"I had this notion of what I called a democratic way of looking around, that nothing was more or less important," William Eggleston once said. This radical attitude guided his ground-breaking work in color photography, work that has prefigured many recent developments in art and photography. Los Alamos presents a series of photographs that has never before been shown, yet it contains a blueprint of Eggleston's aesthetics, his subtle use of subdued color hues, the casual elegance of his trenchant observations of the mysteries of the mundane. The photographs in Los Alamos were shot in Eggleston's native Memphis and on countless road trips across the American South from 1964 to 1968 and from 1972 to 1974. Initially, Eggleston wanted to create a vast compendium of more than 2000 photographs to be contained in 20 volumes; he wanted the viewer to look at the photographs the way one looks at the world. He eventually abandoned this project--and hardly any of the negatives were ever printed. Now, 30 years later, we finally get to see a selection of this encyclopedia of Southern everyday life and vernacular culture. It's a stunning discovery that makes the so-called snapshot photography of recent years pale in comparison. Eggleston's astonishingly timeless portraits, still lives, landscapes, and photographs of buildings add up to a profound investigation of the world and our way of looking at it, a poetics of pleasures hidden in full view. They transcend the merely descriptive and uncover the universal encapsulated in the details and the detritus of life in a consumer culture.
Born in Memphis and raised in Sumner, Mississippi, William Eggleston was, even in youth, more interested in art and observing the world around him than in the more popular southern boyhood pursuits of hunting and sports. While he dabbled in obtaining an education at a succession of colleges including Vanderbilt and Ole Miss, he became interested in the work of Robert Frank and Henri Cartier-Bresson, and began taking black and white photographs with the Leica camera a friend had given him. He began experimenting with color photography in 1965. Although processes for color photography had existed in various forms since the turn of the century, at that time it still was not considered a medium for fine art, and was mostly relegated to the world of advertising.
Eggleston was the first photographer to have a solo show of color prints at the MoMA in 1976. Accompanied by the release of the book William Eggleston's Guide, it was a watershed moment in the history of photography.
I continue trying to understand William Eggleston's reputation as a photographer. I know, color, etc., but to what end? Los Alamos was listed in an article titled "Essential Books: 7 Monographs on Pathbreaking Photographers" in artnews.com, and so seemed a good venue to keep at my attempt to appreciate Eggleston. If anything, this collection is less absorbing than many of his other works. There is little of discernible aesthetic or intellectual interest in these photographs. The connection between Eggleston and Warhol is obvious in this book; everything here is surface, and there is a "democratization" of photographs in that everything is equally worthy of having a camera pointed at it. There are few photographs of people in this collection, and they are uniformly uninteresting. The range of subjects in the photographs is narrow, as is the photographic style and the approach to the subjects. There is no clear theme in the collection; the book is not more than the sum of its individual photos, and the individuals do not "speak" to each other in a way that enhances the whole. The accompanying essay gamely grappled with the photographs' (and photographer's) meaning and importance, but was not convincing, at least to me.
Coca Cola. Grungy table tops. Cool American cars. Sidewalks. Shadows on cracked walls. Burger wrappers. Faded advertising signs. Blue skies. Old shacks. A beautiful essay of an Americana both mythic and mundane.
Many who saw them would wonder why these photo of ordinary objects; telephones, fast food places, cars, etc are works of art. This book is a reminder that it's not the subject chosen by the artist, but how he/she sees and interprets his vision that makes an image with artistic merit.
Eggleston's work is uneven and slightly overrated -- his early use of garish color was historically important more than actually impressive aesthetically -- but when he's good, he's really good, and Los Alamos is head-and-shoulders above all of his other books (including Guide, Democratic Forest, etc.)
Eggleston is one of the truly great American photographers, with an intoxicating vision that imbues every photo he makes and worms its way into your head. Spend enough time with these photos and you'll never see the world the same way again. Every object becomes an unknowable secret, a quiet threat forever hanging over your head. The world takes on a new dimension, an unfathomable depth. This book feels like it contains an immense wealth of secrets, a hundred thousand stories never told, a mass of small disturbances of the air that come together and destroy a coastline. This is the true American beauty.
Heyyy art books count, right? I randomly stumbled in on Eggleston's exhibition of this collection at the Albertina in Vienna. It was February 2005 and the last thing I had on mind was 1960s Americana but I fell in love with the quirky subjects and fantastic colors that made a Southwestern roadtrip a priority upon return to the states.
William Eggleston is a great photographer/artist. He's famous for his causal color photos of the deep south, yet beyond that it is some sort of a strange dream world. He is probably one of my favorite LIVING artists at the moment. Haunting and beautiful in a very strange way.
Eggleston really opened my eyes to the possibilites of photography and this is the best of his books. The photos are printed beautifully. The ink is so thick it looks wet on the page. Tasty.