It's a Mailing List
Given this is a first, a few thoughts on what to expect. Then, a book I read and a photographer whose work I have been following
Writing is a solitary activity. As a writer, you spend countless hours in the company of your own thoughts, attempting to shape them, to give them form in such a way that they might communicate something to others. Most of the time, it's a frustrating way to spend a day; but as a writer you know that there will be those exhilarating moments when somehow what you put together seems to be so much smarter than yourself, when, in other words, you manage to transcend yourself. Arriving there makes it all worthwhile.
When I was younger, I never thought I would someday think of myself as a writer. I did read a lot, and I still do, but I never imagined creating my on writing. I came to writing as a blogger. At some stage, I realized that merely collecting material, with pithy commentary added, wasn't enough for me any longer. There was something else that I thought I could do; and I tried it.
The early days of blogging were hugely enjoyable for me. I never set out to create something other than a collection of material. I didn't have a master plan for what I wanted to do, and I still don't have one (truth be told, I find people who have those very corporate five-year plans for their [professional] life scary). As a blogger, I merely assembled my site, and I would interact with all those other bloggers that were active at the time (some still are, many, alas, are not). Even though I'm a loner at heart, I enjoyed being part of this community that I had had a small part in forming.
And then came social media. The first bloggers to leave for Facebook were those who had used their blogs as promotional tools. With time, more and more people gave up on blogging. Blogging never went away, but the sense of community was broken, replaced by whatever it is that people experience when they're part of some “group” on Facebook. I tried Facebook for a while, but it was just too creepy. On top of that, over the years I had always kept my site fully independent, using my own hosting and software running on a dedicated server. I didn't want to make myself dependent on the whims of some company, a decision that I believe has served me well.
But I felt compelled to have some social-media presence, so I set up a Twitter account to see what other people were making and to promote my own writing. I never enjoyed that aspect of one's professional life: the fact that you have to promote what you do. After all these years, I'm still very weary of it; to be honest, I find it distasteful and crass. With time, Twitter became the awful environment that it is now, a cesspool of antagonism, nasty snarkery, anger, and outright hatred. It's something I want to move away from.
Thus the idea of the mailing list was born. I have actually toyed with the idea of creating it for quite a while. It felt as if sending out emails would be a much better way to do the various things I now do on Twitter. But there is more. While I like what I do with CPhMag.com, I miss the looseness of the old blog. It's likely that this is just in my head, but I haven't felt the sense of freedom that I experienced blogging about photography roughly ten years ago.
This mailing list is going to be an attempt to get some of that freedom back. As a reader, this is – roughly – what you can expect. To begin with, emails will initially arrive every two or three weeks. I don't want to put pressure on myself, and I want to send out material that is as thought out as what I publish on CPhMag.com. Each email will have a variety of parts, some of which I have not tried before. You see some of these here. There might be others, and I'm eager to hear from you, the readers, what you think and/or what else could be added. Each email will also be relatively long (certainly compared to what's happening on Twitter). I feel that given there is only one email every two or three weeks, that's OK. Somehow, the idea of “tldr” (“too long, didn't read”) has taken hold – if you subscribe to it, you might as well unsubscribe from these emails.
So now that you know what to expect, let's get started... Thank you for reading!
If most novels by Thomas Bernhard contain endlessly meandering sentences that mirror the seemingly obsessed and often mentally unstable narrator's never-ending trains of thoughts, Miron Białoszewski's A Memoir of the Warsaw Uprising presents almost the complete opposite approach (I read the book's revised 2015 English translation by Madeline G. Levine, published by NYRB Classics). Here, the fragmentation of the language is taken to its extreme, with staccato bursts of short sentences, many of which consisting of merely a word. Perhaps surprisingly, the effect is the same as in Bernhard's case: the reader is made to participate in the author's thinking, in particular in his attempt to remember the details of the ill-fated 1944 Warsaw Uprising that lasted 63 days and resulted in the deaths of 150,000 to 200,000 people and the almost complete destruction of the city itself. Where Bernhard's narrators are driven by their obsessive minds, Białoszewski re-counts his experience of living in a city under siege, escaping from one soon-to-be-bombed-out location to another. In both cases, language is used to convey an extreme sense of urgency, an urgency that makes these books almost impossible to put down.
A Memoir of the Warsaw Uprising relies on the author's memory, and memory can be fickle, especially once it's produced under duress. I suppose that only those who ever found themselves under similar circumstances will be able to comprehend the level of duress. It's so easy to say that one might imagine what it would be like, but how could this really be achieved? Thinking about duress, I cannot even remember anything remotely comparable, having never been in an accident, having never been shot at, let alone having never had to huddle in some basement while bombs are being hurled in my direction. Białoszewski clearly did not remember some of what he experienced; but through a combination of research – essentially asking friends and acquaintances – and the use of language he recounts the course of those 63 days. Facts are being reported and then often questioned immediately.
“I don't remember the date. August 23 or 24? In the afternoon. That day we stood up many times.”
Or maybe it would be wrong that facts are being questioned – what is remembered is being presented as being somewhat factual, but details might simply be off or misremembered. And there are different kinds of facts – those that maybe could be verified (“August 23 or 24?”), and those that exist outside of that category (whatever the date – “That day we stood up many times.”).
As someone operating in the world of photography, a world based on facts (well, “facts” – are photographs really facts?), I found Białoszewski's approach to narration incredibly inspiring. But of course, now I'm thinking about the book after having read it. While reading it, I didn't spend time thinking about whether or not what I was being presented was truthful. The author had made it so easy to accept that of course it was completely and utterly truthful, the fact that many small individual facts might have been misremembered notwithstanding. Besides the masterful use of language, there also was the sheer amount of humanity that was revealed in these pages, a humanity based on experience. For example, near the end of the Uprising, Białoszewski learns of the existence of a barber still operating. So he goes (well runs) to get his hair cut and beard trimmed in a salon that itself is under heavy artillery fire. As it turns out, people are simply people even under these circumstances, and people being people means enormous kindness and regular bouts of pettiness or human drama.
“But after her return Nanka was living with Sabina. Michał came. She didn't want to be with him. It's over! No! In the end she gave in. But what? What was that about? Well, at one point – bombs are falling, the Germans are invading, they're slaughtering people there – and he (I don't know why) says to her, out loud, in the cellar: 'Damn you, I hope the first bomb kills you!'
And Nanka immediately walked out to the Germans.”
How does one even go about comprehending this? (Never mind the mastery in the narration of what must have been a longer argument.) And how, as an author, does one go about continuing the narration? Thus:
“Well, let's get back to Zocha. At the stove.”
After all, if there was no time for Varsovians to understand or deal with any of the rapidly happening events why should there be any for the reader?
I first met Ela Polkowska in Warszaw in the summer of 2016, when she participated in one of the two workshops I taught there. I admit I don’t remember the work she brought to the workshop (to be precise I don’t remember which project they were a part of), but I do remember the photographs’ visceral qualities. Somehow, under the most mundane circumstances — where most photographers wouldn’t be able to find anything — Ela manages to get something. And that “something” isn’t just a good picture, it’s also a startling picture, something that makes you wonder how or why you weren’t able to see what just happened. This level of attentiveness to one’s surroundings, combined with the ability to shape something into a good picture — that’s what it takes to be a very good photographer.
I think Ela particularly excels when there are people. I’m almost tempted to be very careful when I go to Warsaw the next time and come across this photographer: somehow, some part of me might end up in one of those pictures. Admittedly, it would be a thrill, but it might also be slightly unsettling.
Someone needs to make a book of these pictures. I have gone about blogging and writing and teaching long enough to know that the world of photobook publishing is strange (some of the most deserving photographers have been strugging to get their work published). Still, I have the confidence that there will be a book. There has to be a book! I want a book with Ela’s pictures in my library! I don’t know whether there are any publishers that might read this email; but maybe if someone reading this email spends some time with Ela’s pictures and then spreads the word, good things might happen.
(photograph © and kindly provided by Ela Polkowska)
Well, this is it then for now. It’s my first email, and I admit I’m a bit nervous. Will it go out when I press “Publish”? Let’s hope. Will there be typos? Maybe (I hope not — I checked). Will there be reader feedback? Well, maybe again — feel free to send a note. I’m sure there will be a lot of things that could be better or different or added — let me know, so I can improve!
And again, thank you for reading!
— Jörg