I once had a farm, and I needed to find a water source. I met with a diviner and after walking around with his forked stick, it eventually vibrated and he discovered water. When I asked how he did it, he said it was all about the energy and feeling good. In a way, the camera is like a divining rod and I have lived my life letting instinct show me what I am interested in.

My parents were fairly uneducated, from immigrant families. But they opened up the world to me. My mother loved to read and she made stories interesting with her vocal expression. That ignited my imagination.

Whenever I was with my father he would say, “Look at that,” “Watch this,” and something would always happen. He was always on alert and could read the temper of the street. It was a great foundation for me to really look and observe reality.

He grew up in the Depression and was a real tough New York Jewish street guy. He was a welterweight boxing champion and won the first Golden Gloves competition. He worked as a truck driver and a delivery guy carrying heavy barrels of cleaning fluids. He was also a hoofer, making music with his feet on Vaudeville, and he always had natural comic timing.

The first photograph that had an impact on me was by André Kertész. It was a turning point for me to realise that you could have obscurity and clarity at the same time.

Someone should do a movie about Henri Cartier-Bresson. When he was younger he had the looks of James Dean and Marlon Brando. He had the authority and the self-knowledge to do whatever he wanted, and he used this as a tool. He was a class act.

One photograph from The Decisive Moment stays with me. It’s a visual response to almost nothing. There’s no drama, just the void of shadow and light on an empty street between two children, emanating something vague and ambiguous and yet profound.

Tony Ray-Jones and I saw him working. He was moving like a ballet dancer, taking pictures at a street parade in New York. He was smart, confident and elegantly dressed, with a thin leather strap wrapped around his wrist, while we were shaggy kids with beards and long hair holding our Pentax SLRs with thick, cumbersome straps around our necks.

He was moving close to people but they didn’t know he was photographing them. Then a drunken Irish guy came out of the crowd and went towards Cartier-Bresson, who immediately thrust his camera at him. Surprised, the man fell back into a group of friends and Cartier-Bresson disappeared. I’ve held my camera the same way as the Maestro ever since!

Tony and I were an incredible duet, playing off each other. We spent every day together for the first year of our working lives as photographers. We’d been graphic designers and were stuck in that frame of reference. We struggled to break free and find our own vocabulary.

Robert Frank’s The Americans taught me so much. It is a great dark poem about America, seen by an outsider who came in and swam through with a sense of the wonder and the pain.

Atget understood that the compression of layers onto a flat surface is photography.

Showing but disguising gives depth to flatness. I didn’t get the stillness of approach at first.

For the past three years I have been living in Tuscany with my wife. And it has been three years of another day. I wanted to live my life on my wife’s agenda rather than my own.

Having been a New Yorker for 75 years, I’m shocked I don’t miss it. I thought I would live and die there. I had this fantasy that when I was old and decrepit I would be wheeled out in my wheelchair on to 57th and 5th Avenue and I’d just sit there and photograph everything.

I sold my archive to a billionaire. The real significance of this is to make prints. Printing in this age of looking at images virtually will be valuable in the future, as it is making history.

While working on St Louis and the Arch, I listened to Schubert’s Quintet in C. I tried to replicate the structure of a classical composition. Later, a lady wrote to say that every time she looked at it, she could hear music. Sometimes it can just be an audience of one.

joelmeyerowitz.com This article was first published in the September issue of the BJP www.thebjpshop.com

Alec Soth has had a fantastic year. In March, the thirty-five-year-old photographer’s images of life on the Mississippi were the hit of the Whitney Biennial in New York. In June his book, Sleeping by the Mississippi, was published to widespread acclaim, and in the same month he joined Magnum Photos as a nominee.

Sleeping by the Mississippi has been ranked with the great representations of the United States, including Walker Evans’ pictures of the depression, Robert Frank’s harsh vision of the 1950s and, more recently, the colour work of Soth’s former teacher, Joel Sternfeld. Shot over a period of five years, Sleeping by the Mississippi is a trip along America’s ‘Forgotten Coast’, the neglected banks of the country’s longest river. In 46 immaculately-composed colour images, Soth travels from the frozen northern reaches of the river to the fecund squalor of the Mississippi Delta.

Along the way, Soth shows landscapes, interiors and portraits, most of which have a dreamlike and drained atmosphere. He alludes to religion, race, crime, sex and death, showing the lost hope, loneliness and unrealised dreams of the people he meets. “I live near the beginning of the Mississippi and have always felt a pull to it,” says Soth. “I used to run away when I was 5 or 6, pack a suitcase with books and run away from home. I’d only get a few blocks but it was the whole Huck Finn process, where the north is home and the south symbolises the exotic.

“In the beginning the project had nothing to do with the Mississippi,” he continues. “It evolved from a project called From Here to There in which one picture lead to another, linked by an idea or a theme. In the process, I travelled down the Mississippi, and I got to thinking that the idea was too gimmicky. So I shifted to the idea of the Mississippi being the link.”

Peter’s Houseboat, Winona, MN, 2003 © Alec Soth/Magnum Photos courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery, New York and Beetles + Huxley Gallery, London

But Sleeping by the Mississippi is more about the spirit of wandering and peoples’ dreams than the river itself. Throughout the project, Soth asked his subjects to write down their dreams, and this can be seen even in the first image in the book. A photograph of Peter’s houseboat in Winona, Minnesota, it shows the northern reaches of the river, where the exotic has not yet taken hold. It’s winter and the banks are covered in snow but, Peter writes “I dream of running water”.

For others, dreams mean ambition, fantasy and faith, and religion forces itself into the images throughout the book. Sheila from Leech Lake Indian Reservation stands with her arms outstretched, wearing a sweatshirt covered with hand-written Biblical quotes, and standing in front of a Bible and a picture of Christ. Sheila only agreed to be photographed if Soth accompanied the picture with the following text: ‘If you don’t have Jesus in your life, you are truly missing out on a blessing. He will set you free. Accept him today’.

But if Sheila preaches the love of Christ, Bonnie finds consolation in the tortures of hell. There, she tells Soth, ‘the fearful, and unbelieving and abominable shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone’ (Revelations 21:8). Soth photographs Bonnie on her sofa, her face edgy beneath a beehive hairdo. In her hands she holds a gilt-framed photograph of a cloud in the shape of an angel.

Other religious images in the book include Jesus-clad interiors, street preachers, convicts, Frankie (the sad-looking sister of TV evangelist Jimmy Swaggart), and a Memphis apartment decorated with two scratched and torn photographs of Martin Luther King – a picture of the betrayal of America’s greatest dream.

The driving force behind such images, says Soth, is curiosity. This is especially true of Soth’s images of sex, for which he was forced to overcome his natural shyness. “The first picture relating directly to sex was of Sunshine, who was a prostitute working in a motel which was obviously being used for sex. I was terrified to go into it, but I was so curious that I had to go and have a look.”

Soth shows a scantily-clad Sunshine lying on one of the motel beds, while the accompanying text tells us that her real name is Monique. She is twenty-one years old, writes Soth and “had run away from home at fourteen after the birth of her son, whom she had left with her parents. She has been Sunshine ever since.”

Alec Soth, ‘Mother and daughter, Davenport, Iowa’ from Sleeping by the Mississippi (2017). Courtesy of the artist and MACK

In a brothel in Davenport, Iowa, Soth shoots a mother and daughter together. They stare at the camera, legs crossed, both wearing silk negligees. The daughter dreams of becoming a nurse, but the mother gave up dreaming a long time ago. But despite the hardness of the picture, Soth says there was a lightness about the place – a sentiment quite at odds with traditional portrayals of prostitution.

Indeed, one of the strengths of Soth’s work is his openness to people and ideas. He portrays people often at the fringes of society, who could be considered freaks or oddballs, but captures their ordinariness. He puts this down to the dynamics of the large-format camera he carried, which he says changed the whole relationship between him and his subjects.

“I normally don’t have a camera with me when I approach somebody, so immediately it’s less threatening,” he explains. “Then people ask me about the project and only then do they see the camera. It’s big and old-fashioned and my head is covered by a dark cloth, which also changes things. They can’t see my face, so the situation becomes more relaxed. Because it takes so long, you have a conversation with them and the result shows.

“Sometimes I asked if I could go into people’s homes and take their pictures there,” he continues. “Some of the interiors in the book started as pictures of people, but then I found their homes were more interesting. Obviously you can’t just ask people to go into peoples’ homes and take their pictures.”

Alec Soth, ‘Sugar’s, Davenport, Iowa’ from Sleeping by the Mississippi (2017). Courtesy of the artist and MACK

Once inside, Soth rearranged interiors in his quest for the perfect composition. It’s an approach that means some of his images are too perfect and too contrived, giving some of his photographs the feel of an installation. It’s a criticism Soth recognises. “I think the weak point of the book is the lack of in-between pictures,” he says. “It’s too bam-bam-bam, too many iconic images following iconic images with no softer pictures in between. But at the same time, for me it’s really important to keep the number of images low. I want to remember the book in my head.”

Personal circumstances also influenced the work Soth produced. “My mother-in-law lived with me and my wife for years while she was ill with cancer and during a leave of absence she got very, very ill. I was at her deathbed and it changed my work. I became more courageous and the death theme emerged very strongly.”

Death is everywhere in Soth’s work. There are cemeteries, gravestones, memorial murals and a landscape of the cobbled banks of the Mississippi where the singer Jeff Buckley swam to his death. An old hospital bed in a deserted farmhouse echoes the time Soth spent at his mother-in- law’s death bed, while a sad portrait shows Lenny, a muscle-bound construction worker and erotic masseur, whose teenage son had recently died in a traffic accident. “My dream,” wrote Lenny, “is to live to be 100 and still look the way I do now.”

Fort Jefferson Memorial Cross, 2002 © Alec Soth/Magnum Photos courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery, New York and Beetles + Huxley Gallery, London

Soth’s dream was to make a great book. Having got his images together he produced 50 inkjet books in spring 2003 and gave them away. “People responded to them very quickly and soon publishers were interested,” he says. “I approached Steidl and the book came out. It was like a dream come true.”

Since then, Soth’s dream has entered the realms of fantasy. Rejecting the imprecations of the art world, he joined Magnum as a nominee. “I chose Magnum because I’m in love with that whole tradition,” he says. “I always remember what Capa said to Cartier-Bresson: ‘Don’t keep the label of a surrealist photographer. Be a photojournalist. If not, you will fall into mannerism. Keep surrealism in your little heart, my dear’. I do have the capacity to be self-indulgent and I can be over-poetic, so it’s really healthy to do assignments.”

Soth’s latest project is on newly-weds honeymooning at Niagara Falls but with Sleeping by the Mississippi, he has already created a classic. Focusing on universally-recognisable themes, it transcends its American roots to become a book that is accessible to every one, the first work from a man with the charm, vision and intelligence to become one of the truly great photographers.

Patrick, Palm Sunday, Baton Rouge, LA, 2002 © Alec Soth/Magnum Photos courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery, New York and Beetles + Huxley Gallery, London

Alec Soth, ‘Joshua, Angola State Prison, Louisiana’ from Sleeping by the Mississippi (2017). Courtesy of the artist and MACK

Kym, Polish Palace, Minneapolis, MN, 2000 © Alec Soth/Magnum Photos courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery, New York and Beetles + Huxley Gallery, London

Green Island, Iowa (Ball of String), 2002 © Alec Soth/Magnum Photos courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery, New York and Beetles + Huxley Gallery, London


Maiden Rock, Wisconsin, 2002 © Alec Soth/Magnum Photos courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery, New York and Beetles + Huxley Gallery, London

New Orleans, Louisiana, 2002 © Alec Soth/Magnum Photos courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery, New York and Beetles + Huxley Gallery, London

Alec Soth, ‘Cemetery, Fountain City, Wisconsin’ from Sleeping by the Mississippi (2017). Courtesy of the artist and MACK

I have to use a little imagination when stepping into the space that is home to Martin Parr’s eponymous foundation one early September morning. But that is to be expected, since it is still largely a construction site – albeit a very nice one. Builders wander nonchalantly past, boxes of books and prints are stacked here and there and nothing is quite where it should be.

Despite their relatively calm demeanours, it is obvious that the photographer and his team are itching for the work here to be completed so that they can put the finishing touches to the Martin Parr Foundation ahead of its grand opening this autumn.

You enter into a good-sized space tucked away in a quiet corner of Paintworks, a fashionable live-work factory conversion in south-east Bristol that’s home to more than 50 businesses. Other residents include media and technology companies, artists’ studios, marketing and creative agencies, a bookshop and a dentist.

This space will be the gallery, Parr tells me, where three or four exhibitions will be held each year, as well as staging talks and screenings. As we move on, the layout becomes cosier, divided up into smaller areas that contain many tall cupboards and shelves where Parr’s print archive and his collection of British and Irish photography will be kept.

Exterior of the Martin Parr Foundation, at Paintworks, Bristol, England, 2017. Image © Louis Little

Martin Parr and his team at the Foundation – foundation director Jenni Smith, who has worked for Parr for more than 10 years; Louis Little, who does the printing in-house among other things; and assistants Charlotte King and Nathan Vidler. Image © Jon Tonks for BJP

“Every print I’ve ever been interested in doing is in those grey boxes. There must be half to three-quarters of a million prints in that lot,” he says, directing my attention to a wall of storage crammed with boxes of 10×8 prints. “We print out everything digitally. We’re very efficient in terms of archiving.”

He shows me a stack of colour inkjets, which he is currently working on. “This is from the past two weeks, shot at Notting Hill Carnival. I edit from the prints. These will then go into the archive. I’ll probably run out of space soon. Don’t tell anyone that, though,” he adds with a laugh.

The prolific photographer cum-curator is now known for his collecting almost as much as his own work, encompassing everything from Soviet space-dog memorabilia and Saddam Hussein watches to exhibition prints and book dummies made by key figures of postwar documentary photography – from Britain and beyond. And the 335sqm space he bought earlier this year is designed to bring this collection to public view.

Building work began in March and Parr and his team – including the foundation’s director Jenni Smith, who has worked for him for more than 10 years, Louis Little, who does the printing in house among other things, and assistants Charlotte King and Nathan Vidler – have been in the space since the summer. “I’d been looking for 18 months for a suitable building and this came up,” says Parr, who has lived in Bristol for 30 years.

He proudly points out key features as he shows me around the new-build property, which he bought for £600,000. “There will be a shop by the main door and everything from here on will be temperature controlled. Here are our plan chests; this will be the negative cupboard; this is the server; and the floor we put in.”

Jenni Smith and Louis Little behind the scenes at the Martin Parr Foundation. Image © Jon Tonks for BJP

Martin Parr’s work at the Martin Parr Foundation. Image © Jon Tonks for BJP

“It’s a good location, near the centre and is a developing site,” he says in his characteristically direct and efficient way. When I ask what the cost has been to set up and kit out the units, he is a little more vague. There is a fancy wine fridge and under-floor heating facilitated by two kilometres of pipes, he tells me enthusiastically. So while it’s not quite a case of no expense spared, it is clear that Parr has been keen to do things properly, having spent a great deal of time preparing for this moment.

“I’ve saved, over the past five years, a substantial sum of money in order to facilitate this,” he says. “Obviously there is a limit to what you can buy so you have to go slowly and work out what you think is important, how to get hold of it,” he says. “There are many avenues I’m pursuing, which I’m reluctant to name because they’re still being pursued [in terms of] funding, and then the purchasing of work.”

Although Parr won’t talk numbers throughout our conversation, the foundation has been at least partly funded by the recent ‘sale’ of his 12,000-strong collection of photobooks. It was, in fact, partly acquired and partly gifted to Tate with support from Maja Hoffmann’s Luma Foundation and The Art Fund, among others. The foundation is looking for additional funding to supplement what Parr is putting in but, he acknowledges, “The main source of income will be me.”

He hasn’t kept any books back after the Tate gift-acquisition but he is replicating the British and Irish books from the collection. Does he intend to keep collecting books? “Not with the same relish that I have before but, for example, I recently bought a collection of Indonesian books and I hadn’t realised how alive Indonesia is photographically. I’m curious to see what is going on.” He and Tate have a “loose agreement” that he will continue to supply and suggest books, says Parr, but nothing formal has been agreed.

Officially founded in 2014, the Martin Parr Foundation will not only house Parr’s own archive but also his vast collection of prints and dummies made by other photographers. They’re mainly British or Irish but there are works by several photographers from abroad who have photographed in the UK. “Did you see the Strange and Familiar show I curated at the Barbican? I’ve purchased some of that. I’ve just bought the Gilles Peress selection, and Bruce Gilden. Most of the Sergio Larrains I owned anyway.”

Ray’s a Laugh, book dummy by Richard Billingham, 1995

“I have a lot of Chris Killip works and a lot of vintage Tony Ray-Jones. I like dummies. I buy them from the photographer. Here’s the Ray’s a Laugh dummy [made by Richard Billingham, and eventually published by Scalo in 2000].” I remark that I feel I’m holding a piece of history, to which Parr replies, “Well, you are!”

I’m interested to know whether he tends to purchase prints that he likes or tries to be strategic in what he buys. It’s both, he says, adding that he collects work he feels is important. “First, I suppose, I’m giving priority to things I think have perhaps been overlooked by other national collections. Obviously I’m not trying to be in competition with the V&A. But when I collect, I collect in depth. I buy a lot. So I’ve got prints from Tom Wood’s All Zones Off Peak.”

He also has the dummy of this project, which he passes across. “This is the only one,” he notes, before continuing. “I support people by buying the work and putting it in the collection. I’ve recently bought some pictures from John Myers, who I think is another underestimated photographer.

At 65, then, Parr is ahead of the curve in thinking how he might preserve his own legacy in ways that many other photographers have not. He is clearly as shrewd a businessman as ever but he plays down what he is doing in his typical matter-of-fact way. “It’s just something I thought about,” he says, when I ask why he wanted to set up the foundation.

“Having this big collection and wanting to get a space to house it and also exhibit it, a foundation seemed the logical thing to do. Obviously I won’t last forever. The idea is that when I drop dead, hopefully I’ll have set it up in such a way that it’ll be sustainable. That is a big ask but that’s the plan.”

The space will be open Wednesdays to Saturdays and visitors will have access to a bespoke digital catalogue detailing everything in the collection. “For example, with Killip we will have over 1000 pictures digitised, which people will be able to see here,” says Parr.

“So if anyone is researching Killip, this will be the place to come. They will have access to the dummies of In Flagrante, and I’ve got the collection of Chris Killips he made for Rencontres d’Arles in 2004. There are no other ones in any other public collection anywhere in the world.”

The collection is unique in many ways, I comment, as Parr continues to name items of which he is clearly especially proud. “I’ve just bought the dummy of Gilles Peress’s Northern Irish work, which is, along with In Flagrante, probably the two greatest books about Britain in the past 50 years.”

In Flagrante, original book dummy by Chris Killip, 1987

Why is it so important to him to collect British photography? “Because I think British photography is still under-appreciated,” he says, prompting me to ask by who? “The art establishment. Even within Tate. Photography is loved by Tate Modern but less so by Tate Britain.

“Until Don McCullin has his one-person show at Tate Britain in 2019, they will never have done a proper show of a British photographer even though they’ve been actively saying they’ve embraced photography since 2002.”

Parr’s views on the treatment of British photography within British institutions are clearly deeply held and, while the foundation can’t compete with the big institutions – “I’m not pretending to” – perhaps he and his team can be more nimble and reactive, and produce shows that are more intimate. “Visitors will see good work,” says Parr. “It may not all be British but it’s more likely to be. And hopefully it’ll be things they won’t have seen before.”

Is he keen to look back at the canon of British documentary photography or to show contemporary works? “Well, both. I want to do all kinds of things. I have this massive collection so I can at any point show highlights from that. We want to be flexible. I don’t want to book up years ahead because if I see something I really like I can just put it on.”

The first few exhibitions at the foundation have, however, already been decided. First up will be Parr’s Black Country Stories, a commission from West Midlands-based arts organisation Multistory. Then there will be work by Scottish photographer Niall McDiarmid, followed by David Hurn’s Swaps in early 2018, which Parr previously curated for this year’s Photo London. The exhibition will present prints from Hurn’s collection, built up over many decades by swapping prints with other photographers.

Mr and Mrs Hudson in the original frame and mount made by Peter for the Barbican show ‘Through the Looking Glass’

“I recognise I have some taste-making ability and a platform to share the things I think are underestimated and overlooked,” says Parr when I ask if and why he enjoys curating other people’s work. “In the next five to 10 years there is a lot more activity planned around books but I have to be careful about not giving too much away when it hasn’t happened.”

It sounds like you will never stop looking and researching, I suggest. “No, no,” he replies. “I mean, you look and you find and it’s exciting. People send me stuff and I get a lot of bad work sent to me but then, occasionally, you get work that is really [good]. I’m constantly looking for new, interesting photographers.”

How have his tastes changed over the years in terms of what he wants to collect? “Good work is good work, which I’m always interested in – work that I think will survive and that works. That nails it. It’s very difficult to define that, really.

“I’ve been very lucky. I have secured a very good living from doing this, and so the foundation is a great way to feed some of that back into the system.”

martinparrfoundation.com The foundation is set to open on 25 October 2017. This is a shortened version of an interview with Martin Parr which will be published in BJP’s November edition www.thebjpshop.com

In the latest book from Jonas Bendiksen, the Norwegian photographer takes us on a global journey of spiritual exploration, seen through the worldview of seven fascinating individuals who literally believe themselves to be the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.

It’s an expansive and sumptuously designed book of more than 140 photographs and several thousand words of accompanying textual scriptures, co-published by GOST and Aperture. In it, Bendiksen portrays himself as a photographic apostle, asking why the Bible story of a returning Messiah has remained so potent.

“My approach here was to ask, who is this person and who are their followers,” he explains. “By immersing myself in their revelations and spending time with their disciples, I’ve tried to produce images that illustrate the human longing for faith, meaning, and salvation.

“My method when I am in with these guys is to take everything they tell me at face value. I’m there as a photographic apostle,” adds Bendiksen. “When I was with them I wanted to live 100 percent in their world with their disciples, and ask, ‘What does it look like if that actually is the Messiah?’ If this is the Messiah, then they are here to bring about the end-times and the judgement of man and brings God’s kingdom down to earth as promised.

“They are not gurus, prophets or religious leaders – there are thousands of those in the world – they are not here to start a new spiritual movement, they are finishing off unfinished business, calculating the tab of humanity. You know, this could be the biggest journalistic scoop ever…”

ZAMBIA. Kitwe. 2016. Jesus of Kitwe changing the tires on his Toyota Corolla, as his two closest disciples, Chibwe and Nkumbusko, wait in the background. Jesus of Nazareth was a carpenter by trade. On his return two thousand years later he operates two unlicensed taxis in Kitwe, Zambia. Born as Bupete Chibwe Chishimba, he had his life turned upside down at the age of 24 when he received the revelation from God that he was Jesus’ second coming. Today he is 43, married and has five children. From the book The Last Testament © Jonas Bendiksen/Magnum Photos

GB. Runnymede. 2015. Dolores (David Shaylers transvestite femme persona) speaking to the flock. Paul the apostle writes “nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus”. Today’s Messiah has an alter ego named Dolores Kane, who embodies the feminine aspects of divinity. Like Jesus of Nazareth, David and Dolores move in circles far outside of society’s establishment. David Shayler the Christ was born December 24th, 1965 in Middlesbrough, an industrial town in North East England. A former MI5 agent, he blew the whistle on the secret services in 1996 to uncover corruption and incompetence. He has been fighting the Goliaths of the Earthly Judiciary and Establishment ever since. His revelation that he was Jesus Christ came in 2007. Since then he has been on a mission to teach humanity Christ consciousness, unconditional love and the supremacy of God’s law over Man’s legislation. From the book The Last Testament © Jonas Bendiksen/Magnum Photos

The only Messiah in the book who seems to waver when it comes to their divine status is an Englishman, David Shayler, who was once a spy for MI5 and who fell foul of the British government when he leaked top secret information to the press.

As Shayler now lives in a shack in the woods and has a female alter ego, Dolores Kane, Bendiksen was prompted to ask if he ever wondered whether he was just mentally ill, to which Shaler replied: “Yes. Day two after my anointment I woke up and thought, ‘Fucking hell, I thought I was Jesus Christ yesterday. I’ve gone completely bonkers!’ And then I started reading the Scriptures. That’s why those ancient documents are there really, to say there’s something here that predates my existence.”

Occasionally I suspect that Bendiksen is playing a trickster’s game on us, asking us to enter into his mindset of open-mindedness towards contemplating the possibility that these people are anything other than deluded souls who are part huckster, part demagogue.

With regards to Moses, who is the Messiah living in Zambia, there is undeniable humour in being told that, “Jesus of Nazareth was a carpenter by trade. Upon his return 2000 years later, he operates two unlicensed taxis in Kitwe, Zambia.”

SOUTH AFRICA. KwaZulu Natal. 2016. Moses preaches to his flock during the wedding. Moses Hlongwane is known to his thirty or so disciples in South Africa as The King of Kings, The Lord of Lords, or simply: Jesus. God first told Moses he was the Messiah in a dream in 1992, at which time he was working as a small-time jewelry salesman. Since then he has preached to the multitudes in the KwaZulu-Natal province; he later expanded his mission to Johannesburg and other large cities. Now Moses lives with his closest disciples in his native village of Eshowe outside Durban. According to Moses’ teachings, Judgment Day is approaching fast. The buildup to this moment has been long and dramatic, with Moses singlehandedly fighting the Devil for many years. The resulting End of Days is in part triggered by the conclusion of Moses’s successful search for a wife. From the book The Last Testament © Jonas Bendiksen/Magnum Photos

Russia. 2015. Krasnoyarski Krai.Communal feast during an all day pilgrimage march for Vissarion’s birthday on January 14th. This date is known as the true Christmas to his followers. From the book The Last Testament © Jonas Bendiksen/Magnum Photos

However, in his enthusiasm to be considered a would-be apostle, Bendiksen goes to great lengths to ingratiate himself with his subjects. “In the short time that has elapsed since I met Moses, I’ve tried to follow a whirlwind verbal tour of his awakening as the Messiah and the impending Final Judgment and End of Days,” he says.

“Moses does seem like a really nice guy. It’s just a bit intimidating to share a bed with someone who just told you that he’s immortal. “

Without the benefit of audio recordings of these men their charisma and biblical magnetism doesn’t come across in the pictures as it might. Perhaps as Bendiksen says, when in a room with a silent Jesus that you have to feel their gaze and the warmth of their skin to appreciate the pull that they exert over those-who-are-called.

Nonetheless, The Last Testament remains a compelling visual depiction of some of the most self-possessed religious men on the planet.

Brazil. 2014 Brasilia. In the compound chapel, disciples shut the curtains in front of INRI Cristo after he has delivered the sermon of the day. From the book The Last Testament © Jonas Bendiksen/Magnum Photos

Russia. 2015. Krasnoyarski Krai. Vissaron addresses his disciples on his birthday, January 14th, otherwise known as Christmas to his followers. Vissarion, the Christ of Siberia. Formerly a traffic policeman in the 1980s, he got his first revelation that he was Jesus Christ at the same time as the breakup of the Soviet Union. Since then he has gathered a following of 5-10 000 disciples in the woods. There they live in separate villages with their own infrastructure and social systems. From the book The Last Testament © Jonas Bendiksen/Magnum Photos

jonasbendiksen.com The Last Testament is co-published by Aperture and GOST, available for purchase here. Jonas Bendiksen will also give a talk at The Barbican on Tuesday 26 September at 7pm, followed by a book signing. 

Born in Poland in 1983, Adam Lach is based in Warsaw. He is the co-founder of Napo Images, and works as a photojournalist for international titles such as The New York Times, Le Monde, L’espresso, Die Zeit, GEO, Newsweek, Le’Magazine, and Svenska Dagebladet. His work was also recently included in Vice’s Photo Issue, where it was paired with Alec Soth’s images. Lach’s photography has been exhibited internationally, and he has published two books, Stigma (2014) and Neverland (2016). BJP caught up with him to find out more about his career to date and the Neverland project, which was shot on commission with a very open brief for the Wrzesnia Collection.

Winter Circus, Wrzesnia Culture and Community Centre, Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

BJP: How did you get into photography?

Adam Lach: I bought my first analogue camera when I was in high school, a Zenit. From the very beginning I started photographing out on the street but it wasn’t typical street photography, I tried to learn how to get closer to people. My dad took pictures too, and we had a developing box and an enlarger at home, so I had the opportunity to process my first film by myself, in the bathroom. We didn’t have any tutorials on YouTube at that time, so I had to learn everything from the books.

By the end of the school I had begun to think that photography was what I would like to do in the future. I went on to study photography at the Academy of Photography WSF AFA in Wroclaw, Poland.

BJP: You have a successful career as a press photographer, how did you get into that?

AL: It was a very long road, and hard work. While studying I worked for Panorama Dolnośląska, a daily newspaper, but from the very beginning I knew I didn’t want to have a full time job. I wanted to be a freelancer, although I was 20 years old then. Then I started to work for my first agency – Eastnews, who helped me commit to reportage. Two years later I started to work for Newsweek – it was something unusual, I was 22!

That was the beginning of a long collaboration, and I learnt a lot there. I had the chance to work with famous editors, who spoke with me about my pictures and critiqued them, but also looked out for me. In 2008, when we created Napo Images agency, international press editors started calling – New York Times, Le Monde etc, and that’s how I started to work with foreign journalists and magazines.

BJP: What do you focus on in your long-term projects? Your style varies quite a bit?

AL: I focus on people, relationships, emotions, and intimacy. I like to work on portraying the lives of small communities. For me, photography is a medium in which I’m constantly searching for a certain form of expression. For many years I have noticed that the more simple and more sublime approach to the picture, the more the story becomes real and truthful. I always try to match the means of expression and the technique with the subject.

Stigma tells the story of a family of Romanian Roma, and I shot it in colour because the way they emphasise colour in their culture seemed an inherent part of the story. But I chose to shoot Neverland in black-and-white because I liked the idea of imposing very specific way of photographing on myself – analogue, medium-format, with additional flash. I decided to reject colour because it could distract the viewer’s attention from what seemed to me most significant.

It forced me to get closer to people, to reduce the distance, sometimes to enter the private sphere, to earn their trust. I tried to work like a press photographer in the 1930s or ’40s, very intuitively. I prepared for it for months.

Child in a haystack, Grzybowo, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

BJP: How did the Neverland commission come about?

AL: Neverland came via my participation in the Wrzesnia Collection, a long-term photography project and ongoing photographic residency which is creating an ever-growing photo archive on the Wrzesnia Town and Commune. Every year, the Mayor of Wrzesnia Town and Commune invites one photographer, selected by the curator, to spend some time in the town creating a personal series of images that illustrates the district and its inhabitants.

I had a very open brief, it was completely up to me how to portray the place. It’s an extraordinary little city, but it also seems very boring and calm on the face of it. I had to work like a journalist, cooperating with the local newspaper and researching every local event, initiative, meeting or story that could be interesting. All these events were an opportunity to meet the people, to spend some time with the community.

I shot it over a year, making trips back and forth to Wrzesnia, always sleeping in a hotel. I ended up with about 130 negatives and some digital pictures, which I edited with Filip Cwik, a photographer who is also with Napo Images.

BJP: How did you choose what to shoot in Wrzesnia?

AL: I photographed what was important for the community, in such a small city every special occasion attracts people. I noticed that these special occasions give the public a sense of belonging to a community, and at the same time they gave me the possibility for seeing differences and divisions between people.

Children dancing at a “Sunday out of town” event, which include dances, competitions and games organised during the summer. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

BJP: There are quite a few photographs of children in the series, why is that?

AL: Children are an important part of the community. One of the most important people for this story and my book was the 12-year-old Nadia Smolarkiewicz. When I found out that there is a girl from Wrzesnia Commune who writes poems, I asked her to write something for me about her home. This poem opens the book. But she also showed me other poems and I realised that they could bring a remarkable reflection in the story. There are four poems in the book and Nadia has written more, but we decided not to show them yet.

BJP: The picture of the young men brandishing their fists looks a bit sinister, did you mean it to? 

AL: They are the supporters at a MMA fight tournament, who I suspect are connected with the far right. In the book this photo is symbolically connected with the picture of black canvas at the train station. It supposed to indicate the xenophobia problem in small cities.

Supporters cheering during the MMA Slugfest fights. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

BJP: Was it difficult to win the people’s trust?

AL: I’ve never had any trouble with winning somebody’s trust or making new relationships, probably because of my mum! Trust is the most important thing in my photographic mission. I’m always honest with my subjects, I take the responsibility for them, it’s my duty. I’ve never lied. Even if my image shows somebody in negative context, he or she is aware of it. I believe that that’s the reason I’ve hardly ever had any issue with winning people’s trust. Nowadays, working in accordance with the journalists’ codes of conduct is one of the most important issues emerging in documentary photography. I’m kind of a fighter for an ethic.

BJP: Did you show the people the images as you went along? 

AL: The final presentation of the project took place on the main square in the town of Wrzesnia – many people came, including those I portrayed. It was very positively received, and many of the residents now have the book at home.

BJP: Did you always intend to make the project into a book? How did it come about?

AL: I think that the presentation of a project in the form of a book is closest to me. Only a book can create a space that offers the possibility of experiencing a moment of reflection, drawing a breath, reviewing an image, reinterpreting, confronting with one’s intimate, personal perception. Neverland was planned as a book from the start, and I had that in the back of my mind while working.

Railway Station in Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

BJP: Polish photography seems to be gaining more and more international attention, have you noticed that? 

AL: Undoubtedly in the last few years lots of good things have happened in Polish photography. We have three very well-known photographic festivals in Poland (Fotofestiwal in Lodz, Krakow Photomonth, TIFF in Wroclaw), which are doing a great job in promoting Polish photography worldwide as well as introducing international artists here. We are also delighted that our Sputnik friends are doing so well. For me Polish photography has an extraordinary future, due to its exceptional truthfulness and sensitivity.

BJP: Which photographers inspire you?

AL: I think many photographers in their own way, but the moment I saw The Mennonites by Larry Towell it made me start looking at photographs differently. No doubt Weegee, for his directness, Alec Soth for the beauty of simplicity, Antonin Kratochvil or Larry Sultan. But for me, one of the most important creators in both the visual arts and in human history is Mike Leigh. He is often my inspiration. It is remarkable how, without artificial perfection, he can penetrate into people, their stories, experiences, and feelings.

BJP: Is it helpful to look at work by other photographers? Or do you try to avoid it?

AL: I don’t look at other photographers’ work as much as I did 10 years ago. I don’t want to be too inspired or overwhelmed by the images. I like to take pictures intuitively, and need a pure mind.

www.lachadam.com

End of school year. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

Youngsters at a Klub Best disco. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

Przemek Smolarkiewicz, with his daughter Olga. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

Dancing, Disco The Best. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

Riding a sled on a hill in Jozef Piłsudski Park. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2016. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

A tree being hugged in the Children of Wrzesnia Park. Wrzesnia, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

Chocicza Mala, Poland, 2015. From the series Neverland © Adam Lach/Napo Images for Kolekcja Wrzesinska

“There are two important things about this show,” says Clément Chéroux, senior curator of photography at SFMOMA. “First, the quantity of work – more than 300 photographs, quite a large selection, because we were able to get support from most of the big institutions – MOMA, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, National Gallery of Canada, the Musée du Quai Branly and so on, and private collections from around the world.

“Second, is the fact that it is arranged thematically rather than chronologically. Usually when you look at important retrospectives they are chronological, but we organised by theme because we wanted to organise it around Evans’ passion for the vernacular. He was fascinated with vernacular culture.”

It is, as Chéroux says, a huge show – the first to take up the SFMOMA’s entire Pritzker Center for Photography, which, at over 1000 square meters, is America’s largest photography gallery. But though a retrospective of this size is entirely appropriate for one of the 20th century’s key photographers, what’s emphasised isn’t his monumental importance or his ongoing influence. Instead it hones in on his love for the more humble and everyday.

Walker Evans, Roadside Stand Near Birmingham/Roadside Store Between Tuscaloosa and Greensboro, Alabama, 1936; gelatin silver print; collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Spanning 50 years, and including Evans’ iconic images of the Great Depression for the Farm Security Administration, his shots on the streets and subways of New York, his 20-year collaboration with Fortune magazine, and items from his own collection, the exhibition shows how the familiar and the quotidian inspired Evans – not fine art or the work celebrated by the cultural elite.

“Vernacular cuts to the heart of his research,” says Chéroux by phone from San Francisco. “The idea of the vernacular was Evans’ main goals, and his main task was to try to define through photography what this idea of the vernacular was. The fact that he did it throughout his whole life is so interesting, and makes him unique.”

“Even when he was working for the FSA, he was photographing roadside stands and signs,” he continues. “He wasn’t the only photographer interested in that in the 1930s, but he was the one doing it with a higher level of interest – out of a kind of obsession. And where other photographers explored it and then stopped, Evans continued. He was still doing it at the end of his life.”

Divided into two parts, the exhibition initially focuses on Evans’ photographs of quotidian sights, including signage, billboards, and shop windows, and also everyday people such as the office workers, labourers and passersby he captured in New York. The second half of the show explores Evans’ use of vernacular methodology, and includes his experiments with architectural and catalogue photography, such as his celebrated still lifes of tools. This section also includes two rooms devoted to Evans’ own collection, which includes bus tickets, lottery tickets, leaflets, roadsigns and postcards – lots and lots of postcards.

“Evans was fascinated with postcards – he started to collected them at the age of 12 and at the end of his life, aged 75, had more than 10,000,” says Chéroux. “In the 1930s he also tried to sell a few photographs as postcards, and he even exhibited them at MOMA.”

Lenoir Book Co., Main Street, Showing Confederate Monument, Lenoir, North Carolina, 1900–40; offset lithography; collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Walker Evans Archive; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Main Street, Saratoga Springs, New York, 1931; gelatin silver print; private collection, San Francisco; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Evans’ work with Fortune from 1945-65 can also be seen in these terms, adds Chéroux, as an attempt to become part of mass culture – and Evans’ magazine layouts are prominently displayed as a result. “We’re not showing the magazines horizontal in vitrines, we’re showing them vertically on the walls like his photographs,” comments Chéroux. “They are works of art and part of his work as much as anything else.”

“Consider how Henri Cartier-Bresson worked with magazines – he’d shoot, give the images to Magnum, and Magnum would distribute them. For Evans it was not like that at all. He would take the photograph, choose the photography magazine, create the layout he preferred, also adding the title. He was controlling everything, completely unlike to most other photographers at that time. For that reason I consider his work for the magazines as important as his work for books and exhibitions.”

Chéroux joined SFMOMA earlier this year from the Musée National d’Art Moderne of the Centre Pompidou, Paris, which organised this show, and previously showed it this year. Chéroux knows Cartier-Bresson’s work well having curated a major retrospective of his work at the Pompidou in 2014; he’s also known for an exhibition of vernacular photography called Shoot!, which was staged at the Rencontres d’Arles in 2010. He has, as he says, “been researching the idea of the vernacular for a long time”.

Walker Evans, “Labor Anonymous,” Fortune 34, no. 5, November 1946; offset lithography; Centre Pompidou, Musée national d’art moderne, Paris, Bibliothèque Kandinsky, Collection of David Campany; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Penny Picture Display, Savannah, 1936; gelatin silver print; Pilara Foundation Collection; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

In researching Cartier-Bresson, Cheroux demonstrated how close the Magnum co-founder had been to the Communist party, how politically engaged he was in the 1930s; given Evans’ interest in the everyday, he was half expecting to find the same when he starting work on this show. “I was thinking that I’d find a political part of his experience that had been hidden by history,” he says.

“But when I dug into his archive I realised that, though a lot of his friends were leftist, he himself was not political. He had a much more aesthetic, literary interest in the aesthetic, which is way he was also so interested in [the writers] Baudelaire and Flaubert.”

As Chéroux points out though, an exhibition of this size presents an opportunity to rethink an icon, and he credits David Campany and Jeff L Rosenheim with expanding our understanding of Evans through their respective work on his interest in magazines and postcards. “The exhibition opening at SFMOMA is a kind of update on Evans, including all this new research by others,” says Chéroux, adding that both contributed essays to the catalogue.

“It’s important to, every two or three years, have a big exhibition [in the gallery] which makes a big statement about an artist,” he continues. “It’s great to be able to show the whole range of an artist’s career, all the different aspects of their projection and everything that they tried to do, and evaluate and re-evaluate their work.

“We’ve tried to show the whole range of Evans’ work,” Chéroux concludes. “And that’s something you can’t do in 500 square metres.”

Walker Evans is on show at SFMOMA until 04 February 2018, the catalogue is published by Centre Pompidou and Delmonico Books/Prestel. www.sfmoma.org Read BJP’s Any Answers interview with Clement Cheroux here http://www.bjp-online.com/2017/02/clement-cheroux/

Walker Evans, Sidewalk and Shopfront, New Orleans, 1935; gelatin silver print; collection of the Museum of Modern Art, New York, gift of Willard Van Dyke; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Floyd and Lucille Burroughs, Hale County, Alabama, 1936; gelatin silver print; collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Allie Mae Burroughs, Wife of a Cotton Sharecropper, Hale County, Alabama, 1936; gelatin silver print; private collection; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Subway Portraits, 1938–1941; gelatin silver print; collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Subway Portrait, 1938–41; gelatin silver print; collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Resort Photographer at Work, 1941, printed later; gelatin silver print; collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Chain-Nose Pliers, 1955; gelatin silver print; The Bluff Collection; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, “The Pitch Direct. The Sidewalk Is the Last Stand of Unsophisticated Display,” Fortune 58, no. 4, October 1958; offset lithography; Centre Pompidou, Musée national d’art moderne, Paris, Bibliothèque Kandinsky, Collection of David Campany; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Street Debris, New York City, 1968; gelatin silver print; private collection, San Francisco; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Walker Evans, Collage with Thirty-Six Ticket Stubs, 1975; cut and pasted photomechanical prints on paper; collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Walker Evans Archive; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

John T. Hill, Interior of Walker Evans’s House, Fireplace with Painting of Car, 1975, printed 2017; inkjet print; private collection; © Walker Evans Archive, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

There is something frantic about David Brandon Geeting’s photography. In his latest collection, Amusement Park, the Greenpoint, Brooklyn-based artist creates a mood that is exhilarating and vibrant, but also verging on collapse, as though its tether could snap at any moment. Where his 2015 book, Infinite Power, was energetic and kinetic, with Amusement Park he’s aiming for “information overload”.

“I’m not afraid of making people confused or dizzy,” he says. “I wanted it to be an onslaught of colours and forms and things that don’t make sense.”

It sounds a little ominous but as we speak, Geeting seems warm, if mischievous – an artist dedicated to playful rebellion more than malevolence. At the time of our call he is in London, planning a commercial shoot for “like, Chinese Amazon Echo” and, given his out-there style, I ask if he finds it hard to focus on commissioned advertising work.

“Sometimes if feels like I’m signing my pride away a little, but then you get a nice cheque so it evens out,” he laughs. “I think with this one, in the end it will still look like my work. They want it kind of messy and wild. They have scenes in mind of houses under construction and dogs with things in their mouths. I’m actually pretty excited.”

As his star rises it seems likely his brand of bold imagery will be increasingly in demand in the commercial world – hot on the heels of his editorial work for titles such as Süddeutsche Zeitung Magazin, Another Magazine, Vogue, The New York Times, The Fader, and many more. It’s good going for someone who only graduated from Manhattan’s School of Visual Arts in 2011.

And messy and wild are two words that perfectly describe the inception of Amusement Park, a collection of edgy portraits, outrageous still lifes and cryptic documentary shots, all assembled by publisher Lodret Vandret and with additional typography by Bráulio Amado. The project formed from the scraps of discarded commission shots, studio improvisation, and images captured on ventures with his camera, says Geeting.

“I shoot in a very non-linear way,” he explains. “I’m never thinking about the end goal. I just shoot until something happens. I’ll be in my studio throwing shit at the wall and seeing what works, just improvising the same way a musician would. What’s funny is that a lot of the half-baked ideas are the ones I end up liking most, so a lot of my work has a sort of sketchy vibe to it.”

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

It was only when he invited his friend and fellow photographer Jason Nocito to take a look that the focus of the collection became clearer. “[Jason] came to my studio to look at some prints and the first thing he said was: ‘Man, your work reminds me of an amusement park’. I guess what he meant was that, at first glance, an amusement park looks fun but after you spend some time in one it’s actually a bit nightmarish and everything’s falling apart. There’s an excitement there but it’s really kind of dark.

“The next week I went to one nearby. It turned out it was its last day open that season. I learned that on the East Coast of the US all amusement parks close the day after Halloween – which is really depressing when you think about it, closing all the parks on the Day of the Dead. It had been raining the day before so it was all dark and grey. Everything was shutting down, everyone was trying to get one last ride in. It was eerie. It definitely helped set the tone for the book, even if most of the pictures in it were made by hand in the studio.”

In fact some of the most striking images in Amusement Park are the still lifes, which seem to strain at the notion of stillness. “Someone once said to me that I ‘add life to still life’,” Geeting says. “I know it sounds like the corniest thing in the world but I guess where still life is generally rigid and calculated, my stuff is almost about to fall apart. It’s considered but it’s chaotic at the same time.”

Equally captivating in Geeting’s collection is the subtle and unconventional editing, something which can again be credited to his distinctly disobedient approach. “The ones you think have been photoshopped haven’t,” he chuckles. “I add little touches here and there in post, and there are certainly images that have been doctored, but for me the most surprising ones are the ones straight from the camera.

“I think it’s fun to use photoshop wrong. Instead of taking a pimple off someone’s face I’ll mess around with an image of a guy eating a banana in a car, or add a drop shadow somewhere to make it weirder.”

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

It points to a DIY spirit and a sense of something rebellious – take the images of balloon animals and shapes, for example, crudely taped to home depot carpets in front of old backdrops. It comes as no surprise to discover that Geeting has played in numerous punk bands, and carries that ethos into his art.

“Once it’s in your life it’s there to stay,” he says. “It’s just the whole ‘Fuck you, I’m going to do it my way’ attitude. And I really embrace the DIY aesthetic. The way I see it is that if I want something to happen, I’m just going to figure out how to do it. It’s haphazard and rough around the edges, but I like it like that.”

Geeting has a haywire creative charge, and he’s is already thinking of what his next book will be – a collection of random shots taken on strolls through Brooklyn, with the intention of glorifying the mundane. It’s something he has already been playing with with on Instagram, and says has already cost him “tonnes of followers”. Not that he seems to mind. “I’ve gained a bunch too. People who appreciate being hit over the head with this monotonous stuff. I like focussing on the weird little details that might otherwise go unnoticed.”

And in that, he adds, it’s not so dissimilar to an amusement park. “I guess it either makes you happy or makes you want to throw up,” he says. “I hope people are at least intrigued by this book. I want people to have a dream that looks like it.”

Amusement Park is published by Lodret Vandret. http://lodretvandret.com/amusement-park/ http://www.dbg.nyc/

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

From the book Amusement Park © David Brandon Geeting

Born in 1981 in Forssa, Finland, Nelli Palomäki studied at the Aalto University School of Art, Design and Architecture in Helsinki and has exhibited her work all over the world, including in the Rencontres d’Arles Discovery Award in 2012. Her monograph, Breathing the Same Air, was published by Hatje Cantz in 2013, and in 2010 she was awarded the Victor Fellowship Grant by the Hasselblad Foundation. She is represented by Gallery Taik Persons in Berlin, and Galerie Les filles du calvaire in Paris.

Palomäki specialises in taking photographs of children and young people, and says her work deals with growth, memory, the problematic ways we see ourselves, and – crucially – our mortality. “We fight against our mortality, denying it, yet photographs are there to prove our inescapable destiny,” she has written. “The idea of getting older is heart-rending.” Palomäki is currently showing new images, depicting siblings, titled Shared. BJP caught up with her to find out more about this project and her work in general. 

Kasper and Olivia, 2016. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

BJP: How did you get into photography?

Nelli Palomäki: Photography got my attention in high school, but never thought I would become a professional artist. Coming from a tiny industrial town, being artist wasn’t really an option. I was surrounded by working class people, and as young kids we never visited art exhibitions or galleries of any kind. But I was a different teenager for sure, and also a rebellious one. My big sister said she wanted to become a doctor so I decided to do something completely different – partly out of curiosity and partly to annoy my father, which seemed to be one of the main aims back then. I just decided to become a photographer and I never really questioned it, even though it wasn’t really my passion. It was only in art school that I started to realise what was it about, and how many different opportunities there were ahead.

BJP: Why do you prefer to shoot with black-and-white?

NP: I have used black-and-white nearly the whole time, it just feels more natural to me. It helps me to focus on my subject differently, and it also reveals the necessary. I don’t really think about the colours I can see when I shoot, and afterwards I can’t really remember what colours people were wearing. I concentrate more and more on the light, and the darkness. Black-and-white also seems more timeless, I quite like the idea that you can’t necessarily tell when one of my photographs was taken.

BJP: Why do you prefer to photograph younger people?

NP: I mainly work with children and young adults, as with them I am dealing with the issues that tickle me most in photography. I am focused on how we see ourselves, and how that image differs from the one we see in the photograph. I do think that portraiture is extremely uncomfortable, and at a certain age that becomes very obvious. I love to follow how a child becomes more aware of his or her body and appearance, and to witness how a just-standing-there changes into actively posing. Older kids and adults are so afraid of someone capturing them, but small children don’t have this yet. Other crucial themes in my work are our growth, family relationships, and the act of posing itself. And finally, at the heart of everything, lies our mortality.

BJP: How did you start photographing siblings?

NP: The whole project with the siblings wasn’t really planned, it came to me. As I have been constantly surrounded by siblings [when photographing children], I began to follow their behaviour almost accidentally. I was amazed how many of them were physically so close – I never had that with my big sister, though I have always had a good relationship with her. As a theme siblinghood felt almost too ordinary but more I got into it, the more contradictions and the more complications I found. I realised I never really thought about my own experience of sisterhood, for me it was always more about the whole family and about my parents. Through making this work I have found memories that have been hidden – funny, loving, and painful too.

Anton and Joel, 2016. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki © Nelli Palomäki

BJP: What do you hope to show in your photographs of siblings?

NP: I hope they show something universal about siblinghood, about the bond between brothers and sisters but also about the power relationships and the darker feelings too. I’m dealing with the physical closeness, but also the uncomfortable aspect of being in such close proximity to someone. Looking at these photographs, we first search for the likenesses but then the differences between the siblings. It felt hugely important to photograph the siblings standing close to each other, mostly so close that they were touching each other. Various emotions are shown through little gestures.

For example in the portrait of two boys, Zane and August, the conflict arises from the way the older brother is holding his little brother. It’s a gesture that can be seen as very protective, or quite the opposite – like he was about to break his neck. I guess this is what being a sibling is really about.

BJP: Have you photographed your own children for this series? If not, why not?

NP: Not yet – they are very small, and not yet capable of understanding the project at all. Also they can’t stay still! In my work it is crucial to be able to take this silent moment, and forget yourself. My children could only do this while asleep. Even with older kids it takes a lot of patience, from both them and myself, but it’s only through this patience and silence that I can reveal something in the photograph. It is tempting to include my kids though, and naturally they will be part of the work at some point – if they want to be.

BJP: Has your approach has changed since you had children?

NP: I am certain it has, and it certainly affected my decision to make a project on siblings. I have started to see siblinghood differently through my experience of motherhood, trying to treat both my kids equally but at the same time realising how amazingly hard that is to do – and how much all those little things might affect the people they will eventually become. It is incredible how different siblings can be from the day one, but also how much comparison there will always be throughout their lives.

BJP: How did you find the siblings you have shot?

NP: Nowadays I work quite a lot with strangers, but there are also people I know very well. Some of them I have photographed several times over many years. There is something intriguing about photographing strangers though, it’s an excuse to get surprisingly close to people. I see it as some type of an escapism, a kind of a second life I keep separate from my ordinary life. I feel connected with many of them, and I feel welcome. That takes plenty of trust from them, and from me too. But I don’t have any rules how to meet new people, it might happen anywhere – in the shops, parks or restaurants I visit in my daily routines.

Dora, Vera, and Antonio, 2016. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

BJP: Where did you shoot them?

NP: The locations vary, though lately I have preferred to stay outside. I might travel quite a distance for a portrait, but I have also done couple of shoots at my house. I prefer taking the portrait first, after that we can get all chatty and laid-back. The intensity needs to be there, and too much talking beforehand might burst the bubble. I get hugely stressed and nervous before each shoot, and even a little scared of the children. I do believe they can see me differently from all the other people around me – it is as they can see through me. This makes the moment very special and simultaneously very unpleasant. But I think that being photographed, and being the photographer, should be uncomfortable. There is no need to try to change that.

BJP: Have all of the portraits been shot in Finland? Is the project a kind of portrait of a nation?

NP: All these portraits so far have been shot in Finland, but not all of the people are Finns. It wasn’t supposed to be a study of a nation, but it is true that you cannot avoid the Scandinavian features and landscapes. For me it is more about the psychological issues and the complexity of being a sibling, but it is fascinating that it is also becoming a sort of image of a Finnish youngster. It is still an ongoing project, so we’ll see how the final collection of portraits turns out.

BJP: Do you like to look at other photographers’ work?

NP: Very much, although I must admit I rarely get super excited about anything other than portraiture. It is great to see new work, but I also love to go through old works by all the great masters. Lately I have become more interested in documentary photography. I love Chris Killip, his work is absolutely gorgeous! I can’t say why, but it feels free somehow – there is a type of beauty, mixed with disappointment and hope. And I just had a workshop with the amazing Sirkka-Liisa Konttinen, whose work is just extraordinary. There is this ecstasy in her work that I’m very jealous of.

BJP: What do you enjoy about formal portrait photography?

NP: If it’s successful, a posed portrait can reach your soul in a second. You are not only looking at the photograph, but what’s in it and how it affects you. It reminds us of our mortality, as well as our vitality, emotions that can be raised through empathy and compassion as well as through love, hate or anger. A great portrait carries the presence of both the subject and the photographer.

www.nellipalomaki.com Nelli Palomäki will be showing work at Paris Photo from 9-12 November with Gallery Taik Persons www.parisphoto.com http://gallerytaikpersons.com 

Shared – an exhibition of photographs by Nelli Palomäki and video work by Juhana Moisander is on show from 17 November-22 December at the Finnish Institute in Stockholm www.finlandsinstitutet.se

Nelli Palomäki’s work is currently on show in Kunsthaus Potsdam, Germany, in a group show called Lichtblicke – Zeitgenössische Finnische Fotografie [Lightsights – Contemporary Finnish Photography] which also includes Markus Henttonen, Pertti Kekarainen, Ola Kolehmainen and Anni Leppälä www.kunstverein-kunsthaus-potsdam.de 

Levi and Enni, 2016. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

Aino and Saima, 2016. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

Annikki and Inkeri, 2017. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

Isabella and Josefin, 2017. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

Inkeri and Annikki, 2016. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

Lotta and Olivia, 2017. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

Myrsky and Kukka, 2017. From the series Shared © Nelli Palomäki

Hungary produced some of the best photographers of the 20th century, with Robert and Cornell Capa, Brassaï and André Kertész all hailing from the country. In recent years it’s had a much lower profile, though there are still pioneering Hungarian photographers at work such as London-based Andi Gáldi Vinkó and Budapest-based photojournalist Zsófia Pályi. Studios such as Fiatalok Fotóművészeti Stúdiója [Studio of Young Photographers] and newer collectives such as Eskimo Book, meanwhile, have been championing younger practitioners.

At 28, Zsolt Ficsór is part of this new generation, using his collective, MAMA Photobooks, to help promote local artists’ self-published work. In October Ficsór brought MAMA to Photo Book London at The Old Truman Brewery, Brick Lane, for example, while in September, he was invited to take part in the five-day Magnum workshop at the Capa Contemporary Photography Centre in Budapest, a scholarship initiative run by the centre to help young photographers. Lead by celebrated Magnum photographers Antoine d’Agata and Matt Black, this workshop was a masterclass in developing his style of urban documentary photography, he says, which stems from his fascination with “interacting with this surreal and unreal world that we are living in right here here, right now”.

“Both Antoine and the other students were really helpful,” he says. “Even though we only had four days for shooting it was a great chance to evolve my approach in image making. I saw myself in the process again through the eyes of others. It was so helpful to talk through my ideas with other photographers at different stages of their careers, it helped me break out of my comfort zone and push my limits. Plus it was great to get international feedback on my work.”

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Ficsór’s photographs are candid, inspired by everyday experience and simple things that leave lasting impressions – “my grandmother’s bookbinding studio, childhood memories, my mom on messenger, John Frusciante’s music, David Lynch”. A portrait of man showing off his chest tattoo, a cigarette wedged between his teeth; an officer in traditional uniform on horseback, squinting in the sun; a local parade. The photographs are subtle and touching, and tell a simple story of life in the nooks and crannies of modern Budapest, a city that “becomes almost as small as a village” if you spend enough time exploring its streets.

“I think a photographer has to be an advocate of his or her society,” says Ficsór. “Or should at least to make some serious work about the present. I like to show everyday moments using the simplest photographic language. This documentary type of work builds on the naivety of both the photographer and the subject. I am constantly trying to get as far from imitating conventional styles as possible. Every idea counts!”

And in photographing the everyday in Budapest, Ficsór has a bigger target in sight – the identity of the Hungarian people. Actually it’s a complex subject, he says, as a homogenous Hungarian identity really doesn’t exist. “It’s more diverse than that,” he says. “But you have to be present here and stay for a long time to concentrate on the details to see what lies beyond the surface. I see things around me like documents – people and their impact on the environment; small, ordinary things, details of our time and atmospheres of crowds.”

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

He’s been shooting this way since 2015, when his interest in photographing people really came to the fore. Exploring smaller pockets of the city he came across locals with “a way stronger public spirit than anywhere else”; visiting the pensioners’ club frequented by his grandmother, he shot a whole series exploring “who those people are and what they do together”. That series was subsequently shown at the C/O Berlin gallery during the Close Up! exhibition and international competition, which he went on to win.

A quote appears at the start of Ficsór’s most recent photobook. It’s not from a poet, philosopher, or a famous photographer he admires – though Lars Tunbjörk, Martin Kollar and William Eggleston rank among his favourites. Rather, it comes from a man he met on one of his many expeditions through Budapest’s less travelled streets. ‘A kutyának is piros a vére’, which translates as ‘A dog has red blood too’, and captures the simplest concept behind Ficsór’s photography. “For me it means that everyone is the same,” he says. “There is no need to differentiate people from one another.”

https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/fcsrzs https://www.instagram.com/schault_phitchour/?hl=en https://www.instagram.com/mamaphotobooks/?hl=en

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Image © Zsolt Ficsór

Maria Gruzdeva is no stranger to remote and solitary parts of the world. Her last book, The Borders of Russia, saw her travel more than 6000km along the border of her home country, documenting the isolated communities at its edges. While shooting it she came across the near-forgotten town of Tkvarcheli, and became so intrigued it turned into a spin-off project in its own right. Her work on it has now been published as a photobook, The Song of Tkvarcheli, funded by the Gabriele Basilico International Prize in Architecture and Landscape Photography.

“In the Soviet era, the region was widely known for its opulent nature, salubrious climate, seaside resorts and sanatoriums,” says Gruzdeva; Tkvarcheli was once heralded as one of the most perfectly designed towns in this feted area.

“In better times, working and living in Tkvarcheli was regarded a privilege – not just by miners, but by engineers and academics as well,” she explains. “The town was created to embody a dream. An idea to create a perfect city pervaded the minds of Soviet architects and practitioners after the Second World War when a lot of cities were rebuilt almost from scratch.”

At the height of its success, Tkvarcheli was home to approximately 35,000 residents, and a burgeoning mining economy. Built in luscious mountains it had an unusual bi-partite structure – with the lower town the main working district, and the upper town, reached by a seemingly futuristic cable car, boasting sweeping boulevards and homes with unprecedented vistas.

From The Song of Tkvarcheli © Maria Gruzdeva

In the rapidly-changing world of the 1990s, these fortunes reversed. Mining became less important and the Soviet Union disintegrated; in the ensuing Georgian-Abkhazian Civil War between 1992 and ’93, Tkvarcheli was under siege for almost a year. In that time ethnic Georgians across the entire region of Abkhazia were faced with mass ethnic cleansing and expulsion. Many of the city’s Georgian population (which made 23.4 per cent of the total) were forced to leave as the violence in the region worsened.

By the mid 1990s, the once prosperous city had declined, and today it’s nearly abandoned. For Gruzdeva though, its fall from grace only underlines the town’s former glory. “It may seem that the dilapidation of some of the buildings suggests that the place has lost its former might, but I think it only emphasises its power and beauty,” she says.

“Abundant southern vegetation seen through the empty windows of the railway station or the columns of the residential houses remind me of ancient civilizations, which were destined to be great, yet somehow became mysteriously lost and unattainable.”

Gruzdeva first visited the area to shoot pictures of a waterfall, and says that stumbling on the town felt almost cinematic. “A turbulent river, suspension bridges, a backdrop of lush southern vegetation. Then an incredible railway station, so monumental – bearing arches, large windows, porticos and coloured stucco,” she says.

But the town is no fantasy, and nor is it completely deserted – despite the struggles of war, economic decline, and increasing isolation (the railway line no longer connects to the national network), some 5000 people still live there.  “There are a lot of residents who have lived in Tkvarcheli since the day of its inception and they reminisce about the better days when the town was thriving,” says Gruzdeva.

“Many residents from different generations share stories about the tougher times of the town’s history as well. Those are the stories of incredible strength, faith, outstanding endurance and bravery. It was not just the siege – this highly developed town and its residents have survived a number of dramatic events.”

From The Song of Tkvarcheli © Maria Gruzdeva

The remaining townsfolk have developed a strong sense of identity, with many saying they wouldn’t dream of leaving, and those who do finding themselves inexorably drawn back. The town is de facto part of the country of Abkhazia, but this country is only recognised by a handful of other states, and Russia is its only large ally. Instead, Abkhazia is recognised globally as a de jure part of Georgia, leaving a vacuum in which the citizens of Tkvarcheli identify with the town more than anything else.

“The people are united by their love for the town they call their own, and a sense of belonging penetrates those stories,” says Gruzdeva. “The Song of Tkvarcheli is the roar of the industrial machine, the sound of the mines, the voices of the people that once lived there and still live there today. It is a story of a great ambition, an aspiration to create something perfect and unique, something that traverses time.”

www.mariagruzdeva.com The Song of Tkvarcheli is published by Danilo Montanari Editore, priced €25 www.danilomontanari.com The Song of Tkvarcheli is on show at the Fondazione Studio Marangoni, Firenze, Italy, from 03 November-03 December www.studiomarangoni.it

++ This story was updated on 02 November to include reference to the ethnic cleansing which contributed to Tkvarcheli’s depopulation in the 1990s. BJP is grateful to Chris Booth for pointing out this omission++

From The Song of Tkvarcheli © Maria Gruzdeva

From The Song of Tkvarcheli © Maria Gruzdeva

From The Song of Tkvarcheli © Maria Gruzdeva

From The Song of Tkvarcheli © Maria Gruzdeva

Wim Wenders was given a new Polaroid camera yesterday. It was a gift. He doesn’t plan on using it.

“It’s funny,” he says quietly, before pausing to carefully frame what he wants to say next. “I picked up this new One Step 2 camera and instantly everything came back to me. My hands remembered how to hold it and how to use it. But it was definitely a nostalgic act, and that felt a bit strange. When I took all these thousands of Polaroids between the late 1960s and early 80s it was anything but nostalgic. At the time, that was modernity.”

While in recent years Wenders has become almost equally as recognisable as a photographer as a director, with his large-format landscape photographs being exhibited in galleries around the world, he hasn’t taken a Polaroid in years. It might seem strange then that the German filmmaker behind such works as the Palme d’Or-winning Paris, Texas (1984), Wings of Desire (1987), and the Academy Award-nominated documentary about Brazilian photographer Sebastião Salgado, The Salt of the Earth (2014), has launched an exhibition featuring over 250 of his old Polaroids, most of which were captured on his beloved SX-70.

Self-portrait, 1975 © Wim Wenders. Courtesy Wim Wenders Foundation

Instant Stories, on show at The Photographers’ Gallery, Soho until 11 February 2018, is far from an exercise in nostalgia, says Wenders. The photographs, selected from an unearthed collection of thousands, may confront the past – documenting stories of friends, actors, film sets and travels across open roads – but for him, their relevance lies in the lessons they can bring to the present, particularly to how we understand photography.

“At first I was worried that these old Polaroids might not be interesting for anyone else,” he explains. “That they might only be nice for me to look back to. But the more I looked at them the more I realised that there was something there worth sharing. But I would need to create the context for the viewers, so I wrote these stories [to go alongside them].

“Polaroids remind us of an innocence, of a different attitude toward the world and toward the act of taking pictures. And of course these images show an interesting journey through the first movies I made. There was some sort of testimony in these Polaroids that I thought could be interesting to oppose to our present culture of instant picture-taking.”

For Wenders, Polaroids were not art. Rather, they were spontaneous, playful and communicative objects that celebrated the uniqueness of the individual moment and the “unmanipulated truth” of time. It’s something that can be seen in the blurry mystery of New York Parade, 1972, the suggestion of chat in Heinz, 1973 and in the intimate portraits of actors such as Dennis Hopper, who starred in Wenders’ 1977 film The American Friend.

“There was always a little bit of awe in connection with taking a Polaroid,” he says. “After all, you held a one-of-a-kind thing in your hand that couldn’t be repeated (I don’t know anyone who ever made other prints from Polaroids). It was a one and only, unique object that was an incomparable proof of whatever just happened before. Even if you took many, each one was like looking at a little marvel, an original! There was always a sort of ‘wow’ to it. That ‘wow’ is largely gone now.”

Valley of the Gods, Utah, 1977 © Wim Wenders. Courtesy Deutsches Filminstitut Frankfurt a.M.

That’s not to imply that he thinks photography is a dying form. Far from it. But for Wenders, the cultures of the smartphone camera, Instagram and digital alteration have changed our approach to it. “Today, photography is a different act,” he shrugs. “In many interesting ways! It’s almost like people are more interested in producing a new kind of reality with digital photography. And that has a whole different value. It’s just funny that the act is still called photography, even though it’s an altogether different ball game. I wish we could find a new name for it.”

So how can contemporary photographers strive to reclaim the honesty that he feels was reflected in Polaroids? “It’s amazing how young photographers today try to capture ‘truth’ with their contemporary cameras,” he says. “They try to find a sense of honesty with their digital tools and with that whole process. But it’s a difficult struggle for them, because the Zeitgeist and the entire visual culture are against them. They have to be stubborn and insist that the picture they took is really exactly what they saw. The fundamental ‘belief’ that photography is a truth-based medium is gone.”

The title Instant Stories reflects a narrative identity for Wenders and he suggests that the reckless freedom that came with capturing these Polaroids provided a “direct window” into the person he was back then, when he was getting “sidetracked” by making movies, still longing to be a painter.

“When I look at these Polaroids, I see the whole universe of that young man who tried to convince himself that he could be filmmaker, but in his heart still had a nagging doubt about whether that was the right thing to do. You can follow that search in those Polaroids,” he says.

After making three movies that he now feels were derivative – “One that looked like Cassavetes, one that owed everything to Hitchcock, and one that was like a low-budget David Lean” – it was only on his fourth, Alice In The Cities (1974), that Wenders felt he found his own visual “hand-writing”. This, he says, is partially thanks to the SX-70 that he used to help him capture and understand his surroundings.

“That camera was a great seismograph of that time in my life,” he recalls. “It helped me to find a look that was my own, a way of looking at the world in a way that wasn’t arbitrary or random.”

Sydney © Wim Wenders. Courtesy Wim Wenders Foundation

And though he completely separates his appreciation for Polaroids from his appreciation for “actual” photography, he is ready to admit that his uninhibited and near-constant taking of the former was a “good school” when he eventually embraced the latter. “When I started taking photography more seriously in 1983 and switched to working on negative and with mid-size cameras, I discovered the more painterly aspects of photography,” he explains.

“Finding the  frame, spending time in each place on each image and just taking much fewer pictures. It was no longer a spontaneous carefree act, like in those 15 years of doing Polaroids. In my mind, I didn’t produce ‘photographs’ when I took Polaroids though. I just shot the heck out of everything. It was taking notes; a part of living. It was like thinking, breathing, laughing.”

I point out that this is starting to sound a little bit nostalgic. “The Polaroids in this exhibition are each a unique thing,” he says, “You produced an instant print. You don’t do that with your iPhone now. These little objects were an instant communication between people. You could hand this actual thing over to them. They were proof and memory. It was the last genius outburst of the analogue era.”

He pauses. “Polaroids marked a phase between the first 150 years in photography and the digital age. It was science fiction. It was the past and present all in one and we didn’t even know it or appreciate it, then.”

Nonetheless, as far as he is concerned, the ship has sailed for him to start taking Polaroids again. “Once I started working on my Plaubel and mid-size negative, I got addicted to real photography,” he shrugs. “There was no way back to Polaroids for me…”

But he admits that, just like everyone who will come to see Instant Stories, he takes hundreds of pictures on his smartphone every week. “It’s a bit sad,” he says. “I know I’ll never even look at them. I have to ask, who the hell is going to look at them?”

New York Parade, 1972 © Wim Wenders. Courtesy Wim Wenders Foundation

Instant Stories is about reminding people, and perhaps himself too, of the uniqueness, honesty and freedom of Polaroids. The tangible, definitive proof of a moment in time. Whether it’s nostalgic or not, Wenders wants us to respect the significance of that. The near holiness of it. “There was a certain sacredness involved,” he says, “in the uniqueness of time that every picture represented.

“For me, that is built into the very word ‘photography’: Taking something from the world, once, and keeping it. In a strange way, that uniqueness was manifested in Polaroid more than in any other photographic act before or afterwards.”

Instant Stories is on show at The Photographers’ Gallery, Soho until 11 February 2018 https://thephotographersgallery.org.uk/whats-on/exhibitions/wim-wenders-instant-stories

By an unknown photographer, 1971 © Wim Wenders. Courtesy Wim Wenders Foundation

On the Road to New England, 1972 © Wim Wenders. Courtesy Deutsches Filminstitut Frankfurt a.M.