they join, they flow to an estuary where they meet the Dnieper and then the Black Sea. For years, Mykolaiv was one of the most significant shipbuilding cities in the entire region, and because of its contributions to the military might of the Tsars and the Soviet Union, it was a closed, secret city. People from other parts of the Soviet Union were not permitted to visit the city, and if people from Mykolaiv wanted to visit relatives from other places, they needed to leave the city and meet them somewhere else. In the post-Soviet era, the three major shipbuilding centers in Mykolaiv are all closed, and the city is now open to all, though few tourists venture here.

Here in Mykolaiv, we are working closely with our affiliate institution, Petro Mohyla Black Sea National University, including the Dean of the Philology Department, Professor Oleksandr Pronkevych, a noted Cervantes scholar, and other faculty and students to create two projects. First, we are focusing on the reasons why people of so many ethnic backgrounds have been able to live together peacefully in Mykolayiv for many generations. Second, we are creating a documentary on the relationship of the people of Mykolaiv and the surrounding region to the water that is such an important part of their lives.

On the first full weekend we spent in Mykolayiv, a new friend alerted us to the planned Druzhba, or Friendship, Festival. We packed our cameras and started walking to the location to check it out. As we turned onto the main pedestrian street, formerly Sovietskaya and now Soborna Street, we were surprised to see a colorful parade of diverse nationalities marching together. We followed them to the Cultural Palace, where a program of dancing, singing, and ethnic food unfolded. Although the city is dominated by people of Ukrainian and Russian heritage, there are dozens of different ethnic groups living here, and many of them participated in the Festival. In our first sketchbook from Ukraine, here are some very colorful and proud moments from this demonstration of cultural friendship.

Between Art and Science: Talking with Todd Forsgren

by Gabriela Bulisova and Joe Lucchesi

In keeping with Atlantika’s ‘open circle’ concept, we’ll be posting dialogs with artists, scholars, curators and other creative professionals whose work captures us and connects to ideas the collective cares about. First up is DC-based photographer Todd Forsgren, whose book Ornithological Photographs (Daylight Books, 2015) has received widespread critical and popular attention since its publication. As Todd describes himself, “I use photography to examine themes of ecology, environmentalism, and perceptions of landscape while striving to strike a balance between art history and natural history. To do so, I employ a range of photographic approaches, from documentary strategies to experimental techniques.”

Joe: To start off, we’d like to hear about your primary ideas for Ornithological Photographs  - what are those?

Todd: I’m most interested in how this work fits in with a trajectory from Romanticism to Modernism, that’s really critical in all my work. It’s something that John [Tyson] discusses in his essay for the book. How we can follow that line today, and there are a few different ways I think about that in the Ornithological Photographs. One of those in these photographs being the idea of photography as analytic versus photography as expressive, and the way the nets can become representative of the analytic side and the birds formally relate to the expressive side (although there’s some blurring between the two). Also this idea between abstract work and representational work that’s really crucial in what I’m doing. So if we try to map analytic and expressive modes onto representative and abstract strategies, perhaps abstraction is this very analytic way that this data scientists are gathering is giving us an idea of what’s happening to these species. The work is completely about abstraction and is totally concrete at the same time, which was critical to me.

This incident of the scientific research (my longstanding interest in the birds aside) created this opportunity to have this sort of ‘onion peel’ of ways to approach those ideas. So the first response of the viewer is sometimes this sort of distraught empathy for the creatures, and the way it’s been digested in other press has been ‘oh just kidding, the birds are really ok’ is just too clean a dissection of that. Feel empathy, but they’re ‘really’ ok. The responses I like the most are ones [like John’s] that continue that intertwining of this is being a good thing and being a tragic thing at the same time. The relationship between the individual bird we see in front of us compared to what the data show us about species and populations of birds.

Black-headed Nightingale-thrush (Catharus mexicanus)

Joe: One of the things I was connecting to when looking at these photographs was my pre-teen dream of being an ornithologist. But one of my problems was that I had no scientific distance from the birds. So I get that sense of empathy that you’re talking about and that others have cited, but for me it’s more than that. There’s a certain humanity that we easily project onto those animals in that moment. Which is how I knew I was never going to be a scientist, because I cared too much about these other little entities in the world. Does that make sense?

Todd: It does. Many ornithologists I know are folks who love these little creatures very much. Yet picking those things apart and compartmentalizing them as they do, is maybe not quite possible for me either. So that’s what led me down the road of the arts, because I couldn’t quite get that abstraction in thinking about these creatures as just data, and I don’t think that most scientists do. But they’ve been able to compartmentalize in ways that you and I haven’t been able to, Joe!

Gabriela: In The World is Round statement, you describe a significant event; meeting a person called Jeff made you change your identity from scientist to artist. Looking at your projects, I don’t necessarily see a clear distinction between the two fields. Instead, art and science seem to live in close coexistence, depending on and inspiring each other.

Todd: Scientific thought is still super-important to how I approach the world, but I don’t consider myself a scientist because I’m not using the scientific method. So science is very crucial to the way I think - it’s the closest thing to religion for me - it’s just that the methodology I use is that of an artist rather than a scientist.

Gabriela: Your use of the word ‘methodology,’ and the scientific ‘cleanness’ of the representation of ornithological images, makes me think of the Dusseldorf school of photography and specifically of the work of the Bechers. But in your other projects, your approach is more organic and experimental, you use a variety of media, representational and design strategies. Can you talk about those choices?

Todd: That’s a very good question! I think that coming right out of science and into photography I was very enamored of the Bechers, and really their project is the same as John James Audubon’s, in a certain way. He wanted to paint all of the birds. He allowed himself a little more room for interpretation of each species than the really rigorous nature of the Bechers. But I think that approach of taking the same photograph over and over again of these birds resonates well with a scientific approach. And it’s something I also do in a way in my series of industrial Edens, the community gardens work. I’m looking through the landscape, and the images are very formally different, but almost always have horizons near the top and gardens in the foreground, not quite as direct as in the birds, with the same bird in the center of each composition. But I think that both of those projects started over ten years ago, and since then I’ve become a little more comfortable with my mad scientist side. What I’m working on in the studio these days, well it’s just like brewing whole different pots of art history and thoughts about landscape and see what bubbles up, without the rigor of science, or pseudo-science. A very different approach compared to when I started the birds.

Early Morning with Fog Droplets Condensing on my iPhone, lightbox, 2014

Joe: So what else is in that mad art history brew? You know I have to ask!

Todd: It’s like a really playful romp through mostly the history of photography, though there are certainly some earlier references as well. Roger Fenton’s “Shadow of the Valley of Death” is something I think about a lot, as well as “Moment of Death” by Capa. In fact I’m hoping to produce a photobook this fall that looks at one of the students of the Bechers, Thomas Struth’s series “New Pictures of Paradise”. They’re these very big, German, sharp pictures of jungles and forests, and I got the book and I ripped out each page, and I photographed it with a pinhole camera. I took this idea of Eden and paradise that he’d made so clear and precise and I tried to romanticize it again. That flip from analytic to romantic again. Like the birds colliding into nets, The World is Round is really about weird collisions of different ideas. I’ve rephotographed Earth Rise [from Apollo 11] in various media and in different ways. Or used a microwave to melt CDs and created a contact print of that explosion.

Joe: One association I had not thought of before in the art historical brew was how much these remind me of daguerreotype portraits. I was thinking about the way the birds appear in some very traditional portrait poses, with a certain rigor. But I think more precisely it’s daguerreotypes, because of the lack of affect in those animals in the captured moment. It made me think a lot about how that visual language of early photography is one that lacks an emotional connection, or is one that we supply in a particular way, sitting alongside the very formal compositions. So I had a good time going through the book again, kind of imagining them as 19th c portraits.

Todd: Yes, there’s definitely a coldness to a daguerreotype aesthetic and to my bird aesthetic as well, despite daguerreotype-mania taking hold in Paris in the early 1840s and the excitement around it, just like my youthful excitement in birds.

Joe: I wouldn’t call it coldness, I’d call it a stillness that was completely technical in the 19th c., but that I read here as scientific and, as you’re saying, abstract and formalized. But I like that overlay of someone who has been stilled for the camera in that moment.

Gabriela: Another phrase I keep thinking about as I look at your images is ‘nature and nurture.’ This is a concept that you’ve been exploring a lot. Can you elaborate on your interpretation and understanding of nurture as it relates to nature?

Todd: Yeah. Some folks hit me on this idea of nurture in relation to the birds because the work seems brutal (but I would argue that we need this knowledge to nurture bird populations). But beyond that point, I’m interested in again thinking of how to walk a historic trajectory, this time from nature or nurture to nature and nurture…  It’s tough but interesting to me to take that discourse from the sciences and see how I can map it onto the arts (I think Dennis Dutton did an amazing job of it in The Art Instinct). Each time I think about this relationship between our culture and our DNA, it morphs a bit. I guess you might call my quest for beauty the “nature” in my work. I’m earnestly interested in beauty and the sublime, but I also use it as a hook to attract my viewer to look. The beauty they see is never easy to digest (as opposed to the term “nature porn” that some use when referring to wildlife and landscape photography that doesn’t have an overt critical position). I almost always include visual clues and context that complicate the viewer’s relationship to this beauty, and make them think about the environment side of things: what’s going on.  

Gabriela: To follow up, can you talk about your explorations of post-industrial Edens within the concept of nature/nurture?

Todd: I guess there’s also formally wrapped up in the post-industrial Edens and the birds this combination of the grids and these organic branching patterns, and how those two interplay in a myriad ways - as the birds literally crash into these nets and mess up the nets as much as the nets mess up the birds. Or the way that a tree might grow through a fence and create a strange pattern or break through the fence. So how these two systems of interpretation might function together, that are both so critical in terms of how we interpret the world today. Formally, certainly, the grid is the rational (nurture), the branching pattern is organic (nature).

Joe: That metaphor of paradise and Eden you’ve mentioned several times: what is that threading through your projects? How do you think of that?

Todd: It’s one of those penumbral things that if you look at it too directly it will disappear, this idea of wilderness. What pissed me off about the Thomas Struth work is that he was so analytic in his approach to this idea of the prehistoric unknown idea of paradise. It’s impenetrable in the way that his photographs are indeed impenetrable, it’s one of those things the closer you look at it, the farther and quicker it runs away. That’s probably why I’m so compelled to look at it, due to  the chase that ensues.

Gabriela: In your projects you also address human impact on wilderness, such as the effect of climate change and global warming.

Todd: Today there is no wilderness, everything is being affected, known, measured. So it only exists in our imagination, and probably on some other planets far beyond human reach! But that unknown, we can’t know it. So I’m trying to focus on weird little edges where we might bump up against it and see it obliquely.

Joe: Do you think we need that space right now? Whether we can see it or not, why do we need that idea of untouched space?

Todd: There’s a part of me that envies the John James Audubon kind of romantic, woodsman explorer tramping off into the unknown. And yes, there’s this idea of exploration and innovation that certainly drives me as an artist and I think drives humanity more generally. So things like the moonshot captured folks’ imagination. I think that aspiration is really critical and crucial, and sometimes today it can become romanticized and backward-looking, which isn’t necessarily a problem, but which could start to be a problem. I definitely find myself actively trying to balance that romanticism and and that forward-looking idea of innovation, and how to walk that tightrope. There’s all these little dichotomies that I try to sneak in back and forth - this spiderweb of modernist specialization going in all these different directions, and I like trying to connect those different directions in weird little tightropes.

Gabriela: Can you tell us about your choice of different media and processes in your projects? I’m looking again at the Ornithological Photographs, and I’m thinking what would video look like? What would an image immediately before and immediately after the capture look like? How did you decide to choose this specific format?

Todd: It was kind of stupid for me to shoot in large format just because it’s such a pain in the butt with that equipment! And it certainly did make each photograph very precious, since I only shot 2-4 photos of each bird. I think if it were moving, that struggle would become almost too apparent for me, in this visceral, painful way. The stillness negates part of that. But the clarity of it, the fact that I can blow up a print of a bird to make the bird pretty much the size of you or I, creates a different kind of sense of empathy that was important to me. That’s also why I chose a large format as well with the gardens, to take this (in many ways) very banal landscape and present it in a very precious way, to still the constant change that takes place in the garden. In terms of medium these days I’ve just embraced more of the tinkering side, where I am really playing with the history of the medium as well as the future of the medium with the “World is Round” series.  Rather than large format, it can be anything from a camera phone and video (though video that is still about stillness) to early non-silver processes.

Higashishirakawa, Japan, August 2017.

Joe: For us, the connections between a lot of your work and the Atlantika ethos of art and social engagement, and an emphasis on some environmental and social issues, are strong. But I would be curious what you think is “Atlantika-ish” to you in your own work??

Todd: I certainly think that the gardens are very Atlantika-ish, where I’m celebrating these super-local plots of land, this idea of self-sufficiency -  a lot of ideas that are also being played upon by the nationalists and strongmen who are unfortunately coming to power. But also how do i take these tiny patchworks of gardens together to create a coherent global view? How do we look from a squash in the foreground of a picture to the big landscape in the background? That project seems to reference man more directly than the birds do. Certainly with the Ornithological Photographs, there is this idea of both us and the birds being caught in the mesh of climate change that’s brewing, that certainly can’t be ignored if you look at the photos long enough. I’ve also got a couple of new projects, one looking at meat and the other looking at coral reefs, that I think are my more direct follow-up projects to the birds. They consider these ideas of the abstraction of the animal and this liminal state that they almost seem to exist in, between human and non-human. The project about meat looks very much at the way food is consumed in America and beyond these days, and coral reefs are a space that are being devastatingly and rapidly impacted by climate change, arguably more than any other. So those are in the pipeline, for our next conversation!!

To view and learn more about Todd’s work, please visit his website: http://www.toddforsgren.com/

THE CRUSH

By Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

Our time in Slovakia is evaporating quickly, just as the weather changes and hints of Fall appear. One unmistakable symbol of the season is the wine harvest. In Chl’aba, there are two “museums” -- one for the history of the village, and one for winemaking, one of the most common activities of villagers. Gabriela’s mother makes wine every year, and this year is no exception.

However, like so many other environmentally sensitive activities, winemaking seems to have become more difficult in recent years. One villager noted that the harvest used to be in late October, but now it may come in early September. And this year's harvest was small, a victim to poor weather conditions and a hungry jazvec (pronounced YAZ-vets, the English equivalent would be a badger) who repeatedly dug under the fence to sample the wares.

Nonetheless the harvest went on. Grape clusters were clipped from the vines. They were crushed in the driveway and the new wine was stored in the same cellar that Gabriela’s family hid in during World War II. The last time we participated in the harvest was at least five years ago, with Gabriela’s father enthusiastically showing us the ropes. Now his absence colored the proceedings, lending a melancholy note to the early Fall ritual.

Here are a few photos from the harvest. Wherever you are, please raise a glass in appreciation of this village tradition.