FOAM Snapshot
A critique of FOAM gallery’s exhibitions
A friend from university visited me a while ago from Antwerp on a typically rainy afternoon in Amsterdam. Both of us are interns at different creative agencies, and seeing I hadn’t planned any activities prior to the visit, we inevitably settled on the default creative-person-activity of visiting an art gallery. We went to FOAM, cheaper than the Stedelijk, but still with reasonably sized exhibitions, plus I usually enjoy photography galleries. At the time there were three major exhibitions on show: André Kertész’ beautifully poetic Mirroring Life, Romain Mader’s brilliantly comical Ekaterina and Anouk Kruifhof’s down-right weird Next Level. The latter, was closer to contemporary art than photography, so this part will be brief. I love art, but once I’ve crossed a certain line, it becomes too conceptual and it goes over my head. That line was crossed the moment I stepped foot into Kruithof’s exhibition. Readers will excuse me for shrugging my shoulders at this exhibition; I don’t know enough about post-internet art to comment, it seems you need an education in fine art to understand it these days. However, if you do have an education in fine art, or you are looking for an articulate and thought provoking review on Kruithof’s Next Level, please click here. Moving on.
Now then, to something I have an opinion on. The sizeable retrospective collection of André Kertész’s oeuvre, presented in an exhibition FOAM have named: Mirroring Life. Hungarian-born Kertész (1894–1985) was once hailed by some as one of the greats of 20th century photography, but today is known by few. Kertész never truly attained the critical and public acclaim he felt he deserved, an injustice he was known to vocalise. Despite Kertész relatively unknown status, his influence was significant and his titles many: Father of photo-journalism, Pioneer of avant-garde photography and perhaps his greatest claim to fame, Mentor to Henri Cartier-Bresson. Cartier-Bresson once stated:
“We all owe something to Kertész.”
Admittedly, I stepped into the exhibition with little knowledge of the aforementioned, but to even a novice of Kertész’s work I quickly saw the mark of a veteran photographer. Especially, of composition. His use of shadow, bizarre angles and simple subject matter fuse to create Kertész’s odd yet understated aesthetic. Considering the time period Kertész worked in, his style must have been like nothing before, most likely a little hard to stomach for the time, hence his cult status in photography. Using strange angles to frame his shots, utilising his surrounds to abstract the mundane, and even employing analogue techniques to distort subject matter, all in the era of pre-photo manipulation. The result is the beautiful and poetic portrayal of the mundane. Each composition: simple yet captivating, the strange distortions of his work had me on occasion pondering how the photograph came into being.
This language of ‘mundane poetry’ is the constant that binds the 4 periods of Kertész’s work together (Hungarian, Paris, New York and the International periods). Visible changes in style occur throughout the exhibition, each period having it’s own niche, from the humble beginnings of the Hungarian period to the big city living of the New York period. You see time and ever changing location taking influence throughout an entire career, which — like Kertész’s angles, is a strange spectacle to observe.
A stand-out photo from the exhibition was Arma’s Hands, it was in my opinion a perfect embodiment of Kertész’s style. A mundane detail of the everyday, preserved so simply by a camera lens. But not without poetry and narrative. I saw hints of Arma’s personality through body language. I saw the influence of the Dadaists that Kertész associated with during his time on Paris, given the slightly strange composition of human limbs and objects. And there was something intriguing about the removed glasses, it made me think of that moment you hear something across the room, someone says something so outrageous that you can’t help but remove you glasses, turn in your seat and address their comment. It’s that “What the hell are you talking about?” moment. The photo plays off the cliché of removing one’s glasses to clarify a misunderstanding— or to be condescending. Perhaps metaphorical for how Kertész felt about the lack of recognition for his own work. There is something melancholy about the photo, its the way the lens of glasses cast their gaze downwards, the way the body language seems tired, leaning against the chair for support. While Kertész was a photo-journalist, the ambiguity in his work quite often appears to make an introspective statement. Ultimately the abstract nature of Kertész work opens it up to so many layers of possible meaning, but offers no answers.
It’s always a something of a treat for me when an exhibition such as this comes along, being a fan of photography, I still feel like I see very few retrospective showings of 20th century work. Which is a shame as while it is arguably outdated, unlike classical art, early photography still has relevance to contemporary photography. It is tangible and yet unachievable, the analogue techniques and especially the subject matter is simply a thing of the past, making their combined result all the more precious.
And now, in stark contrast to the serious, subtle and poetic work from André Kertész, we shift our gaze to the brash, tackless, comical brilliance that is Romain Mader’s work. Kertész and Mader are photo-journalists, but that is where the similarities end. Mader is the new-school, he’s provocative and highly entertaining. Romain Mader is a graduate of the prestigious ECAL design school in Switzerland, and the winner of FOAM’s 2017 Paul Huf award for his work: The Following is a True Story. In some ways this title is correct, and in others you could liken it’s meaning to the TV series Fargo’s “disclaimer”, as Mader’s work is stranger than fiction, and yet he’s played it out himself. It’s the odd tale of a conjured up alter-ego, a normal — if not rather dorky— guy, way out of his depth, haphazardly stumbling through a poorly thought out quest for love. The whole body of work was displayed at FOAM, but I’m going to be sticking to reviewing Mader’s main body of work at the gallery, titled: Ekaterina.
A culmination of previous projects, Mader documents his alter ego’s trip to Ekaterina, in search of his future wife. This imaginary city in Ukraine is mysteriously populated only by women, all named Ekaterina, and each hoping to find a rich western husband. In an utterly naïve narration by Romain about his search for the one and only Ekaterina, a series of stereotypes take the stage, from Mader performing as an oblivious western sex tourist, to interchangeable Ukrainian brides, up to the ‘typical’ Soviet backdrop to the whole quest for love. The gap between preconceived ideas about a place like Ukraine and its reality is what is constantly exploited to the point of absurdity in Mader’s work. In a photographic language that perfectly employs the conventions of documentary photography, the confusion between what is fictitious and what’s real -or what seems real – ultimately arises as a goal in itself.
Mader’s work is like photojournalism’s answer to Borat — but this time it’s an oblivious westerner intruding on another culture. On the surface it seems superficial, nothing more than cheap comedy at the expense of Romain’s Ukrainian hosts. But once you delve deeper into the issues Mader confronts, you realise its actually a complex satire, highlighting stereotypes and the desperations of both parties in their quest for a new life and love respectively. Humour in photography is seldom seen, and very refreshing, this coupled with the cringe-worthy performance by Mader serves to add another layer of realism to this fictitious tale. There’s always just something a little off in each image, it almost a documentary photo, except for that one thing. In the case of the image shown above, its Romain’s head ‘photobombing’ his own wedding pictures. The image below, it’s the clearly staged pose Ekaterina is doing, most likely at the behest of Romain, and the smile tinged with discomfort. Each ‘mistake’ in the photo’s is clearly intentional, after all this is a body of work being displayed at an art gallery, but had they have been viewed just as someone’s private photo’s you would be entirely convinced of the authenticity.
And yet, Mader is able to showcase a genuine eye for composition and colour, creating portrayals of the fictitious Ekaterina which are in equal parts beautiful, desolate and kitsch. The juxtaposition of bright, cheery colours against tired bleak landscapes serve as visual metaphors for dream vs reality for Mader’s alter ego. From chintzy gameshow sets to crumbling Soviet fairytale castles, reminiscent of the Grand Budapest Hotel, these more photographically sound images set the scene for Romain’s narrative, and his character’s naïve view of the world he has stepped into.
Despite the comedic nature of Romain’s narrative, reading between the lines tells a noir fairytale version of very real problems; loneliness, desperation and self-deception in order to find ‘happiness’. The audience laughs about our protagonist’s blunders, but ultimately feels some empathy for him as they see the bemused faces of the various Ekaterinas trying not to laugh about him as well. More so, we feel empathy for the female characters, confined to live in this city until they find a foreign husband, attending university in order to learn how to “cook pizza and french fries” and “stand-up straight”. The city of Ekaterina seems to be metaphorical for a human trafficking hub and wider objectification of women. The notions of attending a ‘university’ in order to learn stereotypical housewife skills is clearly a comment on the insulting way women are treated in these situations, the notion of calling it a university for rudimentary tasks such as cooking and standing is a highly condescending sentiment. It is also possible in the story that the city of Ekaterina is simply a lie that Romain’s character chooses to believe in order to justify his misplaced dream to find love in place of his reality, which is that he is just another facilitator of the sex trade.
And so, on the surface, what appears to be a comedy is in fact a critique of the human condition, cultural stereotypes, and the realities of a still-present human trade business. What is presented as a photographic documentary is actually a visual satire. And Romain Mader, who appeared to be our clueless narrator is actually a rather intelligent provocateur. What we thought was a true story is fictitious. And yet, it may as well be truth. This project highlights one of the ways the human trade still functions, people like Mader’s alter-ego who are ready to believe a fiction as truth, so long as it makes them happy. Willing to do bad things so long as they don’t realise they’re doing them. It is a topic which we rub shoulders with more than most here in Amsterdam, and with prostitution legalised it could be easy to assume that it is wholly ethical here. But is that another fiction we believe to be a true story?
Romain Mader’s This is a True Story runs until the 7th of February 2018.
Andre Kertész’s Mirroring Life has since finished.
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written by John Skead, Creative Intern at VBAT
edited by Connie Fluhme, PR at VBAT
