Certain spatial fears seem endemic to the modern metropolis, and Los Angeles
defines this term in ways that no other American city can approximate.
This amorphous skein of strip malls, gated developments, highway entrances
and exit ramps, lays unfurled over the landscape like a sheet over a
cadaver. Surely the earth is dead beneath the sheer weight and breadth
of this built form?
In this series from Los Angeles, I am using images that underscore the cyborg nature of the city and its environs as a way to explore a kind of contemporary oblivion, a series of sites that are both place and non-place. Themes of development as a kind of self-generating, self-replicating force that exists outside of nature are encoded in these images, which view Los Angeles as both a specific site and as a more generalized condition. The inversion of tonalities in these works is a simple act that defamiliarizes the images. It also subtly refers to other ways of imaging- like the X-Ray, which sees within the structure of an organism or body- or other modes of seeing – like the flickering negative images in an atomic blast, when the shadow world is revealed and released.
In its frenzy to expand, the city creates topographies of alienation, fear, and despair. Indeed, Los Angeles is emblematic of an idea of modern space that is linked to an increasing sense of collective societal anxiety. The invention of radical concepts of urban space was a theme central to the early twentieth century avant-garde, who called for modernity to escape from the constraints of history. We now know, in ways once thought unimaginable, that we cannot escape history. These aerial images describe a potentially desecrated urban fabric, even as they transcribe the commonplace. Indeed, in the post-9/11 age we now occupy, chaos and catastrophe seem implicit in the urban aerial view. To surveil and record the city from the air seems nearly to approach an act of civil disobedience. The images cannot help but serve as portent or prophesy of some future conflagration.
Is this the reason for the unease, the hint of claustrophobia and synesthetic terror that these pictures elicit? Or is it the endlessness of the expanse, the multiplying nothingness that fills frame after frame, the city metastasizing ceaselessly, which causes a sense of rising dread?
Our perceptions are contingent on the positions our bodies occupy in space. The sculptor Gordon Matta-Clark split open the domestic structure of the home, peeled it apart and let us occupy the void he created. For those making their homes within the urban galaxy of Los Angeles, an entity with neither limit nor center, is there any space remaining that can serve as psychological refuge or sanctuary? From above, in these aerial views, we see encrypted within the city’s code the elements of our own vulnerability: an oblivion that is at once stately, magnificent, and potentially lethal. How do the city’s inhabitants adapt to these aspects of the modern metropolis? As Mike Davis writes in City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles, “social anxiety…is just the maladjustment to change. But who has anticipated, or adjusted to, the scale of change in Southern California in the last fifteen years?”
The urban dweller of Southern California now exists in what Davis terms the fastest growing metropolis in the western world, “with a built-up surface area nearly the size of Ireland, and a GNP bigger than India’s.” Left to navigate this terrain of anxiety and estrangement, with a pattern of urbanization the critic Peter Plagens calls “the ecology of evil,” the citizen of this alien landscape may begin to ponder some of the elemental design questions of our time…Where is home? Where is our safe haven? How can we move towards such a place? Perhaps by forming such questions, we can begin to imagine the process of creating their answers. In the interim, these images imply an incessant search for sanctuary that never ends.
Editor's Note: You can see more photography by David Maisel, and listen to a great audio interview with him, in this earlier feature from LensCulture.
Aiming to convey "an emotional experience of space," Murray Fredericks describes an inner, rather than outer landscape, at the heart of Greenland's Ice Sheet.
Light pierces the darkness on the surface of the North Sea; tossed by the waves, pencil-thin beams of light reveal the Earth's natural creativity.
Hidden amidst the groves of these ancient trees (some as old as 4,000 years!), one finds a perfectly weathered beauty—and a hope that we can discover better ways to live harmoniously with our environment.