sally mann

[liliella]

deri aty ku me lejon gjykimi dhe njohuria jam e bindjes qe synimet e artit i perkasin vete artistit . ai vendos c'qellim ka puna e tij si dhe interpretimin qe ai percjell ndermjet nje pjese. dhe eshte pikerisht fuqia e tij te percaktoj rrethanat dhe permasat e mendimit qe ngjall nje kureshtje ne spektatoret. nje furce dhembesh dhe nje kreher te puthitura mua me duken simbol i dashurise e per artistin vete mbase konflikt ne banjo.
fale shumefishit te opinioneve qofte te edukuar ne artet apo thjesht nje pjelle goje arti rralle ka shpetuar nga gjykimi njerzor. motivet e artistave per nje pjese jane kritizuar , menyra e interpretimit si dhe shume ane te tjera qe nuk me behen te ditura thjesht per faktin qe dhe une kam dhene kontributin tim ne kete fenomen.
fakti qe me shtyn te shkruaj ate me siper qendron ne fotot e SALLY MANN . nje nga emisionet me te preferuara ne televizion eshte EGG qe shfaqet cdo te premte ne PBS. cdo emision jep nej veshtrim intim ne disa nga artistat e kohes . Fotot e Mann i kisha hasur dhe me pare po nuk kisha krijuar nje mendim te mirefillt ne punen e saj ngaqe kisha shume pak njohuri mbi punen e saj.mesova qe fokusi i kameres shumicen e kohes ka qene vete familja e saj , dhe shumicen e kohes ne menyren qe ajo vete i shikonte ato .-si pjestare te familjes dhe jo thjesht subjekti i aparatit. ciltersia dhe presenca e tyre eshte kaq e arritur sa shume kritike e goditen Mann per "exploitation " te femijve . lakuriqsia e tyre u dha te drejten ta veshtronin si nje pornografe dhe jo si nene/fotografe. me mire do te flasin fotot e saja per te

[liliella]

[liliella]

[liliella]

[liliella]

[liliella]

[ornament]

Problemi eshte se qellimi i autores eshte arritja e efektit nepermjet provokimit. Ketu kemi provokim te paramenduar te cilit i sherben vendosja e nje 'mise en scène' te parastesishme. Mnjf kur veshtrojme fotot menjehere na shkon mendja çfare ka dash te tregoje autorja, autorja (qellimi i saj) e mbyt vepren, pra s'kemi nje reagim spontan siç mund te ishte po te shikonim nje femije lakuriq ndokund dhe qe nuk eshte hera e pare qe shohim te tille.
Femije lakuriq ka dhe ne pikturat e rilindjes italiane, por ata nuk provokojne, çdo gje del natyrshem, autori mbetet diskret dhe ne kujtojme se vepra eshte e realizuar nga koha, ose Zoti. Ketu eshte dhe diferenca midis artit dhe joartit.

ps, autoren do ta kishin fut ne burg me kohe po te mos qe nena e femijve. Me kete s'du te them qe jam kudra nuditetit te femijeve ne nje veper artistike. Mirepo ketu siç e thame provokimi e mbyt artin.

[Eni]

Mua kur i pashe ato foto nudo te femijeve me goditen!!!

Ok, art mund te thote dikush eshte, dakord.

Por te shikosh foto te tilla sado bukur te realizuara nga artisjta perseri te ngacmohet truri keq.

Mua te pakten keshtu me ndodhi.

Lakureqisia e femijeve ne ato pak foto nudo eshte e shpifur.

Per respekt ndaj femijeve ju kerkoj t'i hiqni prej andej ato foto.
Ne emer te artit nuk duhet toleruar gjithçka.

[macia_blu]

femije i abuzuar neper perpjekjet e Asaj, per tu bere artiste.
(perpjekja duket e pa sinqerte)
fotot jane te bukura,ose
"jo cdo perpjekje eshte art,
ndonese edhe perpjkeja eshte e bukur"

[forever]

une i vleresoj..........................
nese doni te shihni me shume piktura/foto te famshme, bashkohore, shune te diskutuara check this out:

http://www.gregkucera.com/artists.htm

[forever]

Noelle Oxenhandler looks at the family photography of Sally Mann for Nerve (1998). At the bottom of the page, click to read Sally Mann's response to the article


On the cover of Sally Mann's Immediate Family, her three young children stand in three different postures of nole me tangere -- don't touch me. Mouths set, absolutely not smiling, they stare dead on into the eye of the camera, into the eye of whomever would dare stare at them.
And yet they are bare-chested, and their chests look touchingly vulnerable, undeveloped. Their arms, though tightly held in defensive positions, are thin. Though they have mustered their most defiant faces, these faces look mustered. Even these fierce children cannot help but look like children.
And, bare-chested, with their thin arms, their faces of mustered defiance, they have been captured, preserved, stilled in one of their mother's stills. They are transfixed, this fierce little triptych, on the cover of her book, and I who have bought it can stare at them as long and hard as I want.

And yet, the very mother who has delivered them up unto me has also kept something back. For, again and again, when I open the book and look through the collection of photographs, I see that she has captured them at precisely this moment, on precisely this edge, when they resist being captured and where they draw back into themselves.
In fact, looking through the black-and-white photographs of these children, I get the same feeling I've had looking at certain long-ago photographs of Native Americans, portraits that managed to preserve that fleeting moment when a conquered people still rest so deeply in their own dignity that they can stare back into the eye of the conquering people with a look that says, There is something about me that will never be yours.
And, taking this edge to the very edge, isn't this the look that Sartre said was the last province of the oppressed? Even as the torture victim, as the prisoner about to be executed is stripped of the last shred of autonomy, there is something that he still possesses. For he can stare back into the eye of his torturer, his executioner with a look that says, I see you, I see what you are doing to me, and in this very seeing I declare myself separate, I withhold the conscious spark of my existence even as you snuff that existence out.
WHOA! Let's not get carried away . . . These are a mother's photographs of her three young children -- Emmett, Jessie, Virginia -- in various moments of old- fashioned childhood: wading in water; sleeping in fields; playing a board game; trying on glamour; bearing the scuffs, scratches, dirt and bites of young life lived au naturel. Why even bring up the subject of torture, execution?
Because there is something distinctly noir in these photographs, something with teeth that lurks in even the dreamiest of them. In one of the very few in which one of the children is smiling, she is standing only inches away from a recently killed deer. The curve of her body echoes the curve of the carcass as it hangs over the rear of a pick-up -- yet her look, with its vague and utterly private smile, could not be farther away from the animal's plight. Dressed in a white sequined ballerina dress, she sheds no tears. She is as sealed-off in her fantasy world as the deer in its death.
In other photographs, the bodies of the children look almost as if they, like the deer, had been rendered inanimate. Their postures look strewn, draped, crumpled, flung. In one, the smallest girl, with her beautiful pre- Raphaelite face, lies sleeping outside among what appear to be stuffed burlap bags. In her sleep she looks utterly innocent, as if she'd suddenly just surrendered her heaviness to the ground. The bags echo this posture of surrender -- as if someone had whispered "trust your weight to the earth" -- yet they also look somewhat ominous, like those fairy-tale bags into which Three Little Kids might be stuffed by a wolf, or those bags in which kittens and stones are flung into rivers, the kind of bag into which this very child herself might be stuffed.
In many of the photographs, the children's skin -- the very skin that another photographer might preserve in its smoothness, softness and young shine -- is gritty, dusty, sprinkled with leaves, covered with pox. In part, these dirty-skin pictures come through as an ode to the freedom of childhood. But other tones resonate too: the same bodies that look simply at home in the natural world can also look as though they were simply left to return to the natural world -- as in, decompose. Although there is not a picture of a child's stilled, naked body covered with ants, such a picture would not look at all out of place in the collection. And many of the photographs -- a pair of thin legs coated in flour paste, a belly and penis splattered with popsicle drips, a wounded face through surgical gauze -- come very close to the sort of blown-up symptomatic parts one sees in medical texts.
In some of the photographs, there's a duck/rabbit quality. You see a scene of serene, picturesque childhood and then you blink your eyes and something seamy appears, something that threatens to cross over into danger in the form of violence, poverty, grief, neglect. Uncovered, an angelic child lies fast asleep in bed, her hair, which one easily imagines to be soft and golden, in a blur around her head. You look again and see a vast urine stain spread out below her -- and indeed, this dreamy photo is not entitled Dreams, it's entitled Wet Bed. Not too horrifying, perhaps -- but still, it's a jolt, and in others the jolts do get sharper. In Emmett Afloat you see a boy, voluptuously at ease on the earth, stretched out on an expanse of rippled sand that looks like water. Look again, and you see a child's corpse, abandoned. In Hayhook, you see the very white body of a naked girl suspended against a dark backdrop of house, tree, and family members, none of whom is looking at her. "Such innocent play," a friend said to me. He saw a girl, swinging, utterly at ease in her naked body, in the bosom of her family. But what I saw reminded me of the very first time I even learned that there was such a thing as child abuse. I was eight years old when I came across a newspaper article about a girl who was left to hang naked by her wrists from the showerhead while her family went about its business.
And yes, a number of the photographs seem just about to erupt into something vividly erotic: two huge white blossoms, Night-blooming Cereus are draped over a child's nipples; the soft roundness of a little girl's body is nestled between the plump hairy thighs of a man; boys and girls stare into the camera with the mixed-message, come-on looks of soft-porn models, looks that say both "Try me" and "Don't dare."
It's no wonder that Sally Mann's photographs of children are considered controversial. Certainly they are a world away from those Ann Geddes babies, plastered on cards and calendars, who might so easily receive a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. Yet it is these babies -- plopped in flowerpots, beaming out from garden beds, their dimpled faces glimpsed through bunches of hydrangeas, their plump limbs wiggling on a sea of petals -- who are being unabashedly offered up for adult consumption.

What came back to me, in a kind of rush, as I let myself enter the world of Sally Mann's Immediate Family, is something that is hard to acknowledge, hard to express. I remembered how often, when my daughter was small, I would become palpably aware of how vulnerable she was to me -- how easily I could hurt her: drop her, crush her, violate the boundaries of her delicate body. I can honestly say that this awareness carried no desire for me -- although it did sometimes carry the anxiety that I might experience such desire. It was a feeling not unlike holding a very delicate object -- something porcelain or glass -- and knowing, as part of my sense of the beauty and preciousness of this object, how easily I might drop it to the floor and let it shatter. Isn't this awareness, this fine line between appreciation and anxiety, desire and restraint, an essential part of the experience, say, of drinking wine from a crystal glass?
It's this fine line that Sally Mann walks on. She comes so close to trespassing -- and yet she doesn't. No matter how naked and vulnerable the bruised, smudged, stilled, strewn bodies of her children may appear, they retain something inviolate. It's there in the gaze that looks back at her, and through her eyes at the eyes of anyone else who might stare at them. And it's there even when her children's eyes are shut -- though she steals upon them in sleep, she manages to present them in a sleep that utterly belongs to them, and to them alone.
Even when Sally Mann renders her children thing-like, the photographs radiate a consciousness of what she's done: when not in the defiant gaze of the children themselves, then in the photographs' utter refusal to euphemize, to prettify the thing-ness.
Which is really the more dangerous vision of children: the one that presents them to us, scrubbed and cute among flowers, as decor, accessory? Or the one that acknowledges the edges we walk on? As Jung said: it's what remains unconscious that returns as fate.



SALLY MANN REACTION TO THE ESSAY:


It's so odd to live as I do right now -- sitting on the same deck of the same cabin where Hayhook was taken. There is no electricity, no running water, no telephone. Not even a cell phone will work where we are.
So, I come in from time to time, driving across the 450 acres, as pristine as any land in your imagination, and I plug into my electronic life: faxes, e-mail, telephones, and so forth. When I did so yesterday, I came across your letter [inquiring about the use of pictures from Immediate Family] and Noelle's article.
Over the years I've learned not to talk about my work, taking to heart the Robert Doisneau quote that goes something like this: "If you make pictures, don't speak, don't write, don't analyze yourself and don't answer any questions." I would amend that by adding, "And don't read any critical comments, either." People always seem to freight the work so heavily with meanings that were not in any way intended or even subconscious.
So when I ignored my own advice and read Noelle's piece, I did so initially with indignation: What is all this talk about oppressed peoples? Conquered tribes?? Torture victims??? If my children didn't have better things to do, I'm sure they'd love to rebut all the bullshit that comes pouring out of academia about my work . . . But, still, Noelle's piece was better than some, and she did make some interesting points. At least she didn't see repressed memories of incest as my artistic motivation.
It's not like these kids had to keep some shred of personal dignity squirreled away from their prying Mom's camera lens. They were -- and are still -- active participants in the art-making that goes on all around them. Art is in every aspect of our everyday life -- in the gardens we have designed around the house, in what we put on our walls, in the pumpkins we cut for Halloween. And any parent knows that you can't force a child to make art; they have to cooperate, they have to want to be part of the process. When we made these pictures, the kids knew exactly what to do to make an image work: how to look, how to project degrees of intensity or defiance or plaintive, woebegone, Dorthea-Lange dejection. I didn't pry these pictures from them -- they gave them to me. Remember that and the images take on a wholly different meaning -- no deep psychological manipulations or machinations, just the straight-forward, everyday telling of a story.
I am reminded of when Eudora Welty came to Hollins. The back of the class was filling up with these guys in beards, academic types. As she read this short story in which one female character presents another with a marble cake, you could see one of the beards getting all excited. He started waving his hand as soon as she stopped reading and said, "Miz Welty, how did you come up with that powerful symbol of the marble cake, with the feminine and masculine and the Freudian and the Jungian all mixed together like that?" -- his doctoral thesis probably hanging on this. And Welty, this wonderful little old lady, just looked at him for a really long time from the lectern. Finally she said, "Well, you see, it's a recipe that's been in my family for some time."
I guess I'm a little like that.

[forever]

virginia asleep

[forever]

Still Time, great!

[forever]

emmet jessie virginia -her childrens

[forever]

flour paste

[forever]

Sally Mann
Windows of Desire, 1994
Gelatin silver print
Courtesy of the artist

[liliella]

[liliella]

[forever]

Dmth ne keto foto spektatori nuk provokohet? Nuk e di cfare do ti nga arti apo fotografite, po une dua qe ato te me flasin te me thone dicka ..psh fotoja e fundit shpreh friken e tre gocave me biciklete se mos rrezohen ..
kete fotografi une e harroj menjehere...me impresionuese jane reklamat ne revista, me artistike, me emocionale edhe te mbeten ne mendje per me gjate, te krijojne emocion...kjo ketu eshte nje hic per mendimin tim e cfare pastaj se ato kane frike?

varet si e sheh artin, dhe qellimet e tij, objektivat etj aq me teper secili i sheh ndryshe relatat subjekt+objekt jane ekucaione te ndryshme per secilin..

shifena me vone me vepra me cilesore......:)


Liliella je e madhe.............ornament hidh nje sy nga essenca jo nga siperfaqja

[katana]

ornament
kjo faqe eshte hapur per sally mann
nese do te diskutosh per fotgrafite e saja je i mirpritur. nese do qe te diskutosh provokimi i realitetit (subjektit) ju lutem hap nje teme tjeter. nderkohe un po ti fshij postimet e tua.

katana