"Eventually Also Add Text:" The Decontextualized Language and Photography of Lisa Holzer

"But yes, but yes!" © Lisa Holzer (full size here)

Post by Chelsey VanderVliet 

I was introduced to the work of Lisa Holzer in March at the New Museum 2015 Triennial, Surround Audience. Her work, featured on the museum's entrance level, behind the cafe alongside a few other artists nearly escaped my view; I imagine it escaped a lot of views, given the location. There were five, maybe six of her pieces on display, pigment prints on cotton paper featuring lengthy, incomprehensible text pieces, swirls of color, blankness. Contained by milky white frames, each print was preserved behind a pane of glass, some of which were marked with haphazard swaths and/or drips of nail polish. From a distance, they read like enlarged pages from the notebook of a creative, aimless teen. In spite of the awkward location, Holzer's work resonated strongly with me; her playful compositions and use of language caught my eye.

Included in the Triennial amongst a somewhat disparate collection of her work were a series of images, all of which share the title "But yes, but yes!," where Holzer paired the names of various nail polish shades with descriptions of the hues they represent. Glancing over them, I laughed with my friends when silly names like "Don't Pretzel My Buttons," "bbf boy best friend" and the ever- provocative "My Very First Knockwurst" met my gaze from behind nail polish-obscured panes of glass.*

*Side note: These are all legitimate names of nail polish colors, Holzer did not make them up; in fact, I stumbled upon a bottle of essie's "bbf boy best friend" months ago and bought it, simply because it is referenced in her work.

The titles and descriptions are listed one after another, creating a gross amalgamation of textures, colors and personalities. Everything is personified, whining for your attention and for Holzer's attention as the creator of such images. Her work is deceptive, appearing simplistic from afar, yet a closer look reveals a unique sense of humor. Holzer's simplistic style allows her words to stand practically alone, existing within an autonomous space while remaining oblivious to their own meaning and unabashed ridiculousness, hence the element of humor. While the works I encountered at the New Museum Triennial were not photographs, they introduced me to Holzer's practice and ultimately led me to her photographic projects which possess the same vivaciousness that piqued my interest in early spring.

Whether or not Holzer considers her most recent photographic works part of the same series is unknown to me, however they were recently exhibited together at Rowing London in May as part of an exhibition titled Keep All Your Friends.¹ Holzer's photographic pieces are enigmatic and frequently incorporate a variety of media, such as text, paint and even stickers, as in the case of a series from 2013. Her use of photography parallels her use of language - textural, fragmented and displayed with minimal to no context, like a patchwork quilt. Two multi-media works from 2015 titled Head of a Partisan are prime examples, as they both combine text and photography in a single image, allowing for a direct comparison of her handling of both mediums.

"Head of a Partisan" © Lisa Holzer (full size here)

"Head of a Partisan" © Lisa Holzer (full size here)

While there is an overwhelming painterly quality to these prints, from what I understand they are photographs of an "open crisp packet that has been imaged upon" with acrylic paint.² The strokes/smears of paint range from opaque to translucent in quality, and the foundational photographs are abstract, rendering the individual layers of media indistinguishable. Printed on the upper half of each image is the same paragraph, a curated glimpse into Holzer's creative process (note, this is an excerpt, not the entire paragraph):

Eventually also add text, only a few words repeated and accompanied by fragile symbols of other dingbats? More icing? It's hot. Don't ruin it. They care. They sweat. They matter. Are you? And let them puke! Heads ache...You could take my breath. You took my breath away. Breakfast? My head aches. I'll fail you too. Hold my head, my hand...

Her overall tone is somewhat coy, inviting and repellent all the same. The subject matter of these works is purposefully indeterminate. Using visceral language, Holzer emphasizes this, providing us with sensory overload - "more icing?," "(Birthday) party colors gone awry," "tactile drops of sweat," "Let me puke!" Relationships between text and imagery are suggested, yet not defined. Unable to simultaneously process the lushness of either (text or imagery), we are left uncertain of our comprehension skills. We even begin doubting the very materials Holzer claims to have used to create the works themselves. Could it be that those smears of cyan acrylic paint are actually remnants of a child's deconstructed birthday cake? How about the underwhelming beige-ness that serves as the backdrop - is it vomit? Are these prints documentation of a food fight? Is the food involved pre- or partially-digested?

The significance of these prints lies in how Holzer uses text, rather than what she is saying, which cannot be interpreted literally, even linearly, as the target of her manifesto shifts every few sentences. Holzer writes in a language only she can read, and her employment of the photograph as artistic medium is incomplete and self-referential in much the same way. She avoids the definitive in all aspects of her practice. By removing her subject matter far from its initial context, Holzer draws attention to her use of photography rather than what the photographs are comprised of, illustrating the most sensational aspects of human behavior.

"The Man Who Is Unhappy" © Lisa Holzer (full size here)

"The Man Who Is Unhappy" © Lisa Holzer (full size here)

While the above images retain their photographic clarity, they still exhibit the same ambiguous characteristics found in the Head of a Partisan series, albeit in visually different, yet conceptually similar ways. The Head of a Partisan images rely on nondescript subject matter and grainy image quality to perplex the viewer, whereas these photographs, titled The Man Who Is Unhappy rely on detail and tangibility to do the same.

To get a better idea of what I mean, try this: hold your hand in front of your face, so close that the details -- the veins, lines, freckles, cuts, or scars - are lost. Now, slowly move your hand away from your face until those details are visible again. Make sure not to move your hand so far that you are reminded of the setting you inhabit. Imagine taking two closely-cropped photographs of a section of your hand to represent each observation. Detail, or lack thereof, would be the primary difference between these photographs, however, they wouldn't be that dissimilar - both would show something decontextualized. Chances are, viewers would be unable to determine where the close-ups of your skin exist in relation to the rest of your hand, or even your entire body. And while the crisp photograph might provide more context, it probably wouldn't provide much more than the soft, blurry one, unless it includes defining features, such as the topography of your knuckles or the life lines on your palm. Head of a Partisan and The Man Who Is Unhappy are analogous to the blurry/clear hand example, respectively. Texture is a reoccurring element in Holzer's photographs, and she uses it to displace us; sometimes it is emphasized, other times it is muted, but muted texture is still texture in its own way.

The subject matter of The Man Who Is Unhappy is melting Camembert cheese.³ And while I cannot speak for the obviousness of this, as I was made aware of it when introduced to the series, the cheese's glossy-yet-jagged topography is mildly displacing; its subtle opalescence mimics oyster shells and pearls. Placing it against a flat white backdrop, Holzer erases its edibility while emphasizing its plasticity. Suspended from the wall, the fate of the cheese is interrupted - it cannot be consumed, nor can it melt or decay. The shadows and highlights that play along its surface are reminiscent of thick brushstrokes, and when viewed alongside either of the Head of a Partisan prints, it's plain to see, the overtly photographic style doesn't differ from the concealed photographic style all that much. When Holzer employes clarity, she does not do it to reveal what it is she is photographing, she does it to toy with sensationalism. These photographs do not necessarily represent cheese, just as the image below does not necessarily represent viscous, yellow shampoo.⁴

The Pretty Girl © Lisa Holzer (full size here)

There is a sexual element to Holzer's photographic work, as a majority of her compositions are reminiscent of bodily fluids, however it is implied in a tongue in cheek way rather than stated explicitly. Additionally, the eroticism is more humorous and grotesque than alluring or beautiful in nature. Holzer's work doesn't take itself too seriously, which is how it maintains a level of flexibility regarding interpretation. She may mock humanity through her photographs and text pieces, equating breakdowns with birthday parties and unhappy men with soft cheese, but that does not mean she is exempt from her own criticism. In fact, Holzer is very much a part of her own analysis due to the intimate nature of her practice. The squishy, perspiring surfaces she gives us are undeniably humanoid, but they are more than personified messes, they are personified personal messes.

Holzer does not appear physically in her photographs, yet her presence is still felt, not only in her text pieces, but the titles she has derived from French artist, Jean Fautrier ("The Man Who Is Unhappy," "The Pretty Girl," "Head of a Partisan"), that otherwise sound like her own creation.⁵ Given the lyrical quality of her photographs, language emphasizes the distinct personalities they emit, regardless of whether or not text is actually incorporated. And when paragraphs are overlain, the vividness of her writing plays off the textures exploited (or concealed) photographically. Holzer states that her works “often communicate with one another,” and whether she uses photographs in a traditional manner to emphasize detail and tangibility, or, as a means to an end, as a backdrop, for instance, her work still speaks a unique, self- referential language.⁶

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Chelsey VanderVliet recently graduated with Honors in Studio Art from Rollins College in Winter Park, FL. She currently lives and works in Morristown, New Jersey. Working primarily in photography, her work investigates concepts of identity, authenticity and placement of self. She is fascinated by pathetic imagery, music culture, language as presence and unease in the familiar. 

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1 Lisa Holzer, "Keep All Your Friends," Rowing, accessed August 7th, 2015, http://rowingprojects.com/projects/keep-all-your-friends
2 S. Bee, "Lisa Holzer @ Rowing Reviewed: The open and the opaque," Rowing, accessed August 7th, 2015, http://rowingprojects.com/press/lisa-holzer-keep-all-your-friends
3 Ibid.
4 Ibid.
5 "Lisa Holzer Keep All Your Friends," Rowing, accessed August 7th, 2015, http://rowingprojects.com/projects/keep-all-your-friends
6 Quintessa Matranga, "Lisa Holzer Interview," Mission Comics Gallery, accessed August 7th, 2015, http://missioncomicsandartgallery.tumblr.com/lisaholzerinterview

Connotation, Denotation, and Transience within Jo Ann Callis's "Ballast" Series

Post by Chelsey VanderVliet

Bal·last¹
noun
1. Heavy material put into the hold of a ship or the gondola of a balloon to enhance the stability.
2. Coarse gravel or crushed rock laid to form a bed for roads or railroads.
3. A factor or element providing stability, esp. in character.

Ballast is, in my opinion, a word that sounds somewhat like its meaning. Prior to a quick dictionary search, I imagined ballast referred to something delicate yet filled with potentially perpetual energy; despite ending with a hard "t," it bounces off the tongue similar to "ballet," which it seems I have loosely, subconsciously described. Yet my conceptualization of the word was challenged upon learning it defines a stabilizer. In addition to sounding delicate and potentially energetic, "ballast" simultaneously possesses a low and steady power; it is neither frail nor elegant, like a long yet easy to pronounce word. Instead, it sits at the bottom of the throat like a weight, mirroring its meaning. Like all words, context and tone impact comprehension and ballast is no different, but putting aside its denotation the word sounds contradictory. The stability it advertises can be perceived as fleeting and untrustworthy.

Ballast is the title of a photographic series made in 1984 by artist Jo Ann Callis. According to an article published by The New Yorker, "Woman Twirling" is an alternative name for the body of work, though I believe the simplicity and subsequent lack of specificity of "Ballast" is more fitting, more intriguing.² "Ballast" is a collection of photographs united by their lack of clarity and their depiction of figures mid-motion. I fixate on Callis's title because it seems the word ballast provokes a similar connotation within both her and me, a momentary feeling of security and ground. This sensation is a lot like descending a staircase, trusting yourself to estimate the distance between your foot and the following step and stumbling from miscalculation. Callis states she "became acutely aware of how we are confronted by the transience of the people in our [lives]" and "wanted to juxtapose that idea with very still objects."³ She describes the project as a photographic reconciliation.⁴

© Jo Ann Callis

Beneath a saturated color palette, each image presents an isolated and unclear narrative; the captured moments read as humorous, introspective and desperate acts of performance. While there is no answer as to why the photographed individuals are carrying out such unusual tasks before the camera, an answer is unnecessary; ambiguity adds to the performative quality of each scene. To get a sense of this ambiguity, consider the photograph above - a decorative lamp sits in the foreground while a woman flounces in the background, skirt lifting away from her body like a fan. Unknowingly, she has positioned herself dangerously close to the wall, pivoting on one heel with both ankles turned in a painfully unnatural configuration. The lamp is both her spotlight and audience, she performs in isolation. Is she dancing, about to slip, or simply rolling around in childish agony? This woman, like the many other "Ballast" performers, revels in pathetic look-at-me anguish.

© Jo Ann Callis

The photograph above is similar in composition to the previous, where an object (a house plant, in this instance) is placed awkwardly in the foreground while an individual undergoes some kind of episode in the background. By including these potentially obstructive objects, Callis dictates that we are more than viewers: we are voyeurs. Like children flailing and whining for attention during a time out, aware their disciplinarian is in a neighboring room, Callis's subjects demand notice through a similar window of opportunity - it's as if the photographic subjects know they are being looked at, therefore they encourage our voyeurism with wild behavior. We indulge them by looking, peering behind the lamp, the plant and the mirror precariously balanced on top of a filing cabinet (see photograph below). The only difference is that her subjects are adults, not children, which begs the question of whether we are capable of growing out of particular behaviors at all, or if it is wrong or reasonable to devise silly ploys for attention every now and again.

© Jo Ann Callis

Not all "Ballast" photographs document erratic behavior, however a desire for praise is present in all of them: a woman does a handstand between parted gold curtains, a man does push-ups on two chairs with a mirror below him, another woman holds her breath underwater amongst fish. Although the handstand photograph is an outlier, the concept of motion is paramount to the series. The blurring of movement increases ambiguity, but more importantly suggests instability - physically and mentally. To find balance is to find one's center of gravity despite adversity; balance is a brief moment of calm, easily destroyed by subtle movement.

© Jo Ann Callis

© Jo Ann Callis

© Jo Ann Callis

A majority of Callis's subjects are women, and I'd like to think this is because the concept of instability is frequently thought of as a woman's ailment. Society has constructed oppressive gender roles such that words like "manic," "volatile" and "flighty" are considered feminine, while "durable," "assured" and "loyal" are masculine. No surprise there is more positive association with the masculine words. As a photographic series, "Ballast" revels in the language of instability, thereby taking control of it. Although both men and women are photographed in transience, the staged domestic realm they exist within has prompted me to read "Ballast" as a commentary on the relationship between instability and women, as opposed to instability and men. Even without knowing the alternative title, "Woman Twirling," the photograph of the dancing woman radiates a level of significance absent from the rest.

Admittedly, my feminist interpretation is not in complete alignment with the artistic intentions of Callis, who says that while she agrees with feminism, she "wasn't talking a public stance at the time."⁵ However, she is of the belief that "you are the product of the society you live in," suggesting her awareness of the movement's impact upon her artistic practice, even if only subconsciously.⁶ My desire to interpret "Ballast" as a subtle feminist statement is based upon the fact it inspired me in such a way, although I realize not all female artists intend for their work to be read from a feminist perspective. As for the setting, Callis says "domesticity" has been used to describe the aura of her work, though she finds the word somewhat derogatory.⁷ Depending on how it is said, and who says it, I do not think "domesticity" or "domestic" must carry negative associations, however Callis is right to recognize a pejorative undertone, as the spaces and practices historically associated with women have been seen as characteristic of "lesser art" by the unfortunately patriarchal art world, and although her contemporaries were incorporating references to domesticity in their work to make intentionally feminist statements (more intentional than Callis), this trend has gained more acceptance today (remember "Ballast" was made in the early 80s). I assume she considers "domesticity" pejorative because this trend was in its infancy at the peak of her career. Regardless, the domestic aspects of Callis's work amplify the significance of the Ballast photographs featuring women, thereby reiterating a connection between femininity and instability. It is hard not to insinuate a relationship between the image of the woman twirling, and this one of a table cloth being pulled out from underneath a collection of teacups and saucers; the same kind of unbalanced, frantic energy can be found in the movement of the woman and in the movement of the tablecloth. This cannot be said for the photograph of the man doing push-ups, as there is less of a historical relationship between men and domestic spaces. Additionally, it seems the female performers are more desperate for attention than the male performers.

© Jo Ann Callis

Callis's logic for staging a home-like interior was based upon her view of the home as a "stage for so many crucial things that occur in a lifetime," "a place of comfort and discomfort."⁸ And although her decision to stage photographs in a home-like environment was not for the purpose of highlighting the relationship between femininity and volatility, as I imagined, it is still a relevant observation, seeing as Callis is ultimately interested in dichotomies and the transient gray spaces between them, and that transience can still be found in the concept of female instability. Playful/sinister, joyous/sorrowing, orderly/chaotic - "Ballast" is as much about creating dichotomies as it is about analyzing them. It is about juxtaposition of stillness and movement and instances that feel like one thing but might be something entirely different.

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Chelsey VanderVliet recently graduated with Honors in Studio Art from Rollins College in Winter Park, FL. She currently lives and works in Jersey City, New Jersey. Working primarily in photography, her work investigates concepts of identity, authenticity and placement of self. She is fascinated by pathetic imagery, music culture, language as presence and unease in the familiar. 

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1 Anne H. Soukanov, edit., Webster's II New Riverside Dictionary (The Riverside Publishing Company, 1984), 149.
2  Siobhan Bohnaker, “Jo Ann Callis's Color Work,” The New Yorker, March 6, 2014, http://www.newyorker.com/culture/photo-booth/jo-ann-calliss-color-work.
3 Ibid.
4 Ibid.
5 Ibid.
6 Ibid.
7 Ibid.
8 Ibid.

Photographers on Photographers: Contemplating “Honest” Portraiture within Roger Sayre's “Sitting”

© Roger Sayre

Post by Chelsey VanderVliet

Have you ever stared at your reflection in the mirror for far too long, only to become doubtful of its legitimacy? Or perhaps you became doubtful of your own existence, should you wish to add a healthy dose of existential crisis to the mix. Or maybe it wasn't a mirror that made you feel these things, but a photograph - one of many your friend snapped on that weekend outing, or the selfie you shared on Instagram that "doesn't really look like you." If you are anything like me, you spend a lot of time narcissistically pondering your own image - "Is this face really mine?" "Do these lines and shapes really create and imply my identity?" It's hard not to think this way when we rely so heavily on facial recognition while interacting with our peers, trusting it to inform us of their personalities.

I share many photographs of myself on social media, wondering when I encounter either an unflattering or attractive one if I am really the person contained in that image. A girl less modest than myself responded to an influx of compliments on a photo she had posted by saying "the camera captures what is in front of it," meaning not only was she aware of her beauty, but the camera was as well, suggesting the photographic process to be a very straightforward and honest one. I read that comment a couple years ago, before Photoshop was as popular as it is now. I imagine many people feel differently today, as more of us have come to associate the photographic process with potential dishonesty. While photographs were manipulated long before the days of Photoshop, the wide popularity of the program has raised our awareness of the ability to do so. This, in turn, helps allow us to wonder whether or not there really is such a thing as an "honest" depiction of oneself.

To simplify things, let's think about the basic act of taking a photograph. I'm sure we can all agree there is some distortion involved (lens distortion, overexposure, underexposure, etc.) in taking a picture - whether you intend it or not. These are just some of the things that make a photograph look different in comparison to the scene before the camera. But even if there is a difference between photograph and life, how much of a difference is there? Does it even matter? After all, when looking at a photograph (that has not been manipulated digitally), very rarely do we think about how the actual scene differed, because everything appears as it should.

My fascination with photographic accuracy (or lack thereof) led me to the work of Roger Sayre and his project, Sitting. Part installation, part photographic series, Sitting “combines primitive photography with meditation, collaboration and endurance.”  By placing a huge custom-made pinhole camera inside a gallery, Sayre encourages visitors to schedule an appointment to have their portrait taken. A single photograph requires an hour-long exposure, leaving the subject with nothing better to do than ponder his or her own image using the mirror the artist has strategically adhered to the camera's front. The photographs produced are dependent upon each participant's reaction to the waiting period and document exhaustion, restless shifting, or complete stillness. Sayre claims the photographs are "possibly truer than a traditional fraction-of-a-second photograph or snapshot."

You might be wondering "How?" as it is difficult to imagine a (potentially) blurry photograph revealing anything about an individual other than what their face might look like if you removed your glasses, but lets think about Sayre's statement in conjunction with his work. The selection of portraits on his website resemble old mugshots - grainy black and white faces, haggard and devoid of emotion. These portraits do not flatter those they represent, yet one might say their aesthetic is appealing, if not intriguing. The quality varies, making each an entirely new viewing experience. The portrait below of a middle-aged man, is one of the clearest produced by the installation camera. His gaze is fixed yet his eyes appear tired and heavy. Based on the tilt of his head, furrow of his brow, and creases along the sides of his frowning mouth, one might assume he is depressed. However, the image clarity suggests this man tenaciously confronted his own reflection during the exposure process. Maybe he didn't like what he saw, but he was determined to find something he might. The smudgy gray quality of this photograph (and all other Sitting photographs) contributes to such a melancholy narrative.

© Roger Sayre

Each portrait carries with it an air of transience, although some are more transient than others, depending on the sitter's lack of endurance. Unlike the portrait of the man, the following images suggest a great deal of restlessness. The first reveals a woman's inability to confront her own reflection, her gaze focused (somewhat) steadily on something beyond the mirror - a spot on the wall perhaps? Her struggle to lock eyes with her own reflection indicates this portrait is a documentation of insecurity. The photograph of the man glancing downward reveals something similar. Meanwhile, the third image, while it is challenging to decipher the sitter's facial expression, presents something different: confrontational body language (the head is facing forward) in contrast with lack of clarity. Maybe it wasn't her reflection that made her uncomfortable, but the hour long exposure.

© Roger Sayre

© Roger Sayre

© Roger Sayre

The intrigue behind these portraits lies in the fact they give viewers the opportunity to ponder why they appear the way they do, to imagine what each individual was thinking while waiting in solitude for an hour. Sitting is all about self-awareness, so to better understand the experiences of those photographed, I decided to stare at my own reflection, just as they did, for sixty minutes. No camera was present, so no photograph was produced, but I wanted to find out how the wait might impact my perspective. Positioning a wicker stool in front of my bathroom mirror, I sat for a lengthy staring contest with my own reflection. After ten minutes my eyes began to grow tired and red-rimmed - it's no wonder all of Sayre's subjects look exhausted. In half an hour, I developed tunnel vision and various facial features of mine started projecting off my face in an exaggerated manner. I experienced two different kinds of self-awareness: 1. being hyper-aware of my own reflection, and 2. being aware of what it might look like to find me like this, positioned before the mirror as if it were some kind of altar. The conditions surrounding my experiment differed from those of the installation, where the subjects are "on exhibit in the gallery during the time they are sitting for their one-hour exposure," but even in a quiet room, my experience felt performative as I was unable to relax anytime I heard footsteps outside the door.

Each Sitting photograph acts as a complex narrative, demonstrating how individuals react to their reflections, and to being on display within a gallery. The pinhole camera produces images that are ephemeral yet documentary - ephemeral like a charcoal drawing that disintegrates and smears regardless of how much fixative has been sprayed to the paper's surface, and documentary in the way each photograph shows a face captured over the span of an hour. Are these "honest" photographs? I don't know if any photograph can ever be labeled as 100% honest - or if I even have the authority to claim any image as truly honest. However, the photographs produced by the Sitting installation possess a greater capacity for honesty than typical photographs, but only when viewers understand the process behind them.

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Chelsey VanderVliet recently graduated with Honors in Studio Art from Rollins College in Winter Park, FL. She currently lives and works in Jersey City, New Jersey. Working primarily in photography, her work investigates concepts of identity, authenticity and placement of self. She is fascinated by pathetic imagery, music culture, language as presence and unease in the familiar.

Dawn Roe helped to organize this post. 

Photographers on Photographers: Endearing Yet Eerie: A Closer Look at Jamie Diamond’s "I Promise to Be a Good Mother"

From the series "I Promise to Be a Good Mother" © Jamie Diamond

Post by Chelsey VanderVliet

For more posts in the ongoing "Photographers on Photographers" series, please see the site links page.

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I discovered the work of Jamie Diamond about a year ago, drawn to her series Constructed Family Portraits and ability to imply familial roles and relationships between total strangers. She built something from nothing, and while I knew, looking at the photographs, that she orchestrated each scene, I couldn't help but have to remind myself these strangers were in fact strangers. In some photographs, the individuals look related, sharing various traits with one another, while in others, I found myself claiming similarities because Diamond made me believe something must be there— after all, I have friends who resemble their family members, and I have friends who do not. Viewing people within a group has the potential to draw out differences, but it also has a way of implying similarities (think of how you feel watching sitcoms on TV). I searched for Diamond's website soon after, realizing Constructed Family Portraits was but one project amongst a variety of others suggesting her fascination with family life. But family dynamics serve as vehicle for her real interest, understanding "the role of fantasy in contemporary life, and the camera's part in perpetuating these myths."¹

Generally speaking, when we look at photographs, we read their contents as truthful—when a lively, happy family is presented, all those undocumented moments of tension, gossip, and drama no longer exist. We preserve in the manner we wish things to be remembered. When we look at our friends' Facebook pages and grow jealous of their happy relationships, successes, and flourishing social-lives, we forget that photography is highly curatorial in nature. I enjoy Diamond's recognition of this and her desire to question experience by presenting the most unquestionable of circumstances. It is for this reason I became enthralled not just with Constructed Family Portraits, but another, more intimate series of hers titled, I Promise to Be a Good Mother.

From the series "I Promise to Be a Good Mother" © Jamie Diamond

At first glance, I Promise to Be a Good Mother appears to be a tribute to the sacred bond between mother and child; however, seeing it as such denies it of all the criticality and nuance it possesses. I Promise to Be a Good Mother is not so much a manifesto, but an analysis. The series name comes from a diary the artist kept as a little girl².  The photographs, which feature Diamond posing alongside a baby doll, carry modern-day Untitled Film Stills vibes with their quiet cinematic compositions and lack of supporting characters.

A combination of endearing and eerie, these images do not carry a clear narrative. Instead, each represents its own experience. In one photograph Diamond, the "mother" lounges seductively in bed, cigarette in hand, while baby Annabelle (yes, she has a name) is tossed aside; lifeless. The remains of brunch create a fault line between the figures. Other moments are heart-warming; beach outings, trips to the park, a game of pat-a-cake. But when Diamond is not channeling the appearance of a hands-off mother, or a doting one, she is climbing transmission towers, dashing up stairs, and walking along the middle of a near-empty road, child in hand. Is her dedication admirable, or just crazy? Is she protective, or dangerous? To continue down this path, it is worth noting Annabelle looks, well, dead in a few scenes, adding to what can be considered a heartwarmingly macabre storyline (anyone familiar with the music video to Modest Mouse's "Little Motel?").

From the series "I Promise to Be a Good Mother" © Jamie Diamond

What I love most about the project is the skepticism it displays toward all those innately maternal characteristics women are assumed to be born with. Diamond "[mimics] and [ignores] the traditional visual signifiers of motherhood" in a wonderfully straightforward manner³.  Her photographic style gives viewers the impression they are not looking at an album of family photos, but voyeuristic glimpses into the life of a young woman. The scenes themselves are presented clearly for all to see, yet the ambiguous narration leaves us with more questions than answers: Are these images of a single mother? Or is her significant other simply not interested, not obligated the way she is to look after this baby?

I myself have never experienced the desire to have kids—of course, I am only twenty-one, but do not imagine this changing any time soon. Growing up, I used to become upset while watching movies, when the lead female character would express the desire to have a baby—I never understood what was so joyous about children, or babies, how they have the supposed potential to enrich lives. I still struggle to understand this. Television always made it seem children were a need all women would inevitably possess, but I realize now if you want them, that's fine, and if you don't, that's equally fine. I am lucky to have a wonderful mother, who loves and supports me unconditionally, but I have never imagined myself caring for someone the way she does for me— in fact, I struggle to do a decent job comforting my own twin sister. I Promise to Be a Good Mother is powerful because it shows a woman fumbling to care for her child, and for every fumbling moment, there is a sweet one, but even those moments feel strange and foreboding. We do not always fit, like perfect puzzle pieces into the roles expected of us, but there's nothing wrong with that. Roles are social constructs, and this notion is only revealed when things do not line up. There is an element of performance in the everyday, and this is what Diamond reveals through her work.

From the series "I Promise to Be a Good Mother" © Jamie Diamond

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Chelsey VanderVliet recently graduated with Honors in Studio Art from Rollins College in Winter Park, FL. She currently lives and works in Morristown, New Jersey. Working primarily in photography, her work investigates concepts of identity, authenticity, and placement of self. She is fascinated by pathetic imagery, music culture, language as presence, and unease in the familiar. 

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1 Jamie Diamond, I Promise to Be a Good Mother, accessed June 1st, 2014 http://www.jamiegdiamond.com/photolanding.php?id=14
2 Ibid.
3 Ibid.