Maiden Voyage - Files for Article
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Photographers never kill themselves. Diane Arbus? Francesca Woodman? There are unstable joists in any floor. Kevin Carter? War photographers don’t count. Now, poets, they kill themselves. Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Swinburne, Raymond Roussel, Hart Crane, Paul Celan, Hai Zi, Richard Brautigan, Mishima, Mayakovsky, John Berryman…I’m just getting started here. It’s a workplace hazard for poets, not so for photographers. So, why? Photography and poetry are intricately linked. They are the occasional mediums, the ones you break out when something important happens in your life, when you’ve got to elegize or enrapture. They are short forms, the ones you make quickly to stay close to the moment of inspiration. You can fit lots of them in one book. So, why are photographers so sane?

I think it’s about the outer world. Photographers, no matter how contrived their pictures, are connected to what happens outside them. No matter how soulful their work is, how personal, how dire, they can only make work by opening the shutter and letting in the light. Poets need pencils but mostly they’re in their own minds and hearts and throats, and it can get lonely in there. There is no inner peace, there is only connectedness.

Amiko Li’s Maiden Voyage is a probe, sent to the limits of photographic connectedness. The pictures form a diary. How else to link this set of portraits, self-portraits, discovered still lives, florid fragments, sets for inevitable rendezvous? Of course every set of photographs is the diary of the one who pressed the shutter, the marker of the maker. And there is no way to define diary, really. Is it Anne Frank, Anais Nin, or my childhood friend, Ian McGaughey, who rated each day on a scale of 1-3, while always noting the weather? Gertrude Stein wrote a poem called “A Diary” but never kept a diary.

A diary of the clock not having been not wound. A diary also of adaptability. Also a diary. What is a diary to be. A diary is to be a diary of when this you see be all to me.”

Maiden Voyage is moving because, like Stein’s poem, it refuses to bow to the squeal of the author’s inner world. Stein holds on to the slithering tail of language as it just eludes cognitive grasp. Amiko Li draws together images that are strummed on the harp of one sharp-eared young romantic artist, but whose meaning together builds odd harmonic overtones as images pile up. This book is the diary of a vision of the world, not of a person. It is the self-portrayal of a seer.

The best photographic books flicker in this manner. Individual photographs insist. Groups of photographs overwrite each other, reflect odd colors in each other’s highlights, draw flavors through the stew, sow doubt. The best photographic books—Walker Evans’ American Photographs, Robert Frank’s The Americans, Mike Mandel and Larry Sultan’s Evidence—have so much faith in the voluble clarity and total edge-to-edge fullness of any one image, that they allow pairs and sets and flushes of images to shear away from each other like ice bergs calving off a confident blue glacier.

Amiko Li is not a fashion photographer, but he photographs the dreams of a fashion photographer. The big, gaudy gulps of light he swigs in each image wash over wispy young figures, who all seem to be lying around waiting for the gaffers and grips to set a key light. It is hard to describe the emotions on the faces of the young, wispy figures, who, after the fashion of fashion models, are paid to not emote. But something always gets in the way of the pointedness of a fashion shoot. Odd, out of focus blossoms occlude the girl, or she’s half way out of the frame. The script supervisor is accidentally still on the set. The camera has fallen into the wildflowers. There are emus in the zone. The fashion photographer wakes up to find the crew raptured into a less perfect world, the one we love for its exquisite flaws.

Photographers rarely kill themselves because the flaws are exquisite and they refuse to stay stuck inside a silly old artist sitting there. The flaws flow between the glowy outer world and the artist ruddy in pursuit. They recline in the shutter and nap while the sun falls into place and the soul roils. Photographs like Amiko Li’s—gilded tableaux of pure delightful uncertainty, compass roses of uncertain delight—hold tight to life in its brightest corridor, the overt darkness of the camera’s eye.

Tim Davis received his B.A. from Bard College and his M.F.A. from Yale University. His writings are published in catalog essays and magazines such as Cabinet, Bomb, Aperture and Blind Spot. His work is in the collections of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Whitney Museum of American Art, The Guggenheim Museum, and The Walker Art Center, among many others. He was awarded the Rome Prize from the American Academy in Rome in 2007.

He currently teaches in the photography program at Bard College.