fototazo: Arturo Soto

Showing posts with label Arturo Soto. Show all posts

2.14.2017

LatAm f100: Karina Villalobos and Rodrigo Ramos

fototazo has asked a group of 50 curators, gallery owners, blog writers, photographers, academics and others actively engaged with Latin American photography to pick two early career photographers whose work deserves recognition.

This project aims to highlight great work being made in the region today and also to provide a starting point in both English and Spanish for exploring contemporary Latin American photography. LatAm f100 is a collaboration between fototazo and the photographer and educator Jaime Permuth.

Today we continue the series with selections by Arturo Soto. His biography follows his selections.

The series also includes responses from Molly Roberts, Mariela Sancari, Alonso Castillo, Paccarik Orue, Katrin Eismann, Dina Mitrani, Don Gregorio Anton and Cristina De Middel.

fototazo ha invitado a un grupo de 50 curadores, galeristas, escritores, fotógrafos, y académicos - entre otros individuos seriamente comprometidos con la fotografía latinoamericana - a escoger cada quién dos fotógrafos emergentes cuya obra sea merecedora de mayor reconocimiento.

Este proyecto es una manera de celebrar el gran trabajo que se lleva a cabo en la región. Asimismo, busca proporcionar un punto de partida bilingüe en inglés y en español a las audiencias que deseen explorar la fotografía contemporánea en Latinoamérica. LatAm f100 es una colaboración entre fototazo y el fotógrafo y educador Jaime Permuth.

Hoy continuamos la serie con selecciones aportadas por Arturo Soto. Encontrará su biografía al final del texto.

La serie también incluye contribuciones de Molly Roberts, Mariela Sancari, Alonso Castillo, Paccarik Orue, Katrin Eismann, Dina Mitrani, Don Gregorio Anton y Cristina De Middel.

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Karina Villalobos
The work of Karina Villalobos (Mexicali, 1976) has been characterized by a constant concern about understanding the environment as producer of identity. In the series "Adolescentes" (Teenagers) (2015 - ), Villalobos captures how the instability characteristic of this formative period aligns with the volatility of a country trapped in an eternal political immaturity. A similar uncertainty can be seen in the breadth of the empty spaces represented in "La Era del Capital" (The Age of Capital) (2011), which are erected as laments of monumental proportions to the unfulfilled promises of capitalism in a border town that experiences the glittering, as deceptive as it is seductive, of the greatest machinery of promises that has ever existed.

El trabajo de Karina Villalobos (Mexicali, 1976) se ha caracterizado por una constante preocupación por entender el entorno urbano como productor de identidad. En la serie Adolescentes (2015 - ), Villalobos captura como la inestabilidad característica de este periodo formativo se alinea con la volatilidad de un país atrapado en una eterna inmadurez política. Una incertidumbre similar se aprecia en la amplitud de los espacios vacíos representados en La Era del Capital (2011), los cuales se erigen como lamentos de proporciones monumentales a las promesas incumplidas del capitalismo, en una ciudad fronteriza que recibe el resplandor, tan engañoso como seductor, de la mayor maquinaria de promesas que haya existido jamás.

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Rodrigo Ramos
In one image, two tattooed fighters melt in a hug that seems genuine, while in another, gloved hands pat on the sweaty back of a fighter. Both affective gestures coexist with images of blood, struggle and suffering. Representing the fragility of masculine sensibility has always been a challenge and the series "Ex Corde" by Rodrigo Ramos (Mexico City, 1976) seeks to delve into the relationship between masculinity and the need to act out violence to be accepted and be a part of a community. To do something wholeheartedly means to be authentic, but also passionate, so these bodies pose the possibility that certain forms of violence lead to a spirituality and fraternity increasingly difficult to achieve.

En una imagen, dos peleadores tatuados se funden en un abrazo que se antoja genuino, mientras que en otra, unas manos enguantadas dan unas palmadas en la espalda sudorosa de un peleador. Ambos gestos afectivos conviven con imágenes de sangre, lucha y sufrimiento. Representar la fragilidad de la sensibilidad masculina siempre ha sido un reto, y la serie Ex Corde de Rodrigo Ramos (Ciudad de México, 1976) busca ahondar en la relación entre la masculinidad y la necesidad de actuar la violencia para ser aceptados y formar parte de una comunidad. Realizar algo de todo corazón implica ser autentico, pero también pasional, por lo que estos cuerpos plantean la posibilidad de que ciertas formas de violencia conduzcan a una espiritualidad y a una fraternidad cada vez más difícil de lograr.

[Editor's note: The images below are from the series "Ex Corde." The photobook of the project can be seen here.]

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Arturo Soto (Ciudad Juárez, México, 1981) is a Mexican photographer and writer. He studied film and photography at the Savannah College of Art and Design and holds postgraduate degrees from the School of Visual Arts and University College London. Soto has exhibited internationally, and has received scholarships from Jumex, CONACyT and FONCA. He currently resides in the UK, where he is a PhD candidate at the University of Oxford.

Arturo Soto (Ciudad Juárez, México, 1981) es un fotógrafo y escritor mexicano. Estudió cine y fotografía en el Savannah College of Art and Design, así como posgrados en la School of Visual Arts y University College London. Soto ha expuesto a nivel internacional, y ha sido acreedor de becas de Jumex, CONACyT-FINBA y FONCA. Actualmente reside en el Reino Unido, donde realiza un doctorado en Arte en la Universidad de Oxford.

7.23.2013

Photographers on Photographers: Before These Vapid Streets: Hiroh Kikai's "Labyrinthos" by Arturo Soto

Every once in a while, one is lucky enough to stumble upon an image that synthesizes an idea one had been unable to give form. The excitement of identifying one’s own sensibility in someone else’s work is indescribable, particularly if both happen to work in the same medium. I was fortunate enough to experience one of these epiphanies when I came across Hiroh Kikai’s Labyrinthos¹ at a Kinokuniya bookstore. I immediately recognized his name, having recently seen his work at the ICP² where his Asakusa Portraits³ had been the highlight of the show.

I was expecting to see more of the same, but my excitement increased when the book turned out to be a collection of cityscapes. These pictures were also monochromatic and square, a very difficult format to work in. I slowly savored every page, trying to delay the moment I had to part ways with the book, for I knew that I could not afford it. I remember leaving the bookstore that night feeling elated and moved. The pictures had captivated me so much, that I went back a couple of times to go through the book again, thanking that nobody had bought the only available copy yet. I moved to Mexico City shortly thereafter, and Labyrinthos became part of my silly list of “books that slipped away”. Fortunately, the store still had a copy (probably not the same one) when I visited two years later. I am only narrating this irreverent timeline of events to emphasize how not having the book actually allowed me to keep on thinking about its pictures, perhaps even to the point of romanticizing them⁴;. Their austerity had definitely left a strong impression on me.

The photographs date from 1978 to 2006. Just like his portraits, the cityscapes were also taken in Asakusa, a former entertainment district in Tokyo, still popular because of its many temples. Kikai focuses his attention on empty streets, signs, cars and facades, depicting the suburb’s diverse architectural densities and overlapping structures. Contrary to what one might expect, he does not seem particularly interested in studying the idiosyncrasies of the Japanese built environment⁵, nor does he document the complex social dynamic of a place dedicated to amusement, tourism and religion. The emphasis is almost exclusively on generic locations, sensibly chosen to make one ponder about the many anonymous stories that take place in them.

Why exactly do I enjoy this book so much then? To be honest, it took me a quite a bit of time to figure it out. I have not been able to read the essay that splits the book in half, so my understanding of it relies exclusively on the photographs themselves, which is not necessarily a bad thing. Kikai does not criticize or raise awareness about anything in particular, nor does he want to change the world with this work. The subject matter itself is not particularly beautiful or polemical. I finally understood that the book interests me because of its unapologetic depiction of ordinariness, while also accomplishing the extraordinary task of showing me how its author sees the world.

This is something easier said than done, since the camera usually tricks one into believing that whatever it produces is unaffected by the photographer’s feelings, convictions and desires. This basic emotional connection between the artist and its creation is taken for granted when looking at other art forms, but is sometimes forgotten when looking at a photograph, particularly one of something as vapid as a residential street corner.

The book is important for me because it helped me define the type of images that I was interested in pursuing for my own work. It continues to challenge me and I return to it frequently for inspiration. This kind of communion between artist and viewer is, after all, what art is supposed to be about.

Kikai’s images manage to transform the nothingness of the everyday into something worth looking at, forcing us to reevaluate our priorities when it comes to directing our attention. His true intention, I believe, is to demonstrate that life is full of different ways of understanding the banality that surrounds us. A similar thing happens when looking at a Morandi painting: a quintet of inanimate household objects is hardly anyone’s idea of an emotional subject, and yet, by way of mechanisms better described by German aesthetic philosophy, one is moved by their genuineness and simplicity.

Only a few single images stand out in Labyrinthos. Rather, Kikai’s consistent vision, equilibrated sequencing and repetition of motives (in a non-typological way) define the book’s discourse. The purpose of this visual alliteration is to establish a rhythm, but also to capture the apparent inconspicuousness of the streets, and it is worth speculating what he means to express by this. When describing his Asakusa Portraits, Kikai talks about his interest in photographing “common folk”, while at the same time respecting their individuality⁶. Of all genres, portraiture is the one that establishes an emotional connection with the viewer most easily. The presence of people in this book, however, is tangential, with only a few passersby here and there. Is it possible, then, for Kikai’s common landscapes to awaken emotional responses comparable to those of his portraits?

I believe they can, although I recognize I might be one of the few still fascinated by the plastic bag dancing in the whirlwind. And yet, didn’t that scene in American Beauty show precisely the connection between insignificant details and the depths of a man’s soul? It seems unlikely that these pictures will bring anyone to tears, unless perhaps someone grew up in these streets. That means the emotional connection does not have to be to the place itself, but only to the type of place it represents. Images of natural landscapes are the archetype for this: one may feel something when looking at a picture of a beach not because one has been there before, but because of one’s associations with that type of place. Kikai recognizes that the streets are akin to an empty stage when one first enters a theater, where a few props and pieces of furniture can elicit associations with psychological traits for characters one has not met yet. The images in Labyrinthos share this associative potential, featuring locations ripe with possibilities for human comedy. They also describe, conversely, the flawed nature of human enterprise, since cities are the truest mirrors of our defects. Kikai, just like Gabriele Basilico or Gerry Johansson, manages to put in perspective the relationship between the environments we create and who we pretend to be.⁷
- Arturo Soto

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[1] Labyrinthos flip through video http://vimeo.com/37588342

[2] Heavy Light: Recent Photography and Video from Japan.

[3] Asakusa Portraits flip through video http://vimeo.com/39342362

[4] Sometimes, I deceive myself into thinking that I cannot live without a certain book, so I do whatever it takes to buy it. For some reason, when it is finally in my possession, I look at it only a few times, and then completely forget about it, its impact having been far less important than I initially thought.

[5] “Of course I aim for the formal aspect of my work to capture reality as closely as possible, which means that I aspire to a resolutely modern — but all-encompassing — form, in the sense that it takes account of both the past and the present. I do not think particularly of capturing the “present moment” or the ‘essence of the Japanese soul’ when I take my photographs." Hiroh Kikai, interview by Marc Feustel, Lensculture, 2008, http://www.lensculture.com/kikai.html
[6] Hiroh Kikai, interview by Noriko Fuku, trans. Eric Shiner, Hiroh Kikai: Asakusa Portraits (Göttingen: Steidl/ICP, 2008), 12.

[7] “What keeps me creative is returning to the simple question: what does it mean to be human?” - Kikai, Hiroh Kikai: Asakusa Portraits, 9

10.12.2012

The Image: Arturo Soto, "Kitchen window, 21-10 Broadway Apt. 3, Astoria, NY, 2006"

Why does one photograph a certain thing at a particular time, in a particular way? How does an image grow in importance over the rest of the images that one makes? Are significant images important from the moment they are made, or do they have to linger in archives indeterminately in order for one to recognize their importance? I think that we sometimes want our images to speak too much too soon. We want them to say more than even we are capable of saying. Of course, the opposite also happens. Some pictures are completely meaningless when we make them. So, why do we make them then? Perhaps we need to finish a roll of film (a romantic thought, I know); perhaps we need to make a quick test, or maybe we just want to click the shutter without really thinking about a specific purpose. The photograph above is such a case. I made it in 2006 at home, on a winter day when I did not want to go out. I needed to finish a roll of slide film, so I decided to make an exposure test of a backlit subject.

Years later, I was looking at old negatives for a forthcoming exhibition and realized that I had taken many pictures of the windows (or their respective views) in the different places I had lived in. It was an exciting discovery for me, since I had done it subconsciously, and I remembered a verse by Paul Celan that had stuck with me: "seven roses later plashes the fountain." I found the idea of measuring time in terms of roses, or of windows in my case, intriguing, so I decided to title the series "Some Windows Later."

I am interested in how the everyday shapes our experience. Sometimes the minutia of our lives reveals a human dimension that is otherwise hard to grasp. The labels on those jars take me back to a place in my life that is now lost in the flow of time. Photographs are particularly well-suited to capture things that we didn’t know that we wanted.

4.04.2012

75: Arturo Soto

Editor’s note: This week we are continuing to add images to the gallery from photographers discovered while at FotoFest in Houston last week.

Arturo Soto
Untitled, Queens, NY, from the series "Blind Views"
2009

Series Statement: I am interested in how public spaces influence our quotidian experience.

The images in "Blind Views" depict urban landscapes from Mexico City, New York, El Paso and Panama. Their aim is to show the rich amalgamation of cultural signs that make up the visual infrastructure of the street. I am particularly drawn towards spaces that, because of their apparent neutrality, offer numerous possibilities of interpretation.

The work was inspired by Baudelaire’s essay The Painter of Modern Life, which proposes to distill from the present the "mysterious element of beauty that it may contain, however slight or minimal that element may be."