Amanda Moore . . . continued from page 1
Artists from around the world who are LDS gravitate to Utah; others usually dream of New York. By that logic, Moore should be living in the Big Apple, where her expeditions might take her to shoot the Erie Canal or the eastern end of the Oregon Trail. But, "Ah don't want t'beuh Yang-key," she says, exaggerating the subtlest of accents to stake a durable claim to her Southern roots. Born in Cleveland, Tennessee, and aware at an early age that she would be an artist, she studied first literature at the University of Tennessee, then photography at the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). Photography won, but not the conservative approach she encountered in Georgia. "Most art schools are very segregated and hierarchical," she explains. "On the bottom is where you find photo, video, and now at the very lowest, computers." For someone who figured out, in that moment, that the newest technology would always offer possibilities that appealed to her, but would also be forced to take the chair nearest the door, it was not an attractive bargain. When her complaints were met with the assurance that "SCAD doesn't need you, honey; you need SCAD" (that Southern honey again), she knew her future lay elsewhere. The University of Utah's photography program offered two virtues: its inclusive ideals were more congenial to new approaches, and it was in the heart of the West.
Growing up in the South, Moore enjoyed being outdoors even when she was at home. She spent part of the day hanging out on the porch, a cordial lifestyle that encourages neighbors to introduce themselves and be invited up. It was only one shock about the "true" West for her to find out that here people keep to themselves; we live farther apart and like it that way. Utahns will tell you they socialize within their families, but setting aside the dubious oxymoron of locating society within the family, it's not much comfort to those who left families behind to move here. Fortunately for Moore, the U of U provided her with a like-minded community, and then with a family. In addition to the collegiality of the graduate program, one of her fellow MFA students was Grace Ashby, who introduced Moore to her son, Jason. He and Amanda were married and, after assembling their menagerie (two dogs, four cats, and a lizard by one count), set out on their travels over the blue highways of America. "If I had my way we'd be nomads," she says, adding, "He's more practical."
Moore calls herself an artist first and a photographer to the extent that her artistic medium is photography. That shouldn't be taken to imply that those of her peers who see themselves primarily or even exclusively as makers of photographs are any more involved than she is in the technical concerns of the medium. In fact, her techniques are often experimental, and in any event she is far more involved than some professionals who use a camera but send the results to a lab for processing and printing. Still, it tells us something about how we as audience should view her works.
As Moore explains in a recent essay that will appear in 15 Bytes next month, many popular uses of photography operate at cross-purposes to hers. Most of us have had the experience of showing around a snapshot of friends that we treasure, only to have one of the subjects complain, "I don't like the way that picture makes me look." The validity of the complaint, and the reality of the conflict, only underscores Moore's point. A recognized difficulty for photo-artists is that most of the time viewers don't really see
the photograph; rather, they bypass the medium in the belief that they are seeing the subject directly, without mediation. For some photographers, that immediacy is the point; for others, there is a struggle to force the audience to notice their artistry. Moore's goal is for the artwork, which happens to be a photo, to convey qualities of the subject that being present impressed on her at the time. While other artists have attempted to achieve this effect by the use of heavy subjective filtering -- think of Expressionist paintings with their slashed and gouged surfaces -- Moore has chosen an opposing approach. The viewfinder of her Hasselblad camera has an architectural grid that allows her to precisely align a subject orthogonally. After the negative is developed she scans it into her computer, which allows her to manipulate it as necessary in pursuit of the desired effect. The subject is permitted to speak for itself, in its own visual voice. We may think of Marcel Duchamp and his "ready-mades" --objects he found and brought into the gallery to be similarly discovered by viewers. The camera comes into play because some quality of the subject, whether size, impermanence, or some other ephemeral quality that appealed to Moore, resists bringing the original into the gallery. Then the "crucial moment" that is chosen -- or more often created -- by the photographer recedes in favor of the viewer's moment. The subject will remain fixed, on paper, available to interact with whatever the viewer brings to it. That encounter, in all its dimensions, is what he or she will take away as well.
An Amanda Moore photo, then,
is a signpost; rather than a fact itself,
it points to facts she wants to share.
Other techniques exist for achieving similar results with a camera. A portrait may be made using the auto-timed shutter to avoid imposing the photographer's choice of expression. Multiple images, moving pictures, or a repeated format are other options. Moore calls her aesthetic "shallow," presumably meaning the surface evidence of the artist's presence may be easily penetrated and the subject readily encountered. But of course, and as is often the case, what the viewer doesn't see is the considerable skill and preparation that went into setting up that encounter: labor that remains out of sight.
Moore spends a lot of her time on the computer. Recently she has spent much of it on the Internet, searching for materials that have "come and gone" as photography has absorbed the innovations of digital image making across the full range of its technology. "The only way to find the materials I want is on e-Bay," she says. "I'm an addict." Talking about her increasing emphasis on showing the work -- the gallery or exhibition space prepared as a compound, unified work -- she ticks off a litany of exigent circumstances that have contributed to the look of her past works. Bubblography
, her 2006 show at the Sprague Library, presented many of her signature subjects, but shown as if viewers were peering like voyeurs through holes in the wall, like those made in the fence around a construction site to permit sidewalk superintendents to indulge their curiosity. Reverse the point-of-view and you get "life in a bubble," an appropriate metaphor for art that emerges, like a memoir, from the artist's own life.
From all this emerges a sense of what Moore, usually so clear in stating her likes and dislikes, doesn't quite explain about her idiosyncratic approach to the camera. Looking over a suite of prints for her coming show at the Rose Wagner Center, she murmurs, "This is life." It's an odd comment to make about so many solitary, often derelict buildings, but she elaborates: "Entropy and chaos are good things. I also love revitalization: seeing things brought back." So she takes the long view. An empty landscape, a failed tire store, and a ruin are all evidence of life out west, but the first and third have proven easier to romanticize.
Moore's answer to the idealized image isn't the equally distorted negative view, but the honest encounter. Of the numerous artists and works she names in passing, one that stands out in this context is Robert Adams. Responding to the coincidence of their sharing a name, Robert Adams has sought out places seen in Ansel Adams' iconic images of nature, only to turn around and photograph the human evidence that was behind the celebrated master as he took the famous picture. "There is no truth in photography," Moore tells her students; but she knows she's exaggerating. She might say instead that the truth inside the photograph is unrelated to the truth outside the photograph, just as the photograph she takes isn't precisely the one we see. An Amanda Moore photo, then, is a signpost; rather than a fact itself, it points to facts she wants to share. She remembers taking it -- who was there and what was happening in her life at the time. She fully expects it to mean something else to those who follow it to an experience of their own. She thinks about that, smiles, and says, "That's O.K."
This is a rare moment of accommodation in a conversation with an assertive, opinionated artist who says, "I'm better at the fight. Even when it's not personal, it's personal." But her art presents her world in a manner so playful and indirect that it could almost be mistaken for a passive view. Of course an artist in person is not the same as her art, but there is something else: a divide between the artist and the advocate. Moore clearly expects her work to speak for itself; she reserves her campaigning for the issues that surround it. She says, "There are a lot of 'celebrity' photographers. We live in an age when everyone feels special, feels his or her life is unique and entitled to celebrity. Photographing one's life is a way to accomplish that." It's a harsh judgment, but true far beyond just the taking of pictures.
As a teacher (of basic photography, darkroom technique, and the use of plastic-lens cameras at U of U Extension, Weber and Westminster College), Moore can be expected to uphold standards; hers are anything but objective: "A lot of photography uses the same language as art, because if it's arty, its mediocrity is ignored." While no snob -- she expresses curiosity about Brett Sykes' recent show of highly enlarged images taken on a cell phone -- she does have a feeling about which comes first. "Fine arts trickle down into the mainstream," she argues, leaving the rest of the equation unstated.
Of more interest to her are the odd, exceptional, and especially dead-end works that end up being left out of an artist's canon. So it is that future generations receive an image of the artist that is as distorted as the photograph she refuses to take: the life as vocation, moving like Picasso from triumph to triumph. Yet no one who refuses to take risks can make art that matters. Amanda Moore compares this quality to making music. "I could play "Stairway to Heaven" all day," she says. "Or I can try to find my own voice." To this we can only reply, "That too would be O.K."
Exhibition Spotlight: Salt Lake City
On The Road Again
The Nomadic Project @ Utah Artist Hands
by Shawn Rossiter
In November of 2005, Kristen Abraham, an artist, and Alfonso Llamas, a musician, set out from their home in Florida with the goal of visiting every state in the Union in a conceptual art adventure called The Nomadic Project. Their hope was to get to know more "about their own backyard" and, through the creation of art, attempt a symbolic healing of a divided country. They returned thirteen months later with fifty paintings, scores of musical compositions and "a lifetime of inspiration."
The couple converted their Honda Element into both a home and a studio, spent at least a week in each state and lived on a limited budget that gave them ony ten dollars a day for food. They say this forced them to be creative and resourceful just to survive. The close quarters also forced them to be resourceful in their relationship. Looking back at the experience, the couple figures if they could make it though a year together in a car, they'll be able to make through anything. "It forced us to work through our problems" Llamas says.
The close quarters also allowed for creative collaboration. Because Llamas had gone through the same experiences and knew where Abraham was coming from in her paintings, he would title many of her pieces. On the trip and after, they began to talk in terms of "we" created this or that. "Our creations bled into each other," Llamas says. Abraham's goal was to make a painting inspired by every state. Alfonso, in his own words, was not as ambitious. His musical compositions became a diary of the experience rather than a representation of each state.
Stylistically, Abaraham's images, with their juxtaposition of realistically rendered landscapes and iconographic objects, call to mind the surrealists. The moods and tones are as varied as the states they depict. Some, like the North Carolina painting depicting the Wright Brothers' airplane, are easily deciphered icons of the state. Abraham's wit reveals itself in others, like Georgia's "The Secret Within," which depicts a coke bottle beneath the skeleton of a Southern Belle's hoop skirt.|0| Others reflect the couples' direct personal experience. "Deus Ex Machina," which portrays a supine Abraham as the spine of a book on fire, reflects the poor reception the couple received in Missouri.|1|
When they started their journey the couple says they imagined they would find a favorite spot, a place that would call to them as their home. But the more they saw, the more they wanted to see; and rather than a "been there done that" checklist, they now have a huge list of places they want to explore more. The couple, who now have a young baby, are busy this year taking their multi-media exhibit across the country. They use Nashville, where they have family, as a home base.