moving furniture

I don't know why I started thinking about this out of the blue...I think I was looking at an offer for digital photo prints (100 for 12Eu) that I suddenly remembered a very strange and touching moment that happened awhile back at my old school.

In my old photo school, many a student was tempted into a fine display of emotional fireworks during their critiques. It's a probable defense against any reasonable critique, to burst out into tears and talk about family members, either dead, or far away, while gesturing at funny fuzzy cutouts of old family heirlooms. One had the impression that early twenty-something photo artists were all obsessed with their grandparents. I suppose that to be a photographer, you have to be naturally nostalgic, but the number of boohoohoos at each oral examination was a bit suspect.

So, by the third year, after a series of critiques that presented, in no order, a series on the Holocaust, girlhood high school trauma, and various other regular players in the 'I'm traumatized therefore my art is important', we came to Frances.

Frances was as close to being invisible as one can be. She wore greys and blacks, barely spoke to anyone, and made work that was, for the most part, marked by lack of content and aesthetic pleasure. Her hair was helmet shaped. It was clear that she had sexual issues that were repressed but that's hardly an issue in the artworld. After all, if you don't have a penetration issue in art, most of your work will leave only a superficial impression.

Frances presented a series of black and white prints against colour: she juxtaposed photographs of herself with her family members, against photographs of her one-person apartment. It's a simple concept. But it was shocking to see the loneliness laid bare. It's hard to describe the emotional impact but it was there, and that was all. During her speech she was, as usual, almost speechless. But, in the midst of her stony impression, she suddenly cracked, and wept like a baby. They were real tears of sorrow and loneliness, almost desperate, and yet we all stood before her, all of us strangers in all ways possible. They were the type of real tears which rebuke false comfort. She had no friends at school.

After the critique, some of us tried to speak to her, and many of us spoke of her. But, in the end, after a couple of hours, we became obsessed with all the old rivalries, of which she had no part.

It made me think, recently, that there are people in tv serials, who walk around as extras. They have no story. We're not interested in knowing their story. They're like moving furniture. It's neither sad nor happy. It's like an egg that sits in the back of the fridge while you're reaching for the milk.

Frances is moving furniture. In some very remote universe she has a speaking part, but for the life of me, it's hard to see into this universe. It's not sad when I think about it clearly...it's weird to be faced with someone's humanity for a couple of moments, and then watch it be erased all over again. Deep down, there are very very few things in this world people can't get over.