Abelardo Morell

Abelardo MorellPhotographer Abelardo Morell was born in Cuba in 1948 and grew up in New York City and attended Bowdin College
and Yale University. His photographs have been exhibited and collected
by major museums around the world including the Museum of Modern
Art, the Whitney Museum of Modern Art, the Metropolitan Museum of
Art and the Art Institute of Chicago. He has published a number
of books including Abelardo Morell and the Camera Eye, Camera
in a Room, Face to Face: Photographs at the Gardner Museum, Alices's
Adventures in Wonderland
and most recently A Book of Books
(with a preface by Nicholson
). Abelardo Morell received a Guggenheim Fellowship in
1993 and is a professor at the Massachusetts College of Art. He
is represented by the Bonni Benrubi Gallery in New York City, and
he and his family live in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Robert Birnbaum: Looking at
your book, The Book of Books, I thought about the dichotomy
of a visual culture and a literary culture and how we are always
being told that we live in a visual culture. That's puzzling to
me because I can't see how you can have pictures without words being

Abelardo Morell: Right, right.
Actually there is an interesting tradition of important photographic
books like Robert Frank's The Americans, which had a very
short poetic [Jack] Kerouac text, not really explaining the pictures
at all, and Walker Evans' American Photographs, which, when
it came out, had no words—zero words. There has been that kind
of backlash of artists trying to take claim over the language of
the visual without the support of words—apart and being considered
on its own merits. I like the idea that images alone can carry it
all. But I think you are right, the appetite for visual stuff is
somewhat perverse now because it assumes that there is no intellectual
appetite at the same time. It's this weird "swallow it fast" and
pay now. I think a lot about language. The idea of how things are
communicated and that's one of my interests in books, the surface
that communicates ideas and stories and all that. In some ways,
I am trying to integrate the two. I even have a close-up of a page
of A Tale Of Two Cities and A Farewell to Arms to
try to get a visual equivalent of what it is to read or to have
words be significant.

RB: One image in the book that
jumped out at me was the photograph of a page of raised type, which
was a text for blind people. It wasn't Braille.

AM: Embossed letters. That's an interesting
book because it was done in 1841. At one point blind people were
asked to read by feeling real words embossed, physically raised.
It was a difficult thing to do. Louis Braille had actually invented
the system of Braille in 1827 or so. So Braille was actually competing
with this other system. Eventually Braille did win because…

RB: Because blind people could actually use
it. (laughs)

AM: Because blind people could use it and
it was a system that dealt with how the fingers really felt. Some
people think that the embossed letter book was made by sighted people
because they said, "Look, you should conform to our system." But
the reason I love that book is because in reality you have words
becoming this physical landscape, and I do sometimes want to feel
that words were born in nature, not made up. This is part of my
attempt to picture that.

RB: Is that the sentiment that I should get
from your remarks in the afterward of the book about the space between
the book and the picture of the book?

AM: I said something like, "The magic
of these objects lies between the photograph of it and the book
itself." I wanted to make sure that people understood that
it was photographic language being used. And it's through that language
that the books become very interesting to me as not just old things
and reminiscence—which is the last thing I want people to feel,
is some kind of antiquarian, "oh, it isn't fun to look at the
old stuff." I want it to be alive in some new way.

RB: I must confess to you that when I first
saw the title to your book I was a little edgy about it. I was prepared
to dislike it because—in the wacky world of book collecting
and bibliophilia, the most valuable books are the books that have
never been read. They have the most monetary value for collectors.
To me, that makes them lifeless sterile objects. They are not what
a book is, they are something else. I thought that The Book of
was going to objectify books in a way that is foreign
to what they are.

AM: That's the last thing that I wanted to
do. There are some books in this book that are fairly rare and only
a few people have access to them, but most of them are fairly ordinary
books. People have read them or not. In fact, there is a photograph
(in there) of a book where I have actually drilled a big hole in
it. It's (maybe) a little bit of an attempt to say, "You know what,
I don't want to become too sacred about this." A lit bit like the
Buddhist saying, "When you see the Buddha kill him." Meaning don't
objectify the guy, it's a way of life not the thing. So that's my
big being a bad boy…

RB: There is a bookstore in Boston, the Avenue
Victor Hugo that is, sadly, closing (though it will hopefully find
a new site). One of the many wonderful things I have loved about
that store are the signs that are posted saying, "Please touch the

AM: It's what completes them. I must say
that having young kids got me back into the idea of books as these
physical things. You know, reading to kids is a very interesting
process. Where they turn the pages fast and you have to make sure
that they don't actually eat them sometimes. So it's involving the
book in a lot of senses.

RB: I know you said that you started taking
these photos in 1993, and I recognize at least one from your artist-in-residency
at the Gardner Museum in 1998, but I am not clear when you decided
to do this book. Did you decide because you had a number of pictures
of books…tell me how the book came about.

AM: I am glad that I didn't decide to do
a Book of Books early on. Because then you start behaving or choosing
things that will fit the book. I didn't start thinking about it
until '99. I met with this editor Michael Sand and I had enough.
I had a box of prints of books and then they rearranged themselves
in some kind of book idea. I just work for a long time on something,
and then if it's a book, it's a book. The first one that I made
of a book that I liked a lot is from '87 when my son was one. And
it's a children's book and that was fun. It wasn't until '93 that
I picked it up again. It was just a Brookline Public Library book
of El Greco. Just a regular book. I like looking at art books. You
know how everyone sees these reflections on a page and they are
interesting so I decided to make a photograph of that effect. It
was so beautiful I thought, "Let's do more." It really was one of
those terrific moments where it just struck me that the surface
of this page had a lot of beauty and why not make a picture of the
effect and when I printed it just felt like a no-brainer. Books
have physicality and lots of meaning beyond their texts. So I began
to make pictures on purpose about books. I went to the Athenaeum
here in Boston and I got myself to be an artist-in-residence with
access to books and I would go there two or three days a week.

The appetite for visual stuff is somewhat perverse now because it assumes that there is no intellectual appetite at the same time. It’s this weird “swallow it fast” and pay now.

RB: You got yourself?

AM: Well, there was no official program at
that point. I knew people there and after a couple of weeks I was
artist-in-residence. (both laugh)

RB: Sounds like artist-in-squatting.

AM: Yes, a more high class squatting. A wonderful
man named Michael Wentworth (who recently died unexpectedly) really
dug my project. I had a small office and a couple of lights and
I would find books or they would bring books to me. It was amazing.
You know, librarians get very interesting when you show interest
in their stuff.

RB: I wonder what it is about this subspecies
of humans—writers, librarians, readers, a photographer—who
is a bibliophile—that have this great love for books?

AM: This obsession…

RB: In a way that clearly marks them. Somehow
not like other enthusiasms, devotions, or hobbies.

AM: They think a lot about books and first
editions. There could be worse subgroups. These people actually
often read these things. They keep the ideas alive.

RB: Collectors do fit in there and they are
people who do in fact objectify books. I am talking also about people
for whom reading is such an elemental activity like eating and sleeping.

AM: I read but I have to confess I don't
have the time to read a lot. Or I can't. But I am jealous of people
like that. I was reading something about [Harold] Bloom, the Yale
scholar, in this profile in The New Yorker. He spends hours
and hours and hours just reading. That's what he does. When I was
a kid—I grew up in a working class environment—some fun
is made of people like that. Like these people don't make a living.
They don't really work hard, with their hands. But now I have a
different mind about this. They are working. They are definitely
working and in a different way than us. I am envious of people who
can in a prolonged way really work at books, work at reading. Like
philosophers, working hard at thinking about something. That's tough.
If I have 15 seconds in my mind that I can string a couple of ideas
together enough to try to make a picture of it, I feel good.

RB: I think Bertrand Russell said something
about if you were able to get one minute of thinking done in a day,
you were accomplished. But you are correct about the cultural undervaluation
of intellectual activity. I hear this idea of intellectual capitol
made into some business school buzzword…

AM: In politics as well.

RB: One never hears the phrase ‘intellectual
labor', which creates the capitol.

AM: Part of the disparaging sense that people
have about readers or writers is that they don't know anything about
the world, all they know is the world of books—which is not
real. I think that's bullshit. There is a lot of stuff that goes
on in reading where thinking about it puts you in touch with it.
But, it does help to go and see a tree or something.

RB: The world that book people are allegedly
out of touch with is the world as shown by Fox News and CNN.

AM: Which is a strange illusion of stability
or the continuity of history. Anyway, reading about Harold Bloom,
I was jealous about him sitting there reading his Dante. In a way,
photography has been my way of thinking, putting some thoughts together
in a stretch—enough to make the picture ask questions, philosophical
questions about the world. I think Wallace Stevens said something
about writing well is the same as seeing well. There is equivalence
in precise language or good language that can be visual or musical
or in words.

RB: I remember working with a photographer
and I asked him if he had titles for the photos that we were working
with. And he said, "Naw, I don't like to title my work." So for
publication purposes I wanted (and did) title them "Untitled 1"
through "Untitled 6" and explained that in the context that these
pictures were going to be viewed some word connection would be helpful.
Which may be my non-sequetorial preface to asking you how you feel
about putting pictures of books into a book of pictures of books?

AM: Yeah, I like that perversity of a book
giving birth to books.

RB: It has this Borgesian labyrinthine sense.

AM: Definitely there is Borges in there.
It's like a hall of mirrors. The book reflects another book and
in a way I am trying to suggest that these things are not permanent
but shifting with meaning changes. In a few of the pictures in the
book, I photograph things like Piranese illustrations where the
book is half way open as if to suggest—more than to suggest—that
most usually the official reading of a book is when it's open and
there is a traditional way of getting the official meaning. When
they are half-opened (and half-closed) something very interesting
is happening as well. Usually we can't get information that way,
but if you open your eyes for a little bit some very interesting
images happen. Why not? And why not say that a half-open book is
as interesting as a fully open book?

Or a page of a picture book that has a magnifying glass over a part
of one of the pictures?

AM: Yeah. I am really rebelling against—maybe
rebelling is too strong a word—the standard way in which things
are supposed to be looked at. Maybe the CNN way, but it's very boring
when you are asked to see things from only one angle. It's inhuman.

RB: Yes, and artificial. Perhaps even totalitarian.

AM: Very artificial. It's a way to have information
to being digested in a very efficient way. I made a picture at the
Gardner Museum of a Velasquez painting where I put the camera almost
two inches away from the painting, looking way up, way up, at a
funny angle, as if a five-year-old was looking at it. Well, Velaquez
this skinny guy became this fat pompous interesting guy. Which is
the true version? There is the standard one but there is the Wallace
Stevens thing about thirteen ways to look at something—at a
bird, a blackbird. Yes, I am interested in this ramification of
meanings. Which is not to say that the world is like taking acid
and everything is messed up and whatever—within reality there
are some very interesting realities to be explored—and why
not? It liberates people in good ways so those things are not totally
black and white like our president is trying to suggest.

RB: Does the possibility that a photograph
may end up in a book affect the way you might shoot a picture?

AM: A photograph is a photograph. When I
am making a picture I am just interested in making a very interesting
photograph. I don't care where it's going to go. I feel like I am
in a lucky position to do whatever I want. And, if the results please,
that's fine. But I am just interested in making my own very personal
take on something interesting to others.

RB: Will you crop your photographs?

AM: No, no. The luxury of view camera is
that you can actually see in the ground glass, everything. It's
not like it's in a book and it's going to run— away with a
spoon (laughs). You can actually have a frame maybe closer, and
then you make several and then you edit later. But I don't crop.
I don't need to crop.

RB: I was recently investigating Walker Evans'
Cuban pictures and I came across the curious fact that according
to Evans there were sixty-four negatives and that the Getty Museum
holds 160 images. Clearly, Evans didn't mind cropping and augmenting
his negatives.

AM: He did that once in a while. It was not
generally his practice. It's a complicated issue because technically
many of his negatives are not in good shape. Sometimes you have
to crop around a vignetting effect. He was not a real technical
master in that sense. My sense is that he generally wanted the whole
image. There is a funny story about him having a graduate student
print a picture of his and he had an 8 x 10 negative of something.
The graduate student said, "Walker, this a 5 x 7 enlarger. It won't
fit." And the story goes that he took a pair of scissors cut the
negative and said, "Now it will fit." He didn't want to be precious
about photography in some way. Paul Strand would never have done
that. Or [Edward] Weston. He [Evans] was more into the bad boy—like,
"well let's not idolize that stuff." I don't think he would have
done that to a really great negative (laughs).

RB: I know that Evans made a really good
deal for himself in arranging to do the photos for The Crime
of Cuba
retaining the right to select what was used. I think
only thirty-two were used. And still the numbers don't add up, especially
if he was averse to cropping.

AM: I worked a little with John Hill, who
used to be head of the Walker Evans estate. I helped my parents
identify certain locations in Havana. But that's an interesting
question. I doubt that there's that much cropping going on. I think
of Evans as essentially being a fairly straight photographer.

RB: On the other hand, he is a photographer
in a nascent school of photography that crosses over between documentary
art and journalism, early in his career. So the idea that he might
augment a negative to get a certain message and not treating the
whole image as sacrosanct kind of made sense.

AM: Yeah, although he didn't want to think
of his pictures as art also because he was countering that whole
Stieglitz "we're just as good as painting" school. He wanted his
photographs to be like documents. Of course, he wanted to be an
artist but it's a strategy to get around the labels. That still
happens. Some people make pictures as if they were taken by your
little sister. Very well crafted but the illusion that there is
no conscious technique. I think Evans said something about, "photographs
are only good to the degree that the artist hides his hand."

RB: Another argument for artistic transparency.

AM: I can see the merits of that. There's
the sense that we are seeing raw reality.

RB: Maybe.

AM: In Betchor's work you can see that this
objectivity, the towers that look like no one made them, in a way.
Anyway, it's a very American tradition of art making that the idea
the ego is not involved. Passions are not involved but objectivity
and clean facts. For Walker Evans there is the sun. For Robert Frank,
a romantic from Europe, on the other hand, there's one or two pictures
in The Americans where there is sun. The rest are overcast.
This is a dark soul at work. (laughs)

RB: I guess that explains why he lives in
Nova Scotia.

AM: That's a reason for it. (laughs)

RB: How did you get into photography?

AM: I went to college at Bowdin College in
Maine. I thought I was going to be an engineer. I didn't do well
in that.

RB: You thought or you wanted to be?

AM: I thought I wanted to be. I think my
parents wanted me to be. I had gone to a pre-engineering course
in high school in New York. I was okay at it. But I wasn't really
prepared for the demands of a real college like this place in Maine.
A tough course. So I flunked physics and I took a photo class. There
are very few moments in my life when I can know decisively a change
in life and that was one of them. It was clear I had a passion and
a little bit of talent for it and it was all I wanted to do.

RB: You mean you were otherwise a normal
person until college?

AM: Well, college began a whole set of huge
transformations. I came from Cuba in '62.

RB: Directly to New York?

AM: To Miami. Then New Orleans.

RB: New Orleans?

AM: New Orleans in '62. Blacks had the back
of the bus…Oh God!

RB: Why "Oh God?"

Part of the disparaging sense that people have about readers or
writers is that they don’t know anything about the world…
I think that’s bullshit. There is a lot of stuff that
goes on in reading where thinking about it puts you in touch
with it.

AM: Just the memories. The reason we went
to New Orleans was that in Miami my father couldn't find enough
work. Things were tough in '62. The government had this relocation
program at the time. If you wanted you could go to a meeting in
some government office and we went to this place and they had—I'd
love to make a movie of this—they had maps of the US. And they
would say," What are you good at? What kind of work?" Basically
my father said he would do anything. And they said, "We have job
possibilities in these cities including Montana, LA, New York and
New Orleans." I think we knew some people in New Orleans. It was
so surreal choosing where to go, "Oh let's go there." At the time
it seemed fun. So we said New Orleans and that was really strange.
The racial politics were at their worst. It was very tense. We ended
up living in projects where very poor whites lived. So, we were
very immersed in the deepest racial extremes that this country had.
We had had no direct knowledge of what that was about but we felt
it. I mean we really felt it. Then my father got a call from a friend
in New York, who said, "I have job for you. Being a super of five
buildings." So we took a Greyhound bus to New York in '62. So in
'62 I went to high school, was learning English and someone from
Bowdin College came and said they were trying to get diversity—I'm
not sure that was the word back then—in the student body. So
they got a friend of mine from Harlem and myself. We were accepted
to Bowdin. We took a bus there and that changed everything. I was
struggling but at the same time I was beginning to liberate myself
in some interesting way—get to know the United States, have
some American friends.

RB: Did you feel a sense of release going
from the crowded city to rustic New England?

AM: Partly. Mostly, it was from my parents
and the Cuban tradition, not having access to different ways of
life. I began to freak out in some ways. I began to make films.
Make photography, compose radical electronic music. I discovered
John Coltrane at the time. And it went from there. I brought easy
listening records to college. That was my speed at the time. Lawrence
Welk, 101 Strings performing Beatles. Easy listening was really
what I liked. And in six months I was playing "Om" by John Coltrane…

RB: (Laughs)

AM: Really radical.

RB: With the help of drugs or without?

AM: Without. I was quite terrified of drugs.
Catholic stuff or whatever. I got a radio show and I was playing
Albert Ayler, Sun Ra, Charles Ives, Karlheinz Stockhausen. I was
out there. Very interesting times (chuckles).

RB: I'm struck by the absence of any Cuban
music from that list.

AM: Not at that time.

RB: Was it played in your household?

AM: Yeah, a little bit. Not a lot. Now, of
course, I have 500 hundred Cuban CDs. I will also play Steve Reich
and Celia Cruz. I like the diversity, but I am very tied up with
Cuban music now. In the dark room, that's mostly what I play, Cuban
music, when I am printing.

RB: Why do you think that is?

AM: At some point the immigrant—at some
point you need to divorce yourself from where you came from so you
can assimilate. I did that that— I loved the idea of John Cage
and Coltrane—the taste of freedom. These people could just
do. I mean Cuban culture, it's wonderful, but it can also be restrictive
in its possibilities.

RB: Only somewhat?

AM: A lot. The idea of people playing their
hearts out in some asymmetrical way or saying silence is a piece
[of music]. It was very interesting to find this kind of freedom
and it liberated me to think about photography and art in many interesting
ways. I really grew a lot at Bowdin. I became a real fanatic of
American culture. At that point, as opposed to now, a lot of my
friends didn't know who Albert Ayler was.

RB: Is avant-garde music really part of American
culture? Ayler probably died broke and ESP records probably ripped
him off as well a bunch of others. On the other hand that Ayler
and Trane and Coleman and Sun Ra and John Cage and so many others
could play here, I guess makes it part of the culture, albeit marginal.

AM: Yeah, if you wanted to go that way. That
sense of freedom was really quite helpful. Also many people at the
time were "tripping" a lot. I wasn't. I also understood certain
American tendencies to equate freedom with doing whatever the hell
you wanted to do. That was not helpful. I took a course at Yale
when I was in graduate school there with a guy named Thompson. He
teaches in the African music and art department at Yale. He said
something that really interesting and that I really understood—I
didn't know I understood it until he said it— he said that
in African religions and, of course, Cuba is tied up with so many
African religions possession when people are getting the god and
losing control and freaking out, there are usually a few people
around you to guide and to protect you. People who are sober. And
that he said the freaking out generation of the '60s, the sense
that you could do that, individually was really quite a new take
on freedom. That it was all individual.

RB: That wasn't the way it started. Even
Leary and Alpert (Baba Ram Dass) acted as guides for the early experimenters.
It was interesting that the attitude people who were using hallucinogens
had gone from "We're into consciousness expansion" to "We're getting
fucked up."

AM: That's what I saw mostly. It brought
me back to my own Cuban roots. Afro-Cuban music is so tied up with
community. Even when you do a drum solo it's always an acknowledgment
of the background. You can't escape it. If you do than you are alone
and there is a certain danger to that.

RB: One strong impression I had in Cuba was
that people cared about each other. I went to a baseball game and
there was a deep drive to center field, which sent the center fielder
crashing into the outfield wall. He lay crumpled, stunned, at the
foot of the wall. And everybody—from both teams—ran out
to see how he was.

AM: Yeah, I know. Unheard of. The illusion
of this culture is that you can do it all by yourself and you should
do it by yourself.

RB: Rugged individualism being a fundamental
tenet of the American ethos.

AM: That's where it goes bad, I think. At
the same time I did learn from that rugged individualism. I mean,
John Coltrane just doing things that leap out of the culture. I
took that individualism and tied it up with the Cuban sense of form.
I often talk about the way I make pictures or think about art in
the Cuban sense of dancing. I was taught dancing by my parents.
Cuban dancing is a formula. So just bouncing around and jumping
around is considered lewd and ill mannered. So I was taught very
well by my parents. There is a saying in Cuba that if you are really
a great dancer you can dance on a brick. I love that. That sense
of ultimate love for form but within that form you can do it all.
That is tied up with choosing books. Seemingly a limited subject
matter but if you really take care of things it opens up and you
can do it all. You can talk about God or sex or damage. But I like
that idea that it's possible. In Indian music there is that same
sense of freedom coming from knowing the form.

Alphabet (1998)

RB: At the heart of my interest and curiosity
about people who work in their lives to be artists is how you survive
doing what you want to do in a world that is relentlessly market
driven and consumer oriented?

AM: I don't know. I think the bottom line
is that I have kept at this rain or shine. I dropped out of college
at Bowdin, went to New York, and had, at one point, two jobs and
weekends I would find ways to get into some darkroom and make pictures.
And it never stopped. Even when things seemed pretty dark. I just
kept believing in it. It's not the American way, either. I teach
college. I love my students but they want it now. They want it fast.
If it doesn't happen in a month they want to go and do something
else. I think that is a mistake. Like lasting in a marriage…

RB: Of all the things we seem to inculcate
in our children, there this depraved sense of time, which is unreal.
Everything seems to be represented and presented in the now.

AM: It has to do with consumption. If you
feel it buy it or do it. There's
no reflection.

RB: How do you deal with the hard issues
of representation and exhibition and selling your pictures?

AM: I found a terrific dealer in New York
ten years ago, Bonnie Benrubi. I'm sort of married to her. I like
her and she likes me and we understand each other. So, I'm lucky.
She works very hard for me and I love being able to live in Brookline
where my kids can walk to school. And not being in New York and
going to openings every night and that whole crazy stuff—really
it's sort of sick, the rat race of art. The answer is that I don't
know…I think part of it is that I have made pictures only for
me out of interests that I have and then they have been received
well. But I've never made a picture thinking, "This is what the
public wants next." I can't do it.

RB: Do you do work for hire? Do you accept

AM: No. Some people say, "I have a great
apartment you know for camera oscura." If I like the view I
will do it. But I won't do it just if it's Rockefeller. (laughs)
No, no one commissions me.

RB: So you have managed to avoid having people
tell you what to take and how to take it?

AM: The last thing I want to do is that.
I have been asked for certain things and I say, "I'm just not good
at that." One thing I was commissioned to do was illustrating Alice
in Wonderland
. And that was the first commission where I thought,
"Oh God, I don't do that. I think of my own ideas." But it sparked
some interest in me and I thought, "Okay, let's reread it." Of course,
when I was in college everyone read it. It fed the times. And I
thought, "Okay, maybe there is interesting stuff here." And I had
a dream about a picture. Actually, I don't usually have dreams and
I don't speak this way usually, "I had a dream about…" But
I dreamt about a big hole through a book and that kind of thing.
So I decided to make that hole in the book and make the picture.
Then I was committed to it. I liked doing it, even though it was
someone else's idea. In fact, I am interested in doing Through
the Looking Glass
, the next one by using mirrors. So that was
a commission of sorts. But the important thing is that they didn't
come over here saying, "Well we were sort of thinking that, maybe
this is the way…"

RB: Right. "Uh, could you sort of tweak the

AM: "Yeah, we were thinking of using your
little daughter and a little sex here." (Both laugh)

RB: It has been a—I was tempted to say
‘dangerous' but perhaps I should restrain my editorializing—trend
for hip art directors to use fine arts and editorial photographers
to do commercial art.

AM: And, there is some very good work being
done that way.

RB: And, you gotta do what you gotta do.

AM: There is also the matter of making money.

RB: That's what I meant.

AM: (laughs) There is a lot of fashion work
being done now that is very interesting. Lighting the street and
making fashion look like everyday people. Capitalism definitely
wants to incorporate the world of art and it's done it so well sometimes
it almost in tandem with art making. The trick is try to find new
ways of doing it or to break the rules.

RB: It's also dangerous because these wonderful
60-second spots or the compelling print ads are in pursuit of what

AM: Yeah. In pursuit of what? Ultimately,
it falls flat. In some ways now some commercials are trying to look
awkward and like stuff that college freshman in filmmaking are trying
to do. The slick awkward look…(laughs)

In a way, photography has been my way of thinking, putting some thoughts together in a stretch—enough to make the picture ask questions, philosophical questions about the world.

RB: There was a piece by Laura Miller in
the NYT Magazine on the rise of Meta—which is exemplified
by commercials that make reference to the commercial that is being
made or movies that are self referential. It's all very clever but
again what's the great value being promoted?

AM: For you to register that you want that
car. Of course, these questions were asked a long time ago. Like
Bergman showing you a film where you see the sprockets, so you say,
"Okay, so we are watching a film." That's an interesting philosophical
question. It feels like reality but it's really somebody else's
reality. But it's gotten to a point where it doesn't matter anymore.
What the questions were? There is a lot of social photography being
done now to point to the untruth of photography. It's getting very
dull now. So, okay photography doesn't tell the truth. So what?
Everyone has known this forever. You are being clever when you are
showing us, "Oh my god what we thought was a picture of a constellations
is just bugs?" Oh wow! Thank you for setting the truth straight.
But the problem is that a lot of the people who are supposedly giving
you the truth, I don't trust. (Both laugh). I don't think that they
are that deeply intellectual.

RB: That stuff is tenuous…

AM: And prankish.

RB: And contrived. I suppose some of this
conceptual stuff has to be acted out to see its weakness. Didn't
Warhol have film of somebody sleeping for hours and hours? Maybe
the idea was interesting and then you see it and know it's not interesting.

AM: (laughs) I was one of those guys in college.
Oh my god, let's do four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence
on the radio. Not too interesting when you actually do it. (laughs)

RB: Would you say your life as an artist
and I use that word…

AM: Yeah, yeah.

RB: For lack of a better word, has been accidental?
That is to say, where you are at this moment in time, is that a
result of a plan?

AM: After I took that college course at Bowdin
with a guy named John McKee, I wanted to be an artist. There was
no question. And I was very ambitious. Not in an overt kind of way
but I have always had the ambition to just make interesting stuff.
Somehow if I want something I'll get it. So there is a lot of self-impulse
going on.

RB: Is that the same thing as planning?

AM: No. The planning stuff I'm not very good
at. But if I get an idea for something I will work hard to realize
it. I don't know what the outcome is going to be but now I have
two or three projects in my mind and I am somewhat obsessed about

RB: Two or three. That's a lot.

AM: A lot, I know. Trying to photograph money.
I am trying to photograph stuff having to do with Louis Braille
and I also want to do pictures of mirrors. That's the way I work.
I'll do some of that and some of this. And at the same time I have
a family that I am very involved with and I teach at college. So
it's a juggle. I like it this way. Just when I think I am some hot
shit or something my daughter goes, "Boring." (both laugh) Puts
me down.

RB: How old is she?

AM: Eleven. So it's nice to be humbled by
your surroundings [rather] than have yes people telling you that
you are the greatest. I think that's a mistake when people start
thinking that they are too good for the world.

RB: My impression is that, as they say, the
trajectory of your career rose in 1998.

AM: An exhibit was organized in San Diego—a
mid-career retrospective and that traveled to a lot of places. Then
there was the Gardner Museum residency and the Museum of Fine Arts
in Boston. There was a lot of stuff going on at once. The biggest
thing for me was a group show at the Museum of Modern Art in '94.
I made a picture of a light bulb that Peter Galassi at the Modern
liked a lot. He put it on a poster. And I remember going to the
Modern and the poster was outside and my parents and I are looking
at it, like, "Wow! That's me." After that, let's not kid each other,
being at the Modern helps. So I started getting some phone calls.

abelardo morellRB:
Any large exhibitions coming up for you?

AM: There's a show in New York now and a
show in June of photographs I made in Cuba.

RB: When were those done?

AM: Last year. I made four camera obscura
pictures and some interiors. There is a book coming out in April
of Cuban work. It's a book that incorporates American writers. Russell
and Ann Beattie and some American photographers and Cuban
photographers. I'm the crossover…the Cuban-American. The book
[published by Bulfinch] is supposed to reflect on what's happening
in Cuba now, visually and through the writings. It's supposed to
be an important book and there will be a show in June at the International
Center of Photography in New York.

RB: That was the first time you were back?

AM: In forty years.

RB: Was that enough for a while?

AM: No, no I'm dying to go back but I have
too many commitments now. I want to go back for enough time to do
justice to my appetite. It's a very important trip for me. One of
the most important things I have ever done.

RB: Do you ever shoot color?

AM: No.

RB: Did being in Cuba give you pause to consider
shooting color?

AM: I'm not interested in color for myself.
In fact the pictures that I made were inside darkened rooms. I don't
want to jump on the bandwagon and photograph Cuba as if it's this
collapsing colorful place.

RB: Do you know Robert Polidori's book, Havana?

AM: Sure. It's very beautiful. If you are
going to do it, he did it. It's gorgeous, but there is a lot of
minor work being done that's not very good. But I wanted go back
in the shroud of darkness, from memory. That was my attempt to look
at this place again. It was very interesting seeing family and relatives.
Also, the fantasies I had developed over time. Once in a while it's
really nice to test those things against a more or less real yardstick,
"Okay I thought this but hmmm is a nice correction." For me,
it's been a good correction. Some things I feel even more strongly
about. I think the system has failed everybody but the spirit of
some of my relatives, even though things are bad there, is fantastic.
The music is amazing and it's a remarkable place. So it was almost
like being in the middle of a long long, long sentence. Being here,
looking toward the future as an American but not having the beginning
words or sentence clear. You know, the opening paragraph—not
having it and then going back and "Okay that really explains a lot
of feeling and why I am who I am." Forty years, in a way I feel
lucky. How many people have that opportunity to go back to a place
forty years later?

RB: Meaning that it hadn't changed much or
being able to do it at all?

AM: There were reasons I didn't go back.
Fears. To walk back into a half dream and see your old house on
a street. It was fabulous.

Copyright 2003 by Robert Birnbaum
All photos by Red Diaz / Duende Publishing

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