When I was in college I shot a photo of a man who was part owner of the very chi-chi boutique next to the camera shop where I worked. It was as close to Vogue magazine as your were going to get in 1988 Madison, WI.
Nice guy. Very flaming. Always good for a cigarette or a world-weary sympathy when you needed it.
It wasn’t much of a photo, just him giving me a probably-drunk smartass smile in an IHOP.
About a week later he was brutally murdered.
He had, apparently, so many stab wounds in his chest that they couldn’t really get an accurate count.
So I ended up making a lot of prints for his friends. Everyone agreed that it was not -by a longshot – the most flattering photo of him. But it was him being the him they had loved.
I always wonder at the significance of a photograph in someone’s life. Often it’s the only physical trace someone has of a person they lost.
I’ve been photographing gun parts, flags, and a dilapidated bible I found in the street. And other things that, well, just ‘feel’ like they belong in this set. What interests me about these objects is that they convey power beyond well what they can actually do. Which is probably a good working definition of a fetish.
For example, when Donald Trump is photographed holding a bible, it’s not to mean that he adheres to the teachings inside. Or even that he reads it. What it means is that he can wield the power of this magical object. Similarly, our obsession with guns in America (and I say this as a lifelong gun nut) goes way beyond physical protection. We still believe in magical objects.
Photos like this, from an album I found in a Goodwill in Iowa City, kind of have a magic of their own. Smaller scale, but enough to matter to someone. Enough to be the thing they treasure most. What attracted me to this shot is how inconsequential a moment it is. I wonder who these two were to the person who compiled the album. And how this album ended up in a pile of unwanted books.