The Man Without Talent
In which I talk about a somewhat depressing documentary, a comic in which the value of creative work in a capitalist world is questioned, and about the problems of photobooks during the pandemic
I was watching the documentary Inland Sea yesterday, which, just in case you’re wondering, has nothing to do with Donald Richie’s eponymous book.
Well, no, that’s not quite correct, given that the documentary and Richie’s text cover not only the same setting but also deal with similar scenes.
Anyway, the documentary stretches the boundaries of the genre by consisting of a relatively small number of vignettes that go on for quite some time, all filmed in a little Japanese town at the Inland Sea. For example, the viewer gets to see a 85-year old fisherman haul his catch of the day on board, to retrieve the fish one by one from the net. Or the camera will record the entire flow of information, parts of which might be little more than inane gossip, provided without much prodding by an old woman.
It’s all very bleak, and that’s the idea. Little Japanese towns are literally dying out, as only old people and very occasionally some middle-aged people are left. (I obviously felt a great affinity for the middle-aged couple in the documentary that was shown feeding the town’s feral cats.)
I don’t know whether I’d recommend the documentary to anyone who is neither in an incredibly good mood (which I have not been in a long time) nor to someone who somehow manages not to be affected by the barrage of terrible news these days.
After I had watched the documentary, life felt a little bit more grim.
I never developed an appreciation of comics beyond what I looked at when I was a child and young teenager. So I’m a stranger to the “graphic novel” scene (as much as I’m a stranger to the “audiobook” scene). I don’t know how Yoshiharu Tsuge’s The Man Without Talent popped up in my Amazon recommendations the other day. It was probably because I had briefly looked into it before. And I probably would have never looked at it before, let alone come across it, had it not been published by The New York Review of Books (I have a subscription).
Regardless, there was something in the description that had me curious. The book, I read, “is an unforgiving self-portrait of frustration. Swearing off cartooning as a profession, Tsuge takes on a series of unconventional jobs -- used camera salesman, ferryman, and stone collector -- hoping to find success among the hucksters, speculators, and deadbeats he does business with.” Cartooning… That can’t be different from photographing or writing about photography, can it? Well, I wouldn’t know. But it was that connection that had me order the book. Also, I liked the stone-collector idea.
The description above is correct, but it’s also mostly besides the point. At least that’s what I realized once I had finished reading the book. (Is that what you do? Do you “read” comics? I don’t know.) The way I see the book is that it centers on a man who knows that the one thing he does well barely pays the bills (if that), and he can’t bring himself to do the hustling that would ensure getting work. But he also rejects that very premise, namely that your life should focus on working to pay the bills. Or rather, he’s not necessarily opposed to the idea per se, but he’d rather have it operate along the lines of what he values — and not what society values.
Isn’t that one of the greatest struggle any creative person faces these days, that we live in a culture that only values economic utility and that isn’t willing to pay for anything that’s not of obvious economic (utilitarian) value?
Don’t buy the book, though, if you’re hoping that it will show you a way out. It won’t. It just re-enforces the idea that creative people are screwed.
Tsuge stopped producing new comics in 1987. He is still alive.
Speaking of “stopped producing,” I’m hearing left and right how this is a terrible time for photobook publishing. Mind you, this is mostly behind-the-scenes talk. Still, what I’m hearing has me worried that parts of the larger photobook world will simply disappear over the next few months. Some random things I have come across:
A German friend of mine told me that bookbinders don’t get enough jobs. As a consequence, many of them could go bankrupt very soon. How is this a problem? Well, you can’t make good photobooks without good binders.
The same friend told me how the producer of a paper we both like has just gone out of business. This isn’t a new development — from what I’ve heard paper manufacturers have been disappearing for a while now. But it’s bad news for photobook makers if the range of available papers gets narrower and narrower.
A UK-based photographer I know told me that their book release basically went completely unnoticed because of the pandemic. Imagine working on a book for years, and then when it’s out it feels like it’s not out at all: you can’t do book signings, talks, any of the stuff that is not just promotion but that also is one of the rewards of working on a book. It’s completely heartbreaking.
A number of photographers told me about publishers not accepting new books at this time. I haven’t heard of publishers folding (yet). But the world of the photobook was a fragile environment already before the pandemic.
In part this is because the world of the photobook is so insular. More often than not photographers make books for other photographers. In principle, there’s nothing wrong with that approach. But there aren’t enough photographers around for this model to be sustainable.
So I’m thinking that now might be a good time to try to break out of this narrow model, the model of photobook fairs (that only photobook people go to), of limited-editions (that only cater to generous photographers and wealthy collectors), of photobooks that look too much like fancy art books (and that come with too high a price tag for people who aren’t part of photoland).
What I’m thinking is that photobook makers maybe shouldn’t only think about where or how to sell their books. Instead, they should be thinking about how to engage with people who normally don’t look at photobooks. Don’t ditch your usual audience (other photographers), but try to find an audience beyond that.
Obviously, that’s iffy at a time like this. But what other time would be a good time to think about expanding the reach of photobooks?
Well, I was going to write about another book I’m reading right now. But I’ll wait with that until I’m done with it. Plus, it’s another Japanese book, but that’s mostly a coincidence as I’ll explain in the next email.
So as always thank you very much for reading and stay safe and well!
— Jörg
I’m a freelance writer, photographer, and educator currently living and working in the US.
This Mailing List is my attempt to bring back some of the aspects that made early blogging so great -- community engagement and a more relaxed and maybe less polished approach to writing and thinking about photography. You can find the bulk of my main writing on CPhMag.com.
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Hello, I just literally discovered your blog via TipiBooks website. I was there to enquire about publishing a photobook. Your comment about thinking of news ways to engage with people around photobooks (and photography in general) touched a nerve as I have been thinking along those lines lately.
I have never published (or sold) any of my visual art. I am based in South Africa and therefore have zero local market opportunities. (I don't do cliché or curio art)
I loathe the whole academic "Art Market" gallery-cheese-and-wine community shit. If the mood takes you I would love to hear some of your thoughts around a different, affordable way (both for artists and potential customers) to access visual art.
One of the things I was mulling over was a pdf. type download thingy (admittedly a desperate idea)
I look forward to (maybe) hearing from you. Kind regards, Mark