From Social Media to Action

John Haber
in New York City

Perpetual Revolution, Richard Mosse, and Yoan Capote

And here you thought the Woman's March on Washington was a triumph. There and across the nation, it dwarfed the presidential inauguration only the day before and caught Donald J. Trump in yet another lie about his support. But so what? Big numbers come easily these days, a scholar objects—and they mean nothing without a follow-up to translate enthusiasm into votes.

Disappointed? Blame it on the Internet. Sure, an associate professor at the University of North Carolina argues, it can pull people together fast—much as people came together at airports to protest Trump's turning them and countless others away. By the same token, though, earlier demonstrations look that much more impressive. If marches of the civil rights era were smaller, they took months of planning and years of vision. No wonder they live on in memory and in legislation. Sergey Ponomarev's Migrants Escorted to Slovenian Registration Camp (New York Times, 2015)

Maybe, or maybe Zeynep Tufekcim, writing in The New York Times this winter, has it backward. What if the numbers confirm that social media can direct action? What if technology can create a "perpetual revolution"? A show of that very name makes the case at the International Center of Photography. With well over one hundred examples, almost all of which take watching, it proves as overwhelming and thought-provoking as its subject. It also has a discomforting lack of ICP's heart in photography and of new media as art. It feels far less heart-rending, transformative, or even new media than photographs of refugees by Richard Moss—also a subject of paintings by Yoan Capote.

Journalism as Twitter feed

"Perpetual Revolution" still believes in marches. Its first room, devoted to climate change, includes images of the 2014 People's Climate March, in a "time line" by Rachel Schragis. It documents a clash with protestors at the Dakota Access Pipeline, in footage from Democracy Now! Yet its real interest lies not in feet on the ground, but in changing minds online and off. Here the medium is indeed the message: new forms of "production, display, and distribution," the show explains, "are simultaneously both reporting and producing . . . epic social and political transformations."

Subtitled "The Image and Social Change," the exhibition opens with a glorious example of both. Earthrise, from the Apollo 8 mission of 1968, shows the planet as a precious blue haven in a larger universe. It was no longer humanity's alone to exploit or to lose. The room also includes videos of climate data, also from NASA, and of sea-level rise and methane leaks, both from activist groups. Even the show's few artists mostly recycle the news. Apparently the revolution will be televised after all, and you can watch it on your cell phone.

But what revolution, apart from the digital? The show has rooms for six, each with its own curators in conjunction with Carol Squiers and Cynthia Young. The revolutions can change lives for the better and widen communities, as with gender issues and Black Lives Matter. They can also, be warned, narrow minds and do serious damage, as with the Islamic State and the "alt-right." As for the first two rooms, for climate awareness and the refugee crisis, the revolution is still underway, and the jury on its success is still out. Within a room, the arrangement pays little attention to chronology, no more than the latest Twitter feed.

The show does, though, have a trajectory. It moves from data, as with temperature and sea levels, to propaganda, becoming more resolutely update along the way. It also leaves the creative act further and further behind. The first room has a chilling vision of arctic ice. James Balog compares the loss of ice to the breaking up of an entire city. But Mel Chin then captures his attendance at a UN climate conference in Paris, at the risk of falling into solipsism at the expense of politics or the planet.

The risk only grows in the course of the exhibition, as the reliance on photojournalism or art falls away. The second room has the most vivid installation, a relief map in white dotted with digital clutter and, at times, broken by a child asleep in Syria, meant by Hakan Topal as an echo of a drowned child on a beach in Turkey. It also has the first of two walls for photos from the collection—here of an earlier crisis, that of Jews fleeing Nazi Germany. Classics by Robert Capa, Chim, and Ruth Gruber serve as a reminder that the British returned the refugees to Germany and to their doom. Clips today pale in comparison—even one of migrants subject to Slovenian riot police, by Sergey Ponomarev for The Times. Yet the room also insists on its dedication to the new, and here that means people preoccupied with themselves.

Thair Orfahli landed in Italy with nothing but a law degree, his phone, and, one presumes, a charger. At least it sufficed for a video record of his life leading up to and in exile. For all his remarkable story, it only underscores how often social media, selfies, and happy endings go together. They do so again on the theme of gender fluidity—a fast-paced mix of magazine covers, the evening news, music videos, and Instagram. These people strut their stuff, with the implication that this alone embodies a revolution, quite apart from human particulars, feminism, and gay rights. LGBT art becomes prouder and more sympathetic, but also as much an acronym as a life.

In perpetua

The room for Black Lives Matter moves more quickly still, in a wall of thirty monitors by thewayblackmachine, a collective. Projections by Sheila Pree Bright make similar use of found footage. The room also has the show's second wall for context, with photographs from the 1960s. Gordon Parks lends dignity to Malcolm X, Stokely Carmichael, and a charwoman in the Capitol building. She poses in front of the American flag like a Civil War enactor, but with her broom in place of a rifle. Even the horrible deaths on videocam come across as less epic, because they dwell on what one knows.

Images of the alt-right are more cartoonish, like the movement itself, although bear in mind that the right-wing mindset takes root less online than on TV, with Fox and Breitbart. They include Trump's post of Hillary Clinton ("Most Corrupt Candidate Ever!") with a Jewish star—and of course that surly frog. The most revealing section, though, leaves behind the familiar for the Islamic State. It, too, allows its subjects to present themselves, to the point that it has to post something of a disclaimer. (This, the curators explain, is not a traditional museum exhibition, but a study center.) Alarmingly, they do it often and well.

Alfred Stieglitz's The Steerage (Jewish Museum, 1907)The videos include a "reeducation" center and demands for ransom, but mostly tools for recruitment. They may focus on a single charismatic figure, such as an American convert, or a theme, in Arabic or English. One boasts of the movement's medical facilities, one of feeding the people. Another replays the 9/11 attack as the "first blow against the satanic financial empire." They may be slick or amateurish, but then so is the Web. The show itself might insist on just that, as essential to the revolution.

You say you want a revolution? Be careful what you wish for. You may find a greater autonomy—much as an interactive slideshow in the museum's lobby lets you flip through over three thousand more images, as Unwavering Vision. Then again, you may find yourself trapped in a world of Facebook and Instagram, unable to look up from your phone. You may find yourself, too, judging by the show's themes, a stereotypic East Coast liberal, too, caring more about identity politics than economic or political change. Then again, you may find yourself dying to set aside social media in order to march.

Does it even make sense to speak of perpetual revolution? V. I. Lenin's promise of a "permanent revolution" in Russia did not work out so well either. Then, too, surely a perpetual revolution would take time, starting in the past. For "Public, Private, Secret," ICP's opening in its new location on the Bowery, it integrated surveillance footage with its collection—to boast of an older institution's relevance for a new generation. Here its images pay little attention to traditional sources. Even the walls for photos, hung Salon style with captions off to the side, amount to photo collage.

Photography has had a greater role in political change than appears here. A room for refugee crises could have extended to Alfred Stieglitz's The Steerage, the Middle East of Stephen Shore, the Caribbean diaspora, an airport for Naeem Mohaiemen, or "This Place" in Brooklyn—even without the fences by Ai Weiwei around New York. The prison population as seen by Danny Lyon anticipates Black Lives Matter and then some. Gender fluidity has occupied photography from Hans Bellmer to Cindy Sherman and beyond. Somehow a brilliant show has a short attention span. Trump might feel right at home.

Feeling the heat

Many on the right, in Europe and America, wish that refugees would just go away. Many would like to make their suffering invisible to human eyes as well. No matter, for Richard Mosse has found a way to see what the naked eye cannot. His last exhibition turned outdated infrared film into high-definition video that gave civil war in Africa a surreal color and supernatural beauty. Now he turns instead to the latest thing, in both his medium and world events. He adopts military technology to photographs of refugee camps.

They have none of the temptations of a seemingly untouched nature, in Africa's waterfalls and trees. Here even the seas bordering on camps have the choppy grays of paving tar or hard stone. They have few, too, of the close encounters that gave civil warriors a brutal humanity. Mosse sees the camps from the air, in panoramas that seem constrained horizontally only by gallery walls. This film can capture detail at over thirty kilometers, or nearly twenty miles. By comparison, he points out, the horizon itself drops away far sooner. from Richard Mosse's The Enclave (Jack Shainman gallery, 2013)

The film can do so with an uncanny crispness, thanks to exposure times of up to forty minutes. The prints, which look much like photographic negatives in black and white, dare one to count the bodies or the fences. They give closely packed shelters, cars, and military vehicles a ghostly sheen. Early photography, too, needed long exposures, emptying Paris streets because people do not sit still. Here, as for Thomas Struth or Katherine Newbegin, film accentuates the masses and their immobility. It calls to mind, too, the obstacles barring movement in or of the camps, to safety or freedom.

Smaller accompanying photos allow for greater action, but only barely. All are displays of virtuosity since Mosse, after all, has only human eyes until he is done. (He says that he often has to discard the results, although he is getting the hang of the medium after two years.) He calls the work "Heat Maps," after the film's original purpose. That, too, calls attention to flesh and blood that others would rather forget, but almost everything here seems to give off heat. Humanity is itself in question.

"Insecurities" at MoMA displayed the barest of comforts that international organizations can bring to the camps. So does "Perpetual Revolution" with its mix of photojournalism and social media. Julio Bittencourt has, more poignantly, applied ordinary photography to the South American dispossessed. Yoan Capote looks again across the Gulf from Cuba, in paintings of sunlit crossings and stormy seas. Their surfaces of oil and black fishhooks pack a triple dose of native culture, photorealism, and treachery. His mix of hopes and fears emerges in title from Cold Memories to Luminous Future—and in the space between political art, landscape, and abstraction.

Each artist is recovering lives, while also questioning those who place lives in danger. For Mosse, the latest means do not require an indifference to the ordinary. Rather, he starts with the unseen. For Mosse, the latest means do not require an indifference to the ordinary. Rather, he starts with the unseen and renders it unfamiliar. A print's very distance from its subject adds to the presence and the chill. For now, Trump threatens to throw diplomacy and refugees to the winds. Art and technology are already feeling the heat.

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"Perpetual Revolution" ran at the International Center of Photography through May 7, 2017, Richard Mosse and Yoan Capote at Jack Shainman through March 11.


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