tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-136024882024-02-28T10:04:14.908-05:00considering pictures | sean justice > open journalMaking pictures engages the world, generates conversation, sparks ideas. Thinking about pictures draws me to photography, education, and art.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-50159908294508083432012-10-03T12:34:00.001-04:002020-01-17T23:15:44.269-05:00Art that Iterates<div style="margin: 0; overflow: hidden; padding: 0; width: 500px;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050803213/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8316/8050803213_b2e4cf86a5_s.jpg" style="border: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050809268/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8031/8050809268_d16f4b81f7_s.jpg" style="border: none; height: 75px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 75px;"></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050803933/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8322/8050803933_0b86307d4f_s.jpg" style="border: none; height: 75px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 75px;"></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050805221/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8460/8050805221_c92af72ef1_s.jpg" style="border: none; height: 75px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 75px;"></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050809728/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8180/8050809728_58edfb75ea_s.jpg" style="border: none; height: 75px; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 75px;"></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050805825/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 0 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8314/8050805825_536ff50b25_s.jpg" style="border: none; height: 75px; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 75px;"></a><br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050810314/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8317/8050810314_47e9fc8115_s.jpg" style="border: none; height: 75px; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 75px;"></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/8050810160/in/set-72157631683627910/" style="display: block; float: left; height: 75px; padding: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 75px;" title="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice"><img alt="Art that Iterates, an exhibition. Curated by Sean Justice" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8172/8050810160_5bd7c33c10_s.jpg" style="border: none; height: 75px; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 75px;"></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/sets/72157631683627910/">Art that Iterates</a>, a set on Flickr.</div>
This is an exhibit that I curated at Teachers College recently. More pictures are being added!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-13967096252587892132012-06-03T10:02:00.001-04:002012-06-03T10:02:36.223-04:00Bright day. Summer. Waking up again.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-27329512936285118962012-01-21T10:40:00.001-05:002018-12-31T11:07:42.572-05:00Harbor, New York [light version](3 breaths) 2011<div style="font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0;">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/6098064924/in/photolist-7bVDaK-5PfaHU-78LYRW-ahSbfq-76xFKv-axXeP6-5NYZ8f-7pFRqc-6UiB68-732aHf" title="Harbor, New York [light version](3 breaths) 2011"><img src="https://farm7.staticflickr.com/6202/6098064924_599d38ae0d_b.jpg" width="600" alt="Harbor, New York [light version](3 breaths) 2011"></a><script async src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js" charset="utf-8"></script></div>
Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-59131484852345288322011-08-30T17:15:00.002-04:002020-01-17T23:17:54.032-05:00Harbor, New York [light version](3 breaths) 2011<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/6098064924/"></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/6098064924/" title="photo sharing"><img alt="" src="https://farm7.static.flickr.com/6202/6098064924_a4d2e7441c.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/6098064924/">Harbor, New York [light version](3 breaths) 2011</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/">seanjustice</a>.</span></div>
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from the Breathing Pictures project. <br />
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Also, there is a code-animated version of this that plays in a browser (it loads into a loop automatically on open; a modern browser and fast processor is needed or else it blocks up....sorry!)Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-19176515247544439142011-04-11T08:36:00.000-04:002011-04-11T08:36:39.808-04:00Tech Thoughts on Teaching & Learning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/kim01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:left; margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="396" width="500" src="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/kim01.jpg" /><center><small>© 2011 Doyeon Kim</small></center></a></div><br />
A question we keep coming back to: how do we balance skill-learning and skill-teaching within the multifaceted conversation about ideas, history, and practice that makes up art education?<br />
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If you're studying photography, design, new media, or art in any of a dozen guises, this question is at the core of what you're doing — whether you explicitly ask it or not (because the folks who run your course have asked and answered it for you).<br />
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And if you're teaching photography, design, etc., it's even more critical — because your answer affects, <i>de facto</i>, the lives of everyone who studies with you.<br />
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There are several ways to divide this up, and many different rationales for arguing this side or that side, but the equation basically comes down to two options: either skill is more important than history and theory, or vice versa. And perhaps a third option — oops, almost forgot — skill, history, and theory might be equally important.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/jimenez08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="333" width="500" src="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/jimenez08.jpg" /><center><small><i>Abandoned</i> © 2011 Yarimar Jiménez</small></center></a></div><br />
That seems simple, but in actual fact, on the ground, in the trenches, on the street, in <i>practice</i> — there are many (many!) different recipes. However, in my experience teaching (and learning) in several contexts (high schools, colleges, community colleges, graduate schools, museum education and continuing education programs), the weight of the teeter-totter comes down, almost all the time, on theory. That is, generally, most programs in art — at any level beyond the most basic summer camp craft table, or recreational art center — put the weight and the emphasis on the <i>why</i> over the <i>how</i>. <br />
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Flatly put, though, this seems absurd — don't you have to first learn how to <i>make</i> a picture before you can talk about why you made it? <br />
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There's not much outright argument on this point. But if you listen closely, or read between the lines of the program mission statement, you'll often find that introductory courses deal solely with the mechanics of technique and tools, while upper level courses talk primarily to theory and criticality — and that there's not much overlap between the two. <br />
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Moreover, once you get into the courses themselves, you might find a weird disconnect in the day-to-day classroom action; that is, the skills teacher might not seem to have read anything more taxing or more relevant than the daily newspaper, while the history and theory teacher might appear to not know how to plug in a hard disk or convert a file. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/dorata03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:left; margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="516" width="400" src="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/dorata03.jpg" /><center><small><i>Crowd Inspiration</i> © 2011 Kristen Dorata</small></center></a></div><br />
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How can this be true? And is it true?<br />
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Yes, it's true. <br />
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Art education is in crisis, in more ways than the obvious news-of-the-day budget-ax-again headlines. In fact, because of its insidious and foundation-undermining logic, this problem might be the more serious issue facing art educators and art students. That's because art and art-making requires a whole person — mind and body, body-in-mind — a contextually embedded, relationally rooted, experientially active human being, but the way we most often learn and teach art is split and processed into two apparently opposing camps.<br />
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The issue started rolling back in Plato's day, if not earlier (as did much of anything regarding education in the West), and accelerated all down the line — from Descartes and his famous mind/body dualism, sweeping up Kant's rationalism, surging with the post-Enlightenment waves of Romanticism, Modernism, and so on — right to our present day, drenching us with a conundrum: do art or talk about it (but not both, at least, not in the classroom).<br />
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Obviously, I wholly reject this split. Making art helps me talk about it; talking about art helps me make it. The process is essential in its entirety — because it <i>is</i> an entirety — and from whichever direction we emerge into it. To teach and learn how to be artists we need to read, make, talk, make, think, make, and do it all again.<br />
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<blockquote>A work of art no matter how old and classic is actually, not just potentially, a work of art only when it lives in some individualized experience.<br />
--John Dewey, <i>Art and Experience</i></blockquote><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/kim06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:left; margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/kim06.jpg" /><center><small><i>Basta la cara</i> © 2011 Doyeon Kim</small></center></a></div><br />
And, by extension, teaching and making art, no matter how new the tools or how current the motivations, is not actually teaching, and not actually learning, unless and until the process takes root, and lives, in someone's individualized experience — that is, a whole, embedded, contextualized, experience of process.<br />
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One reason I keep writing about this is because it's on my mind all the time, not only because I'm doing a dissertation on new media art education at Teachers College, but also, perhaps primarily, because I'm puzzling through these dichotomies while working, wherever I'm teaching and whatever the specific subject. <br />
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Another reason is because I've just finished an amazing term with the GS students at ICP. Our class was titled Technical Seminar, and the catalog dictated a diet of Photoshop tools and workflow (which we hit hard and often, over and over again), but the most invigorating conversations came from the intersection of technique and thinking, from the how and the why of the pictures themselves.<br />
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This is why I teach photography: to arrive at the lab and find you already there, printing, color correcting, retouching, with focused intent and purpose — and when I come in you stop and ask if the thought is more clear with a masked sky or an unmasked sky, with a slight blur here, or with a sharper detail there. <br />
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And as we click through the layer structure, playing the subtleties against each other, we talk about the previous pictures you've made, and pictures you want to make, and about pictures you've seen at galleries, in books, and on websites, and about pictures you will see, or essays you will read, in the future, because of a recommendation from a friend, fellow student, or from me, or another teacher. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/lm8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:left; margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" width="500" src="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/lm8.jpg" /><center><small><i>Calvary: Silence & Noise</i> © 2011 Laura Macrini</small></center></a></div><br />
None of this is an accident; none of it just happens. We build our history together, whether we set out do so or not, because it's in this conversation that looking and thinking and making inform each other and become real. <br />
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And then, in the next print we see the movement of the idea, or the shape of a new concept, because you've nudged the ink brighter, or darker, or more contrasty. Which leads to the next print, and the one following. And then, a week later, with new pictures now on the monitor and on paper, the conversation picks up again, continues, and we see our tracks stretch out behind us and into the future, because we're making that future together, in the collective practice of our individual art.<br />
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These have been good days. When I see the evolution of your process, when I see your intent begin to merge with your technique, your thinking with your tools — this is human. This is making a life in pictures.<br />
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And, frankly, these are rare days. Too often these exchanges don't happen, or don't happen robustly, because they're smothered in the details of short-sighted course descriptions and narrow curriculums. And because, as part-time itinerant teachers, unfortunately, many of us don't have much weight to throw against the system.<br />
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But here's my plea, for all of us, teachers and students: let's focus on opening it up. Let's get the details, the nitty-gritty, but not at the expense of the broad sweep and balance of the entire process, both the how and the why. Let's make pictures, videos, and network installations, and write code, poetry, and code-poetry — let's learn the tools, the grammar — but let's not sacrifice the history and the context. And, mostly, let's stop pretending that any of us work as isolated automatons, as if we live in an atomized world where idea is separate from material. We don't breathe that way. We don't learn that way. We can't teach that way.<br />
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Here's a thought: tech teachers, let's do reading lists, and ask for writing in response; and theory teachers, let's do physical philosophy, and ask for artifacts in response. And students — keep us honest. We're learning more from you than you probably realize.<br />
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The pictures illustrating this short essay are from students in the General Studies Digital Tech Seminar, Winter 2011, at ICP. Thanks for a great term, and thanks for letting me post your work on this blog.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-21667451130133720412011-04-02T12:51:00.000-04:002011-04-02T12:51:43.924-04:00Marking the week<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5581933753/" title="Mark-making tools by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Mark-making tools" height="333" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5147/5581933753_d58aebc2b5.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
...so many amazing conversations this week...my head is spinning... <br />
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These pictures and essays and websites and code poems...all of it. Your work inspires me.<br />
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I am reading <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maxine_Greene">Maxine Greene</a> and thinking about being an artist educator within the framework she illuminates.<br />
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<blockquote>We may have reached a moment in our history when teaching and learning, if they are to happen meaningfully, must happen on the verge. Confronting a void, confronting nothingness, we may be able to empower the young to create and re-create a common world—and, in cherishing it, in renewing, discover what it signifies to be free. (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dialectic-Freedom-John-Dewey/dp/0807728977">Dialectic of Freedom</a></i>, p. 23)</blockquote><br />
The common space emerges from our conversation and I am transported to the edge of something I don't know how to describe. I'm on the verge. I am the young and your work is the teacher; in class and at the coffee shop I learn again and again that mark making matters (whether with a camera, a crayon, a line of text or a string of code on a computer), and that I am so lucky to be sharing this journey with you. <br />
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Thanks to everybody.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5581933713/" title="Mark-making tools by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5222/5581933713_fca0a69989.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Mark-making tools"></a><br />
Pictures from the week at Teachers College, Columbia, in-between reading and writing and teaching and talking.<br />
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See also: <a href="http://www.edutopia.org/maxine-greene">Maxine Greene: The Importance of Personal Reflection</a> and <a href="http://pocketknowledge.tc.columbia.edu/home.php/browse/122">the Collection</a>.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-15413483838939439422011-03-20T09:14:00.002-04:002011-03-20T09:20:28.929-04:00Surplus of Achievement<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5542914376/" title="Surplus of Achievement"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5255/5542914376_561ee1b49d.jpg" alt="Surplus of Achievement by seanjustice" /></a><br />
<span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5542914376/">Surplus of Achievement</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/seanjustice/">seanjustice</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>Is there something this is for -- rather than what it simply is -- this relentless rush towards more and more, this accumulation, this surplus of achievement?<br />
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Everyday pictures mark our individual paths. The process reminds us that work comes from work, inspiration from doing, and reward from waking up and doing it again. Breathe in, breathe out. <br />
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My friend Tony is on a journey to mark the days, each day, with a new picture. Can you chart it?</p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amrosario/5538202826/" title="It's a Hotel by AMRosario, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5296/5538202826_7f5a70232e.jpg" width="500" height="500" alt="It's a Hotel" /><br /><center><small>It's a Hotel by AMRosario</small></center></a>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-29350237735714143212011-03-18T07:58:00.003-04:002018-12-31T11:22:02.508-05:00What art is and cannot be....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.jr-art.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/photos/0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="675" height="226" src="https://www.jr-art.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/photos/0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Paraphrasing from the TED talk:<br />
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<blockquote>
Art can't change the world. Art has no power to change the world. Art can't do anything like that. Art is a neutral space, a place where nothing matters, a place where new ideas and new questions can be asked, a place where new thoughts and feelings can take root. And maybe they bring new ways of thinking...that change the world.</blockquote>
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If you've seen JR's work over the years, and perhaps especially if you haven't, you're going to love his TED talk:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0PAy1zBtTbw" title="YouTube video player" width="640"></iframe>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-20392204762520929752011-03-13T22:43:00.000-04:002011-03-13T22:43:47.101-04:00What we're talking about...<div class="separator" style="float: right; text-align: center; margin: 0 0px 30px 25px"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/luisdiegoparis/5496107870/" title="Chrisler Building From Pongal Restaurant by Luis Diego París, on Flickr"><img alt="Chrisler Building From Pongal Restaurant" height="580" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5220/5496107870_3270b26969_z.jpg" width="580" /><br /><small>Chrisler Building From Pongal Restaurant, by Luis Paris</small></a></div><br />
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This photo was snapped by my colleague and former student, Luis Paris. Last week after class at <a href="http://www.icp.org/">ICP</a> we went over to <a href="http://web.mac.com/jerryvezzuso/jerryvezzuso.com/Jerry_Vezzuso.html">Jerry Vezzuso's</a> opening at the <a href="http://www.cameraclubny.org/vezzuso_show.html">Camera Club of New York</a>, and then got a quick bite at <a href="http://www.pongalnyc.com/">Pongal</a>. <br />
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Along the way, walking from ICP to the CCNY, and then briskly from there all the way to Lex and 26th (a long chilly stroll!), we talked about photography and how one knows if the pictures are making sense, if they're working, if anyone likes them, and if it even matters -- or, more precisely, <i>how</i> it matters.<br />
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At dinner Luis summed it up with a few thoughts about what he's looking for from the conversation whenever he's showing his work.<br />
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<blockquote>From a critique I'm looking for two things: first, whether or not my pictures appear visually similar to other pictures that I might not know about, and, second, if there's an interpretation of my work that I don't want to have anything to do with.</blockquote><br />
This is perfectly said, in my opinion. <br />
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The tricky thing about learning photography is not the gear -- the cameras, lenses, printers; not Photoshop, not Lightroom, not ACR: not any of that <i>stuff</i>. <br />
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No, the really important bit comes down to figuring out how to make something meaningful from the practice itself. That is, the how and why of making pictures is rooted in the actual making, the doing, the walking, the talking, and the showing. No matter what tools you use, meaning emerges from the conversation that evolves while making the pictures, showing the pictures, talking about the pictures, listening to what others say about the pictures, and then making more pictures.<br />
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I really don't care what camera you use, or even -- truthfully -- if you use the Curves in Photoshop. What I care about is what you're seeing, and what you're saying with what you're seeing. As an artist, photographer and teacher, this is the root of my work.<br />
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And yes, as well, snapping from the hip with the <a href="http://hipstamaticapp.com/">Hipstamatic</a> is part of the process too -- there are lots of ways to mark the path as we pass along it.<br />
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On that score: you've got to check out Jerry's work from Mexico City, and his zines, at the <a href="http://www.cameraclubny.org/index.html">Camera Club</a>, through April 30.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.cameraclubny.org/vezzuso_show.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="275" width="400" src="http://www.cameraclubny.org/images/vezzuso/vezzuso_29_400px.jpg" /><br /><small>D.F.<br />
photographs from Mexico City by Jerry Vezzuso</small></a></div><br />
<br /><br />Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-46966461152738933842011-03-05T10:47:00.003-05:002011-03-05T11:15:00.979-05:00Evolving Series: Story Vessels, 2011The evolving work with China keeps me occupied when I'm not in class teaching, or on my way to class, commuting. Here are some pictures from the evolving series. Click through to flickr to take a look.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="float: left; text-align: center;margin: 0 10px 20px 0"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5499186085/" title="Ceramic 31 (Two Birds), 2011 by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Ceramic 31 (Two Birds), 2011" height="500" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5180/5499186085_c7d5df4926.jpg" width="363" /><br /><small>Ceramic 31 (Two Birds), 2011</small></a></div><br />
In 2005 I went to Beijing to investigate Chinese contemporary culture—art, business, and education. After two tumultuous weeks of meetings and random discoveries, I landed a temporary teaching contract that required me to travel back and forth between Beijing and New York five separate times in 2006. Since then I’ve returned numerous more times to curate exhibits and lead workshops in Chinese culture for Western artists. In a sense, strangely, I’ve never fully come back from that first trip.<br />
<br />
The continuing challenge of working in China—the reason I keep going back—is that I never know what to expect, or what I’ll see. Surface clarity might mask confusion, or it might not. Language difficulties might shroud understanding, or it might be something deeper. Among the many things I find engaging about China, this tension between knowing and not knowing draws me in deepest, and provides the underlying motivation for the Vessels pictures.<br />
<br />
In form and subject this series is inspired by contemporary Chinese art practice—from Ai Wei Wei’s falling antique pottery, to Rong Rong’s documentaries of Zhuang Huan’s excruciating performances—and by my memories of growing up in South Korea, where my father and I picked up ancient celadon from country fields.<br />
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~~~~~<br />
<br />
Come to Beijing with me this summer: check the program description on the <a href="http://www.icp.org/school/travel-programs">International Center of Photography</a> website, and see pictures from the adventure here on my <a href="http://seanjustice.com/courses">courses website</a>.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-88947670516140865102011-02-24T08:26:00.008-05:002011-02-24T08:39:37.484-05:00Tree Project, Winter<div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5473722788/" title="photo sharing"><img alt="" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5053/5473722788_d8a511cd83_m.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5473722788/">Tree Project, Winter</a><br />
</span></div>My gingko is asleep.<br />
<br />
Last month all the leaves turned, finally, and winter crept inside. We're connected; the cycle reaches through us.<br />
<br />
At first I wondered if, somehow, my small tree was somehow exempt from the gray hibernation settling on the neighborhood. In fact, I was worried that maybe keeping a gingko in the house had somehow ripped it from the seasonal fabric that it needed in order to survive. I didn't think it could be so, but week after week the small leaves remained green, long after all the trees outside had become bare. Now the transformation is complete, finally, or nearly so.<br />
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That is, the gingko leaves never dropped, though winter's desiccation appears complete.<br />
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I'm watching the snow melt outside and anticipating the first new buds of spring, which I know will emerge in about a month, and I'm hoping that this small tree is, in fact, asleep, merely, and that it will awake when the cycle turns through again.<br />
<br />
For more, see previous posts on the Tree Project or link directly to Hiroshi Sunairi's project <a href="http://treeproject.blogspot.com/">here</a>.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-60421410083443733792011-02-20T08:29:00.005-05:002011-02-20T08:38:27.848-05:00Branch, 2011 (Animated)<div style="padding: 3px; text-align: left;"><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" data="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" height="290" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="500"> <param name="flashvars" value="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=6617994d2e&photo_id=5460865623&flickr_show_info_box=true"></param><param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377"></param><param name="bgcolor" value="#000000"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=6617994d2e&photo_id=5460865623&flickr_show_info_box=true" height="290" width="500"></embed></object><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5460865623/">branch2011</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/seanjustice/">seanjustice</a>.</span></div><div class="flickr-yourcomment">I'm only averaging a moment a month to write and share pictures. That's not a great pace. Space has closed in around me and the grit of the term is under my feet. I know you know how that feels.<br />
<br />
This piece was almost a year in the making. I knew what I wanted but not how to see it, nor how to get it. There's an early still image posted on flickr at the very beginning, back in April 2010, but the long slog through technology and imagery and idea that finally brought me to this point is lost in the background.<br />
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It looks best in a separate browser frame , where it'll play on a continuous loop. See it here: <a href="http://seanjustice.com/branch/">http://seanjustice.com/branch</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Reactions so far have been mixed. Some people don't see it. Perhaps they're looking too hard. In the periphery you might feel the shift, or you might not. The piece (and the project as a whole) activates a way of paying attention, for me, and that's the underlying question: what does it mean to breathe? Can you feel it?<br />
<br />
Slow down has become a my mantra. But saying so doesn't make it so. I wish language had that sort of agency.</div>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-70852402631875159372011-01-31T08:27:00.001-05:002011-01-31T08:27:58.857-05:00Tea, fine<div style="text-align: left; padding: 3px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5403986577/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5097/5403986577_e51cfdbf26.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" alt="" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5403986577/">Tea, fine</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/seanjustice/">seanjustice</a>.</span></div><p>Hot tea on a cold day. New York slush and sleet can't spoil the warmth of a good conversation with an old friend. <br /><br />On Broadway pedestrians slouch against a sudden wind and shield themselves from slanting snow. Inside we wonder about wisdom and doubt ourselves for going back to school at this time in our lives. What use are advanced degrees for us now? <br /><br />A sudden break in the overcast brightens the tea in front of me.<br /><br />What do you notice? Make pictures everyday.</p>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-55668691866006892852011-01-30T10:24:00.003-05:002011-01-30T10:31:22.333-05:00Sunday Morning, Staten Island<div style="text-align: left; padding: 3px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5401273466/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5133/5401273466_490deb3941.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" alt="" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5401273466/">Sunday Morning, Staten Island</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/seanjustice/">seanjustice</a>.</span></div><p>Starting a day of printing, but going slowly. Earlier this week it snowed again. More coming Tuesday, they say. The world is quiet and slow. The morning sun slips over the Eastern ridge and makes hard shadows of the trees and street signs. I'll stay inside today to print a new portfolio of the <i>Breathing Pictures</i>. Ironic, that is, because I've caught a cold and can only sniffle and sneeze my way through it. Distracted. This can be photography too.</p><p>I like to start masking with the fun and funny Photoshop merge. It can be taken seriously but I prefer to feel the humor in it. This 'frame' feels loose and dreamy to me -- a lazy brush eases the transitions just a little bit, but without getting too uptight about it.</p><p>I especially like the way the lens warp/distortion becomes so evident. The proof that indeed we are not living in a flat world. In other words: Surface matters.</p>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-57750270823453154452011-01-14T09:07:00.000-05:002011-01-14T09:07:58.012-05:00Putting the edge on<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5350204215/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Wall of pictures by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Wall of pictures" height="480" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5004/5350204215_395ff9821d_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Last week at <a href="http://icp.edu/">ICP</a> we ran with Collage/Montage again. This is one of my favorite ways to teach. Basically it's like finger painting. We throw ideas on the table from many different directions -- that is, pictures from the history of collage and montage, pictures from today, Photoshop techniques, darkroom techniques -- and then cajole folks into letting their intuition loose. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/headless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://seanjustice.com/cp-pix/headless.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><center><small>Headless Barbie on the scanner.</small></center><br />
<br />
By the end of the week we were zooming back and forth between the computer lab, the black & white darkroom, and the color darkroom. People were scanning and printing and rescanning. Stuff was getting cut up, recombined, and then re-cut up. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5350203433/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="CollageMontage by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="CollageMontage" height="500" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5247/5350203433_04e438c529.jpg" width="375" /><br />
<small>An inkjet negative getting ready for the darkroom.</small></a></div><br />
The organizing question at the root of this workshop is about the role of the edge of the picture within the picture itself. When you shoot a photography, what do you include inside the frame? What do you exclude? Normally that boundary is invisible (we don't think about the stuff we don't see). But not always -- sometimes the edge of the picture (the non-picture) is the point of the process. Why? What is gained?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5353964993/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="CollageMontage by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="CollageMontage" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5205/5353964993_acd18cf32b.jpg" width="500" /><br />
<small>The wall at the end of the week</small></a></div><br />
At the end of the week intensive, after the whirlwind of history, ideas, techniques, and just good old fashioned digging into the process, Jean said she felt ready to begin the workshop! And we all wished there had been more time to play. Too brief!<br />
<br />
Thanks to Jean, Leon, Ana, Cat, Katie, Andrea and Katherine. I had a great time playing these thoughts and materials though with you. Keep going, keep messing with the edge.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-47110819517360072362010-12-30T11:41:00.000-05:002010-12-30T11:41:12.539-05:00Year End Wonder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5306023301/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Wonder Horse by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Wonder Horse" height="480" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5204/5306023301_d757ac6264_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><center><small>Wonder Horse, March 2010</small></center><br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
Yikes. I've been away. Not in body but in spirit, and no time to post for far too long. <br />
<br />
Hasn't the year just galloped past? Not for me. <br />
<br />
This hobby horse appeared on my front stoop early in the year, randomly, and then one day disappeared. I remember wondering why and where it had come from. I also remember that seeing it each morning reminded me of whimsy, curiosity, and imagination. I'm remembering all this again, suddenly, because I've just rediscovered the picture.<br />
<br />
And more: in thinking about this past year, the thought occurs that Wonder Horse is a fairly accurate illustration of right now — a lot of motion but not much movement. That's the way 2010 feels to me here at the end.<br />
<br />
Picture-mining is the year-end ritual of sorting moments from the past twelve months. When we used film we'd do this by pulling out the proof sheets (not the edited prints) from the year and passing them around. Or the boxes of never-discarded slides. (See <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/30/us/30film.html?hp">Kodachrome</a> if you haven't.)<br />
<br />
Today, of course, we dig the data/sort of the Lightroom catalog. I'm showing 6,900 frames from 2010. That's an oddly round number. But there's still another day or two left to messy it up.<br />
<br />
If you've got a moment to take a breath now, before the new rush begins, I recommend it -- linger a bit in the moments that snapped your attention from the last twelve months. What were you thinking? What stands out? Can you see themes in the moments that mattered in the pictures?<br />
<br />
The exercise feels like mapping the time we passed together.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5306022861/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Regular lens warp by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Regular lens warp" height="480" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5201/5306022861_88b8efc1ac_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><center><small>Lens Warp, Houston, March 2010</small></center></div><br />
<br />
I've written about this idea before <a href="http://seanjustice.blogspot.com/2010/01/delete-not-note.html">here</a>, and it's part of the regular conversation in class too.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-60217587023099137642010-11-28T12:15:00.000-05:002010-11-28T12:15:27.750-05:00Surfacing nearly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5214205321/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Surface of the man-made sun by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Surface of the man-made sun" height="427" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5209/5214205321_9b4b08c09b_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
As you know, I'm an advocate of using the camera to connect to life. By the looks of it, though (no posting here for far too long, and very little new pix on flickr), it would seem that I've not been following my own advice. And that, perhaps, I've become disconnected. Both are probably correct at this point.<br />
<br />
But, actually, I make pictures almost every day: at odd moments in-between breaths, on the ferry, before starting to shave in the morning. Really, though, all I'm doing is clicking the shutter. That is, I'm not sure it's truly picture-making because that's as far as the process goes. There's no time for sorting and editing; two thousand latent frames sit unseen in my Lightroom catalog. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5214990478/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Surface of the man-made world by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Surface of the man-made world" height="480" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5081/5214990478_b91d7293f0_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Do you remember that word? Latent. <br />
<br />
Once we mystified that state of existence. Between the click of the shutter and the emergence from the D76, we had time to romanticize the unknown, the half-known, and the almost but not quite ready to be known. <br />
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Today we move so fast that the suggestion of latency has evaporated from our conversation. We surf a ready-known world. Always-already-known. There's no time for mystery, no patience for confusion, no time for latency.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5180398684/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Lake Sight by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Lake Sight" height="334" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1008/5180398684_9154096ec3.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
But the mystery itself hasn't gone away, even though our fast connection high-bandwidth lifestyle makes it hard to see. We still need time for latent possibilities to emerge because understanding grows slowly at the root of our lives. That's the way it feels to me. Switching tools didn't change the process all that much. <br />
<br />
In class, however, we're moving fast into the end of the term. Three meetings left. Portfolio projects must be finished before they've had the time to mature. <br />
<br />
The structure feels forced and artificial, and I feel hypocritical. I'm working on something I'm calling <i>Breathing Pictures</i>, though I haven't had a moment to make any prints. But of course I'm not roped into a grading schedule. I don't like the enforced falsity of this situation. But it is what it is. <br />
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Today I feel very far away. It's difficult to see the connections. I'm still hoping that making the pictures moves us towards each other and allows the latency to emerge. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5134145143/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Twilight Breathing by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Twilight Breathing" height="427" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4003/5134145143_8f6be3de5c_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Four Breaths on the Staten Island Ferry</i>, from the <i>Breathing Pictures</i> series, 2010 <br />
(multiple frames overlain on each other -- the fuzziness comes from the interval <br />
between my breaths while pressing the shutter)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-89214734483065377512010-10-17T09:12:00.001-04:002011-02-20T12:31:24.072-05:00Tree Project UpdateWe're moving through the fall, wondering what the next stage of this small plant's cycle will look like.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5088846695/" title="Gingko, Sept 2010 by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4092/5088846695_554ba563e6_z.jpg" width="640" height="427" alt="Gingko, Sept 2010" /></a><br />
<br />
Watching this Gingko sprout and grow is a metaphor for what I'm doing in my work as a teacher and artist. Autonomy is crucial to this discussion. <br />
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Did you do that on purpose, with intent? Or was it an accident. Are we free to make things that can exist in and of themselves? Or does everything we make exist only and forever embedded within a vast net of other things. What is the purpose of making? <br />
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Watching the Gingko, watering it, wondering if its leaves will turn with the season, I ask: what is the purpose of growing? These days I wonder if that's the wrong question.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5089443854/" title="Gingko, Sept 2010 by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4106/5089443854_ff86ea5915_z.jpg" width="640" height="427" alt="Gingko, Sept 2010" /></a><br />
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Now the fall brings wonder and expectation that perhaps the green interior light of my budding sprout will turn yellow, orange, and eventually brown. I don't know. There's a dryness on the surface of the small leaves.<br />
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See my previous posts on this project: click on the topic label "tree project."<br />
<br />
And keep up with other tree folk from Hiroshi Sunairi's <a href="http://treeproject.blogspot.com/" linkindex="18">Tree Project</a>, too.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-17536965463682262662010-09-30T10:08:00.001-04:002010-10-17T09:00:06.022-04:00We want pictures<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5038546045/" title="Landscape Escape by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Landscape Escape" height="427" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4086/5038546045_76817e5c7a_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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We want pictures. We are saturated with this desire. The ad moguls want us to direct that passion towards their clients' commodities. <br />
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Once in a while, though, we find evidence of another kind of wanting. <br />
<br />
Delivering some more of the endless paperwork that the educatioal beurocracy demands, I cross paths with a kindred soul, and stumble on a sign of the power of pictures. This way has recently been marked. I am not alone. <br />
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Out here, in here, through here, picture-makers travel together. This is the gut of what I hope we're doing together this term: photography is a way to pay attention to our lives, our desires.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/5038546289/" title="Egg picnic by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Egg picnic" height="334" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4153/5038546289_312838359d.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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We also want eggs, deviled eggs. At least, I do. Especially at a picnic on a warm day with friends and blankets and folding camp chairs, comfortable in the sun. With sangria, too. And cold white wine.<br />
<br />
But, summer is over. It's rainy in New York. Time to get to work! See you in class.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-45100352319254877882010-09-02T12:12:00.001-04:002010-09-02T12:14:12.506-04:00Illusion of Perception<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4950831677/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Vaca2010 by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Vaca2010" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4084/4950831677_a3e1900956.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Toronto 2010, from our recent vacation.</span></div><br />
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I've been thinking a lot about perception lately, as I always do at the start of the new term.<br />
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The puzzle comes back when I begin to map a course: how is it possible to picture a round world in a flat rectangle? The projection of one onto one feels miraculous and ordinary. That paradox is thrilling, intoxicating! I want to share it with you. But for you to see it, to do it, first I've got to make the process visible. <br />
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And yet I'm filled with doubt. How can I do that? That is, what will you (in class) perceive as I waltz through my material, the rant of my lecture, the pictures on screen, the assignments, and my reactions to your assignments?<br />
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And, how will I perceive that you're seeing anything? Even seeing that you're paying attention is difficult. (Although it's easy to see when you're falling asleep in class...sometimes.)<br />
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At the start of each new term it comes back to me that, really, the project of learning, and of teaching, revolves around and into the project of being aware of each other, of paying attention. And of knowing when to pay attention, and when not to.<br />
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One clue, for me, is to notice if you're sitting forward in your seat. (Although that's such an easy thing to do that perhaps it's not a great indicator after all.)<br />
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<a href="http://www.ted.com/speakers/beau_lotto.html">Beau Lotto</a> asks a discomforting question: can you trust perception? Are you sure?<br />
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Yesterday I spent some time with my colleague and good friend at Columbia University Teachers College, <a href="http://local-artists.org/user/7463">Gao Jun</a>, talking about the perception of time. How do we know past is past and future is future? How do we know we share a common present? And what role does photography play in creating or accentuating that knowledge?<br />
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And, what role does photography education play in supporting the illusion that any of this is even possible in the first place! (Are we educators merely enablers and collaborators in the service of a giant and paradoxical illusion?) <br />
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Yikes! What a spirited subject! And what a great chat!<br />
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...and essential to the project of photography education. <br />
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How do I 'teach' you to be an artist, a photographer, a designer? I don't have nearly enough time to even begin the conversation in our once a week meetings!<br />
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But after ruminating a bit (a long time, actually), I think maybe the path forward is to simply point out a path, of sorts — a path where the act of perception is consciously critiqued, embraced, and engaged. <br />
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What are you seeing? Can you bring in it, remap it, and project it back out?<br />
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Look at more of Beau Lotto's work at <a href="http://www.lottolab.org/">Lottolab</a>. For more on the perception of color, see Olaf Elliason's <a href="http://www.olafureliasson.net/works/your_uncertainty_4.html">Experiment</a>. Both of these works owe a great deal to the color theory of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josef_Albers">Josef Albers</a> and his book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Interaction-Color-Expanded-Josef-Albers/dp/0300115954/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1283443301&sr=8-1">Interaction of Color</a>. For a fascinating short read about the way different cultures think about and perceive color, see <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2003/11/30/magazine/30CRASH.html">Color Cognition</a> from the <i>New York Times</i>. <br />
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<a href="http://local-artists.org/node/60078"></a><br />
<a href="http://local-artists.org/node/60078"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://local-artists.org/sites/default/files/imagecache/artwork_full/users/7463/images/142280.jpg" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Gao Jun, <i>Floral Life</i> 2010.3.7-2010.3.21</span></div></a>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-22284959746496444642010-08-25T08:50:00.001-04:002010-08-25T08:52:37.407-04:00Time Slip<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4926441828/" title="Time Slip by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Time Slip" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4098/4926441828_160db1a82b.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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If you remember this, you're with me. Ah, the smell of fixer in the morning.<br />
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Unexpectedly I find myself managing a darkroom at Columbia University Teachers College. As you might know, I began a doctorate in college art education last year, focusing on digital art education. This year, in addition to everything else, I'll be mixing chemistry and reminding people to agitate. <br />
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There's a lot I've forgotten, am surprised to remember... odors, textures, procedures. This week I'm scrubbing trays and rebuilding shelves. Next week I'll realign enlargers.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4925846647/" title="Time Slip by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Time Slip" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4120/4925846647_b43c23860d.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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The lab is on the roof. From the front door I watch the sky and the texture of the slate as it changes with the light.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4926441402/" title="Time Slip by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Time Slip" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4096/4926441402_fdbf009990.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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In a different life — more than twenty years ago — I taught photography in Tucson, Arizona, at Salpointe High School and Pima Community College. Stranded negatives were common. Here's a thing I've forgotten — the ephemeral materiality of the Tri-X negative strip; curled, translucent, shiny, thin (but not as thin as a computer file). This week I've dug them out of drawers and crevices, artifacts from an earlier way of picturing.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4926441106/" title="Time Slip by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4138/4926441106_438a66cc9b.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Time Slip" /></a><br />
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What's the purpose of educating ourselves? What does a so-called teacher do? <br />
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These questions fascinate me — as you know if you've worked with me in any of my various classes, no matter which institution. Here at TC I'm digging deeper. Up on the roof I'm waking up in a time slip and wondering where I am. This barely looks like today.<br />
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Here's a thought: which way does a camera point? To the past? To the future? <br />
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How about this, can we picture ourselves now? Standing, breathing, waking?<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4925901891/" title="Time Slip by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4080/4925901891_8858671e80.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Time Slip" /></a>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-5891889604272863702010-08-14T21:30:00.000-04:002010-08-14T21:30:12.498-04:00Touch<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4862004654/" title="Wet Paint (obviously) by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Wet Paint (obviously)" height="480" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4079/4862004654_f2eb63a307_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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We're done for summer. Time for a break. I'm headed to Toronto tomorrow with the family. Got to clear the storm in front of the maelstrom coming.<br />
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So here's the thing -- can a photograph touch? Can you make a photograph that touches? <br />
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What do you feel when you see wet paint? I've got to scrape my fingers across the surface to check it out. I know it's cliché. But...this simple sign makes me touch.<br />
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Can a photograph feel that way? This is what we talked about this summer in the China workshop and in the two introductory photo workshops back here at ICP. And, seriously, this is what I'm talking about in class this fall...so, if you're working with me, get ready for that conversation.<br />
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I don't know if it's possible, really, but I want pictures that make me fly. Ah. Naive. Yes.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4891961133/" title="Flying by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img alt="Flying" height="480" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4116/4891961133_20e5e41dd2_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-27514902238937108412010-08-02T23:41:00.000-04:002010-08-02T23:41:49.482-04:00Feet on the floor and looking<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4849036345/" title="JingShan Park by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4136/4849036345_b398465e76_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="JingShan Park" /></a><br />
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I'm slowly mining through the several thousand photographs I collected during the <a href="http://seanjustice.blogspot.com/2010/06/beijing-next-week.html">Beijing project</a> last month. <br />
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This one surfaces unexpectedly. <br />
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I remember the thick still air, and the steep, sweaty climb behind the Forbidden City. I remember the dusk and the dragonflies. I remember feeling annoyed that my dSLR battery had died earlier that afternoon because I'd forgotten to charge it the previous night. <br />
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I also remember the moment I looked up and saw the concentric circles of this structure from beneath the trees. I don't remember why I forgot about this picture until I found it again just now.<br />
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The camera doesn't make the picture; the brain does. And the world and the imagination meet in a slow dance of negotiation, each making due with the limitations and neuroses that the other brings. <br />
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This might be my favorite picture from the month.<br />
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To the Photo Two group from ICP last week -- thanks for the great work. Keep looking up and keep making pictures.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-52727006974254148232010-07-18T19:54:00.000-04:002010-07-18T19:54:54.610-04:00Homecoming surprise<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4806818820/" title="Ginkgo advance by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4095/4806818820_bb02ed8f18.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Ginkgo advance" /></a><br />
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As you know, I'm not a whiz with trees. Two starts and two failures for me. The third time might be the charm? <br />
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In any case, I'm thrilled to see that my Ginkgo sprouts survived my absence. Thanks to Diana for looking after the watering in this New York City heat wave! <br />
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And thanks Hiroshi for giving me yet another chance!<br />
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See the keyword "Tree Project" for background posts, and Hiroshi's <a href="http://treeproject.blogspot.com/">Hibaku site</a> for the whole story.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13602488.post-16336426070276916762010-07-17T21:40:00.000-04:002010-07-17T21:40:55.659-04:00Picturing Beijing<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seanjustice/4791627747/" title="JingShan Park, Nancy by seanjustice, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4082/4791627747_63cce32c87.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="JingShan Park, Nancy" /></a><br />
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This morning I saw the sun rise in Beijing, hazy and white. <br />
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Across the top of the world, from thirty-five thousand feet, in blazing sunlight, I stared at ice on the surface of the far north sea. <br />
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This evening, home on the porch with Diana, Staten Island, New York City, I watched the sun set on the western hills of New Jersey. <br />
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In my mind I see the hotel room I left this morning and watch again the growing brightness from the rising sun on the other side of the world. <br />
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In my mind the globe is whole, the map complete -- without flattening, without projection, without metaphor.<br />
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Somehow it feels like a miracle, though I don't believe in miracles. Instead I know that simple technology and fossil fuels are responsible. And yet, tonight, experience feels contiguous, and I feel lucky, rested, connected, human.<br />
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Tomorrow the jet-lag and discombobulation will catch up with me, and I'll have to rely on pictures once again. But tonight, Beijing and New York rest side by side.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896869353346698127noreply@blogger.com0