Ambient Photography

An old post from an old blog, 2014

Ambient music has had a resurgence of late. In many ways, it’s never really gone away. 

The history of ambient music is fascinating and complex. Explorations of it — from Brian Eno’s discography and David Toop’s Ocean of Sound — often avoid making points about style and form, instead discussing philosophies towards sound and ways of listening.

With this resurgence in my mind, I came across two essays on photography that used Muzak — the very music that catalysed Brian Eno’s own ambient music — to negatively describe a certain kind of photography.

The first was a blogpost by Colin Pantall in which he railed against the majority of photography that we see all around us — “visual Musak, that inadvertently lulls us into a state of thoughtless consumption”. For Pantall, the pervasiveness of a photography so bland must surely be (negatively) affecting how we visually experience our society.

The second was a description of a similar phenomenon by David Campany in his take on the increasingly obligatory State of the Union address written to accompany the 2014 Deutsche Bank exhibition, Time Present:

The further photography moves from known objects, the less reliable its description of the world. If, as we are often told, the photograph is a universal form of communication, it is only at the level of the obvious and the already understood. It is clichés and only clichés that bind us in this increasingly fragmentary world, argued Gilles Deleuze. Indeed, what there is of a “global language of photography” is made up of images of commodities, celebrities, sunsets, and other clichés of locality. “Viewzak.”

Both use ‘Muzak’ in a context fitting with our cultural lexicon and they are certainly not the first to make such a comparison. The word ‘Muzak’ lives on (albeit only just) as a synonym for the worst examples of derivative and reductive corporate cultures that dilute the truly artful.

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Darkness Itself IV

One | Two | Three

Driving along the A63, as it merges wit the Clive Sully, the major artery of Kingston-upon-Hull, having passed under the Humber Bridge and continuing to hurtle towards the city centre, I see the Lord Line building, that rotting and abandoned monument, casting its shadow over the city and its estuary. 

Built to serve Hull’s deep sea trawlermen, the Lord Line and its surrounding out-buildings somehow repeatedly avoid demolition and redevelopment – much like the city itself (at least until recently).

Elsewhere in Yorkshire, reminders of a once-proud mining industry slip from view. In Sheffield I’ve heard they turn slag heaps into public parks, ski slopes, golf courses. Geological matter so deeply excavated cannot be put back but it is nonetheless buried, becoming one more layer of the city’s substrate, albeit uneven, the scar tissue of shifting industries.

In Hull, you can’t escape the water. It haunts and mocks. Worked or not, it laps the shore and the tide never changes.


Cod, like coal, was to be a pawn in wider political and economic issues, but in the early weeks of 1968 the enemy was atrocious weather. [via]

Many of the 20th century’s mining disasters are well known. Subterranean terrors calcify the public imagination. The darkness of Hull’s oceanic disasters are equally unfathomable and far less visible. The first two months of 1968 in particular are known for the Triple Trawler Tragedy, claiming 60 lives alone. Coastal industries have the unfortunate complication of being at the mercy of “fanged noumena”.

Is not transcendental philosophy a fear of the sea? Something like a dike or a sea-wall?

A longing for the open ocean knows at us, as the land is gnawed by the sea. A dark fluidity at the roots of our nature rebels against the security of terra firma, provoking a wave of anxiety in which we are submerged, until we feel ourselves drowning, with representation draining away. Nihil ulterius. [1]

Some 6000 deaths have been recorded at sea since records began but Hull has prospered as a fishing town long before then. The true numbers are unimaginable.

In the 12th century,  the fishing monks of Meaux Abbey established what was then Wyke-upon-Hull as a site of national important for fishing and trade, leading to its eventual nomination as a King’s Town. The word “Wyke” comes from the Scandinavian vik — meaning ‘port’ — which suggests the region was important for a few hundred years before records began.

Wyke is a name that locals will recognise as belonging to a local Further Education college but perhaps without knowledge of its origins. The same goes for the city’s peculiar accent which still retains the soft vowel “ø.

Hull remains a Viking town, through and through, but it has a tendency to forget itself.

After hundreds of years of gradually increasing prosperity, Hull’s fishing industry succumbed to the Cod Wars of the 20th century — successive wars over fishing territories between the UK and Iceland, of which Iceland won each one successively. Boats and shipsremain a familiar fixture of the city’s edges and rivers but the smell of fish that once clouded the city in its prime is now, for better and for worse, long gone.

How much thought is given to the olfactory consequences of post-industrial decline?

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The Sensation of Looking

Spending a few days exploring the 2014 Brighton Photo Biennial with friends, a recurring joke passed between us that went something like, “I saw plenty of things I liked during the Biennial, but none of them were photographs”.

The highlight of one particularly chilly October morning was Camper Obscura. As the name suggests, it is a touring camper van turned into a camera obscura. We found it down by Brighton Pier advertising itself on a sandwich board offering “free visual experiences”. Finding such a promise irresistible, I boarded the van with a friend.


Sat opposite each other, we were given a large piece of cardboard which we held between us under something resembling a periscope. Sat in darkness with the camper’s curtains drawn and the door closed, we adjusted the position of our cardboard to bring the light streaming down from above into focus. A disorientating image appeared before us.

Continuously readjusting the cardboard as the periscope turned and our arms grew tired, our host explained the science behind what we saw before us — the physics of light and the way the camera obscura attempts to copy the biological function of the eye. These explanations only went so far, unable to fully account for the uncanny image we saw before us.


Turning the periscope towards the sea, it seemed to lose its more familiar ebb. Mediated through a camper van and onto a piece of cardboard we struggled to keep level, waves looks like writhing maggots at a lower visual fidelity. To look at it for too long was migraine-inducing.

These and other experiences over the weekend seemed to summarise my frustrated relationship with photography. I rarely look at the medium in books or exhibitions and find myself feeling anything that comes close to my initial experiences of looking at the world around me.


My sustained interest in photography despite this seems to be occasioned by a familiar feedback loop. As Hubert Damisch reminds us in his Five Notes for a Phenomenology of the Photographic Image, it was this sensation that first inspired the invention of the modern camera.

Each and every one of those innumerable inventors who made photography what it is today were not actually concerned with the creation of a new type of image or a novel mode of representation, they simply wished to fix the images which “spontaneously” formed on the ground of the camera obscura.


The adventure of photography begins with our first attempts to retain that image he had long known how to make. The failure of photography begins when we realise that it is never quite the same. The practice of photography finds its feet in the affirmation of a representative impossibility.

Although the camera obscura is now inseparable from an established technological lineage, it is worth remembering that it existed with this purpose all of its own; a purpose that runs deeper than its now technological redundancy as a precursor to the modern camera.

This seems central for Damisch, for whom photography has been co-opted into filling a specific role and, importantly, one that is profoundly different from that of the camera obscura that came before it. He seems to lament the discussion on the sensation of looking that was inherent in the camera obscura that has since been lost to photographic theory’s obsession with the technical implications of the modern photographic process or the prevalence of “documentary photography”.


The retention of the image, its development and multiplication form an ordered succession of steps which now compose the photographic act, always taken in its reductive whole. History has determined that this act would find its purpose in reproduction, much the way the purpose of film as spectacle was (perhaps inadvertently) established from the start.

With a focus on photography’s scientific and commercial potentials at first winning out over more explicitly artistic pursuits, is it any wonder that the desire to capture the sensation of the camera obscura has been forgotten as one of the medium’s defining characteristics?

Nicéphore Niépce is the only pioneer Damisch mentions by name in his Five Notes, no doubt because of the lasting power of his impressionistic window view (pictured below) which, whilst less “technically” accomplished than the efforts of his competitors, captures the sensation of looking through a camera obscura perfectly and with an almost painterly quality, resembling a black-and-white Monet or Cézanne.


Instead, despite these beginnings, photography has been defined in opposition to and in competition with painting. Photography claims to have won the war of representation but it is painting alone that has benefited from this conflict, having been freed — according to Andre Bazin — “once and for all, from its obsession with realism and [allowing] it to recover its aesthetic autonomy.”

This aesthetic autonomy can be seen throughout modern art following the invention of the camera and it is with Paul Cézanne in particular, born a little over a decade after Niépce made this first photograph, that the discussion on the sensation of looking in the visual arts has continued.

Although similar in style to the Impressionists, it is the artistic process that differs most. Cézanne would work analytically, considering all angles and characteristics of his subject to produce a painting that bore all the sensations of his intense and often repeated looking — documents of his experiences of not just light and colour, but form and line and everything else as they appeared to him. As Gilles Deleuze wrote on Cézanne’s works, this sensation is only experienced in the viewer “by entering the painting, by reaching the unity of the sensing and the sensed.” The process of looking feeds back into the the expression of the sensation of looking. This now seems to be an obvious point to make about this period in art history but it is worth noting as a function that photography is capable of but has long since forgotten.



The Medium is the Mess

Photography is a medium of representations, or so we’re told. It shows us things as they are but also how we’d like them to be. We want to believe in the photographs we see but we increasingly view them with caution. Since the medium’s invention, there have been frequent debates on its effectiveness as the default modern medium of representation, but with these debates comes a societal distrust of the images we see all around us. As constant viewers of images we are more aware than ever before that they do not represent what we consider to be our immediate realities.

Nowhere is this more true than alongside contemporary live music, where attitudes towards photography have grown more and more hostile in recent years. Music venues banned ticket holders from carrying “professional cameras” (or anything with a detachable lens) long ago and, more recently, artists themselves have introduced soft bans on attendees taking photographs of any kind. Having taken pictures on both sides of the press barrier, I can attest to the negative attitudes these restrictions create being felt by all.

This is not to say that photographers are particularly hard done by. They are intolerable at the best of times, but rather than these restrictions alleviating bad practices, they have only served to shrink the creative pool available to the music press – a sub-industry that has long had a weird image problem.

Visual aesthetics once came hand-in-hand with genres and movements – and to some extent they still do, with much electronic music experimenting with image production as doggedly as sound production. However, when the music press turns to photography to explore other’s work, everything looks the same. It doesn’t have to – and the state of things says much more about those taking and selecting images than the medium of photography itself.

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Don’t Look Now

We see two children – brother and sister – playing in idyllic woodland. The boy is riding a bicycle, circling trees. The girl is wearing a red Mackintosh and playing with a ball. She throws it carelessly and it lands in a nearby pond.

Inside their country home, the children’s father is looking at a series of photographic slides. He is studying one particularly closely, of a church altar. Sitting in the first row of pews with back to the camera sits someone wearing a red Mackintosh very much like his daughter’s. Perhaps it is his daughter, but the expression on his face suggests otherwise. He seems pensive. He takes the slide from the projector and examines it more closely, focusing on the person in red.

We see the girl again: running alongside the pond now and holding the now-rescued ball. The boy, still on his bicycle, rides over a pane of glass. It shatters and he falls to the ground. He picks himself up and examines his tyres for punctures whilst his sister continues to play, throwing her ball into the pond for a second time.

Back inside the house, their father throws his wife a pack of cigarettes and clumsily knocks a glass of water onto the slide he was previously examining. As he looks at the slide, the colour of the Mackintosh runs and bleeds across the image. He looks up, anxious.

As he rises from his seat his wife asks, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he replies.

He runs from the house as his daughter disappears under the surface of the water. He wades in and lifts her lifeless body from the pond.

His wife, unaware of the events occurring outside, examines the slide he was holding and watches as the colour red continues to spread and bleed, engulfing the image until it is unrecognisable, destroyed, an abstracted mesh of colour. She does not react.

Outside, the father attempts to resuscitate his daughter but it is too late.

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Don McCullin

I’d like to get away from the awful reputation of being a war photographer. I think, in a way, it’s parallel to calling me a kind of abattoir worker, somebody who works with the dead, or an undertaker or something. I’m none of those things. I went to war to photograph it in a compassionate way, and I came to the conclusion that it was a filthy, vile business. War—it was tragic, and it was awful, and I was witness to murder and terrible cruelty. So do I need a title for that? The answer is no, I don’t. I hate being called a war photographer. It’s almost an insult.


Naturally, I’m getting older and coming to the end of my life, so I’ve slowed down. I’ve reinvented myself. The reason I am doing these new landscapes … is because it’s a form of healing. I’m kind of healing myself. I don’t have those bad dreams. But you can never run away from what you’ve seen. I have a house full of negatives of all those hideous moments in my life in the past.

Don McCullin shoots landscapes now. He has for a while. He’s an old and haunted man and doesn’t do war anymore. Beautiful, dramatic and melancholic, his landscapes seem to be a way for him to both publicly and privately contend with his legacy and yet his intentions never seem to puncture his reputation as a hardened working-class man of war that is found in the minds of his admirers.

These images are inseparable from the decades of photographs that have come before them. Fields and skies do battle over horizon lines. Windswept crops and angered clouds gear up for war. There is a sense in these images that, even when human affairs are peaceful or absent, there are forces bigger than us doing battle high above. Incomparable to the horrors he has built his career on, these landscapes nonetheless remain haunted by conflict. McCullin can no more easily erase his images from his mind than we can.

War seems eternal.