This paper addresses contemporary theoretical arguments about how the digital image is not principally visual, is beyond representation, and how this constitutes a significant break between chemical and digital photography. Henning uses 1930s American urban documentary photographs, particularly by John Gutmann and Helen Levitt, to rethink the assumptions about analogue, chemical photography implicit in such theories. The street is a place where these photographers found the traces of activities and encounters that are not always explicit or observable, but happening off-scene, inside buildings and basements, or at night. Photographs by Gutmann and Levitt challenge the idea that pre-digital photography was concerned with visual truth, or was a static and direct record or representation of events, people and places. They also allow us to engage in new ways with the differences and connections between contemporary mobile photography and older documentary and street photography practices

Henning, Michelle

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 1 Urban	Encounters	Conference		Paper	for	Optical	Transformations:	Between	the	Analog	and	the	Digital	(Saturday	11th	November,	pm)		We	are	Here,	but	Where	are	You?	Michelle	Henning			This	paper	addresses	contemporary	theoretical	arguments	about	the	digital	image.	I	want		to	challenge	some	of	the	assumptions	about	the	pre-digital	image	that	new	theories	of	the	digital	re-circulate.	I	am	going	to	argue	that	in	order	to	draw	a	sharp	distinction	between	a	digital	networked	visual	culture	and	earlier	forms	of	visual	culture,	theorists	of	the	digital	have	been	too	selective	about	the	characteristics	of	pre-digital	photography	that	they	emphasize.			They	rightly	argue	that	the	digital	image	is	not	principally	visual,	that	it	is	also	a	surface	manifestation	of	data,	determined	by	specific	algorithms,	invisible	to	the	observer	of	the	image.	As	a	consequence,	it	is	argued,	we	have	moved	beyond	representation	and	this	constitutes	a	significant	break	between	analogue-chemical	photography	and	digital	photography.	This	is	the	part	I	want	to	challenge.	Specifically,	I	suggest	that	the	notion	that	we	have	moved	beyond	representation	is	based	on	a	specific	understanding	of	representation	and	of	its	role	in	photography	—	which	involves,	first	of	all,	the	idea	that	an	analogue-chemical	photograph	was	organised	around	resemblance	and	perspective,	and	that	it	was	dependent	for	its	meaning	on	its	status	as	an	analogue	trace.		While	this	is	true	 2 of	certain	kinds	of	photographic	practices,	it	is	not	invariably	or	essentially	the	case.	More	worryingly,	digital	image	theorists	sometimes	repeat	ideas	about	photographs	that	photography	theorists	might	have	thought	had	already	been	quashed.	For	example,	William	Mitchell	writes	"Images	in	the	post-photographic	era	can	no	longer	be	guaranteed	as	visual	truth	—	or	even	as	signifiers	with	stable	meaning	and	value"	-	the	problematic	part	of	the	sentence	is	that	"no	longer"	-	as	if	photographs	had	ever	been	guaranteed	truths,	or	had	stable,	incontestable	meanings.		In	my	view,	theories	of	the	digital	have	a	tendency	to	exaggerate	the	break	between		digital	and	analogue	and	to	assume	that	all	photography	prior	to	the	digital	image	can	be	lumped	together	as	one	medium,	one	technology	and	one	set	of	practices.	I	want	to	give	some	perspective,	to	temper	a	little	this	notion	of	a	dramatic	historical	rupture,	and	to	complicate	the	notion	of	photographic	representation.			I	do	not	dispute	that	photographs	can	be	traces	of	the	real,	that	they	can	be	about	the	"having	-been-there"	of	an	object,	that	they	represent	things	in	the	world,	nor	that	they	can	possess	relatively	stable	significance.	Rather,	what	I	dispute	is	the	idea	that	this	is	an	adequate	characterisation	of	the	analogue	chemical	image,	against	which	to	contrast	a	new	kind	of	digital	networked	image.		 	I	am	going		to	use	1930s	American	documentary	photographs,	by	John	Gutmann,	Walker	Evans	and	Helen	Levitt,	to	rethink	the	assumptions	about	analogue,	chemical	photography	implicit	in	these	theories.	I	will	start	with	the	most	famous	of	the	three	photographs	I	want	to	discuss	here,	which	is	the	only	one	which	is	not	an	"urban"	photograph:		 3 	This	is	Walker	Evans,	Kitchen	Wall	in	Bud	Field's	Home,	Hale	County,	Alabama,	1936.	It	was	taken	as	part	of	Evans’	work	with	the	writer	James	Agee	on	the	project	of	photographing	Alabama	sharecroppers	and	their	homes,	a	project	which	resulted	in	the	1941	book	Now	Let	Us	Praise	Famous	Men.	Evans	rejected	humanist,	sentimental	documentary	for	an	attention	to	surface	and	wear	and	tear	—	not	only	on	the	faces	of	his	subjects	but	on	the	physical	objects	that	surround	them,	especially	the	wood	walls	of	their	dwellings.	Agee	too	focussed	excessively	on	this	wood	in	his	text,	writing,	for	example:		"wherever	the	weathers	of	the	years	have	handled	it,	the	wood	of	the	whole	of	this	house	shines	with	the	noble	gentleness	of	cherished	silver"		"the	great	and	handsome	scars	of	this	vertical	and	prostate	wood"		In	Evans	photograph,	as	in	Agee's	text,	wood	is	attended	to	in	extreme	detail,	in	all	its	materiality	and	physical	presence,	and	yet	at	the	same	time	it	stands	for	something	other	than	itself,	representing	the	lives	of	the	sharecroppers..	In	other	words,	in	the	photograph	and	in	the	text,	distressed	or	weather-worn	wood	is	simultaneously	literal	and	metaphorical.			I	have	deliberately	chosen	this	photograph	because	it	shares	several	qualities	with	the	other	two	photographs	I	am	going	to	discuss:	first	of	all,	it	is	the	image	of	a	surface	parallel	to	the	camera	lens,	there	is	only	a	shallow	depth	and	very	little	sense	of	perspectival	space.	It	is	a	compressed,	flattened,	self-consciously	modern	rendering	of	pictorial	space.	It	is	attentive	 4 to	material	detail,	yet	it	seems	to	be	"about"	something	other	than	what	it	is	"of".	As	part	of	the	book	Now	Let	Us	Praise	Famous	Men,	it	is	also	part	of	a	new	kind	of	American	documentary	realism.	In	a	1988	essay	on	this	book,	TV	Reed	wrote:		"Written	near	the	end	of	the	thirties	when	the	vast	mound	of	documentation	seemed	to	have	buried	reality	rather	than	to	have	clarified	it,	Praise	embodies	the	proposition	that	representational	systems	are	always	inadequate,	always	miss	the	real,	but	that	this	inevitable	inadequacy	calls	for	greater	aesthetic-political	reflexivity	and	commitment	rather	than	abandonment	of	the	attempt	to	imagine	the	real."	(Reed	156)		He	also	says	that	the	book	is	"fuelled	by	fury"	against	the	documentary	genre	that	claimed	to	give	readers	and	viewers	a	direct	access	to	the	real,	especially	to	the	reality	of	the	impoverished	and	underprivileged.	This	photograph,		in	other	words,	is	part	of	a	kind	of	anti-documentary	(or	reflexive	documentary)	practice	that	attempts	to	challenge	the	notion	of	representation	as	a	means	of	direct	access	to	the	real.			The	second	photograph	I	want	to	turn	to	is	from	the	same	year	(or	possibly	the	following	year	-	the	date	is	a	little	uncertain).	It	is	John	Gutmann's,	We	Are	Here	But	Where	Are	You?	taken	in	San	Francisco,	in	either	1936	or	1937.		Unlike	the	Walker	Evans	photograph,	the	image	is	completely	flat:	there	is	no	scene,	no	depth,	though	there	is	texture.	In	this	respect,	it	veers	towards	pure	reproduction,	like	a	photograph	of	a	painting,	or	Xerox	copy	of	a	written	text.	This	is	a	photograph	that	almost	completely	erases	itself	as	photograph	and	presents	itself	as	just	a	text	or	surface	to	be	read.	In	terms	of	depiction,	it	offers	nothing	but	boards	blocking	any	kind	of	scenic	view.	 5 Indeed	it	is	hard	to	know	whether	this	is	a	horizontal	or	vertical	surface	and	there	are	no	clues	to	help	the	viewer	mentally	organise	the	picture	into	a	scene.			Like	Evans,	Guttmann	is	attentive	toward	the	grain	of	the	wood,	but	the	boards	are	not	just	scrawled	on	but	stabbed,	burned	or	shot,	peppered	with	tiny	marks.	As	with	the	accidental	traces	of	cooking	in	Evans	photograph,	the	whole	surface	is	the	result	of	human	activity.	And	yet,	there	is	no-one	and	almost	no-thing	in	this	image:	“We	are	here”	it	says,	but	no-one	is	visible.	The	question	"where	are	you"?	is	clearly	written	for	the	absent		addressees,	Sophie	and	Mae,	but	it	also	implicates	“you”,	the	reader-viewer,	raising	the	question	of	where	you	(or	Gutmann	)	are	standing.	We	are	given	a	date	that	Sophie	and	Mae	were	present	but,	at	the	point	when	the	photograph	is	taken	and	at	the	point	when	it	is	being	viewed,	they	are	gone.	The	photograph	is	not	simply	a	trace	of	the	past,	but	a	trace	of	a	trace	of	the	past:	and	while	we	can	safely	assume	the	message	is	no	longer	still	"live"	eighty	years	later,	it	is	unclear	whether	it	was	already	a	dead	letter,	a	defunct	piece	of	communication	at	the	point	when	Gutmann	took	the	photograph.			As	with	Evans'	photo,	this	photograph	has	a	content	that	is	not	present	in	the	picture.	These	marks,	these	boards,	this	writing	all	suggest	a	story	of	loss	and	displacement,	consistent	with	the	dust-bowl	and	the	great	migration	of	this	period.	Arguably,	this	is	a	portrayal	of	a	new	kind	of	American	experience	of	internal	migration	and	separation.			The	image	draws	us	into	a	conversation,	in	which	we,	like	Gutmann,	are	interlopers	or	eavesdroppers.	This	is	a	story	of	everyday	missed	encounters	and	frustrations,	suggested	not	just	by	the	legible	text	but	also	by	the	crossings-out,	and	the	other	marks.		 6 	The	photograph	does	not	(as	pre-digital	snapshots	did)	say		flatly	“I	(or	it)	was	here”,		or	in	the	case	of	mobile	phone	images	"here	I	am,	now".		It	differentiates	itself	from	both	the	snapshot	and	the	realist	documentary	image	by	refusing	to	be	what	Roland	Barthes	termed	a	"certificate	of	presence".	It	deals	not	only	with	what	is	before	the	camera,	but	in	what	is	not	there,	what	has	slipped	from	view.	It	represents	something	both	immediate	and	proximate	and	at	the	same	time,	out	of	reach,	ungraspable.			I	am	going	to	end	with	one	final	image:	an	untitled	photograph	by	Helen	Levitt,	taken	in	New	York	1938-1940.	At	first	sight,	this	photograph	of	the	chalk	inscription	“Button	to	Secret	Passage	Press”	might	be	read	as	about	the	creative	imagination	of	the	child,	particularly	in	the	context	of	Levitt’s	wider	work,	and	her	interest	in	children	and	in	their	use	of	New	York	urban	space	as	a	space	for	play.	But	we	can	also	read	it	as	a	reflection	on	the	act	of	taking	a	photograph.		As	with	Gutmann’s	photograph,	we	are	presented	this	text	at	the	expense	of	a	scene.	We	face	the	stone	wall	of	a	building,	on	which	chalked	writing	implies	another	world	beneath	or	behind	this	barrier.	The	drawn	button	suggests	a	kind	of	magic,	in	which	something	becomes	real	simply	by	its	being	depicted.	In	the	nineteenth	century	photography	had	lent	itself	to	magic	and	spiritualism	because	of	its	capacity	to	conjur	into	presence	that	which	was	not	physically	present.	Button	pressing	too	is	a	kind	of	modern	magic.	Push-buttons	set	off	a	chain	of	events	that	have	no	direct	relationship	with	the	fingertip	action	of	pressing	them.	They	are	associated	with	a	kind	of	capriciousness	and	irresponsibility,	as	well	as	with	a	sense	of	power.	On	the	one	hand	we	have	the	human	freedom	to	press	the	button,	a	 7 gesture	that	requires	no	skill	at	all,	on	the	other	a	program,	a	black-boxed	sequence	of	events,	over	which	the	button-presser	has	no	control.			The	button	on	the	camera	which	sets	off	the	shutter	opens	the	way	to	a	secret	passage	which	is	the	image.	There	are	two	ways	of	thinking	about	photography:	one	which	says	the	camera	is	a	positivist	tool,	which	can	depict	only	that	which	is	placed	before	it,	can	only	skim	the	surfaces	of	things;	and	another	which	sees	the	camera	as	penetrating	beneath	the	surface	of	things,	revealing	an	'optical	unconscious'	(Walter	Benjamin	would	say	it	is	capable	of	both	of	these,	simultaneously).			Positivism	asserts	that	there	are	no	hidden	depths,	no	dark	places	inaccessible	to	human	knowledge	or	to	science:	all	it	knows	is	surface.	The	street	tells	us	otherwise:	a	place	of	marks	and	runes,	of	messages	that	are	not	for	us	and	passages	we	cannot	enter.	It	marks	the	borders	of	private	and	public	space.	This	is	where	we	can	link	the	idea	of	a	photography	that	does	not	straightforwardly	represent	back	to	the	theme	of	urban	encounters:	for	what	we	encounter	on	the	street	is	not	all	surface:	there	are	doors,	entrances,	secret	passages	to	inside-worlds	and	underworlds.	The	street,	the	exterior	space	of	the	city,	always	points	elsewhere,	inside,	to	what	is	concealed	and	off-limits.	Photography	can	do	this	too.			One	argument	is	that	what	is	off	-limits	and	out	of	scene	is	a	social	reality	that	the	photograph	fails	to	penetrate:		big	data,	complex	algorithms,	the	machinations	that	produce	the	visual	image.	Another	argument	(mine)	is	that	the	photograph	has	always	had	and,	still	has,	the	potential		to	depict	what	is	not	before	it:	that	representation	has	never	been	simply	a	matter	of	traces	of	past	moments	and	events.	 8 	We	find	ourselves	now	in	a	period	where	"the	vast	mound	of	documentation	seemed	to	have	buried	reality	rather	than	to	have	clarified	it"	as	TV	Reed	puts	it	in	the	earlier	quote.	Digital	culture	theorists	point	to	what	else	this	process	of	incessant	documentation	is	producing		—	they	suggest	what	is	at	stake	here	is	not	what	is	depicted	but	what	happens	in	the	process	of	taking	and	circulating	the	image,	what	kind	of	data	is	being	accrued	and	exchanged.	This	is	important,	but	to	take	our	eye	off	representation,	to	abandon	the	visual	as	mere	surface	manifestation,	is	to	develop	another	blind-spot,		this	time	towards	the	making	and	reading	of	nuanced	and	complex	representations	of	our	own	reality.	In	opening	one	secret	passage,	we	might	take	care	not	to	close	another.					

We are here but where are you?

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