I’ve always been interested in what happens when things get in the way.
In high school I attended a local performance of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure for English class. Partway through the proceedings, I remember my mind beginning to wander, and found myself particularly focused on the obstruction – this sharp, large wooden flourish of architecture – that jutted into my field of vision in the mezzanine seats, despite my attempts to concentrate on each “forsooth” and “good morrow” uttered before me.
Like the head of the person in front of you at the movies, that dark silhouette bobbing and swaying in a most inconvenient manner, these things, these obstructions, become a part of the experience – subtle barriers that define the subjectivity of viewership.
In 2002 I produced a series of small black-and-white photographs titled Tell Them I’m Lost on the Sidewalk, a collection of encounters with objects that obscured, and corners, peered-around. Many of these images rely on a shallow depth-of-field to pick out each (rather quotidian) subject; we peek in on these undisturbed scenes – with a bit of voyeurism, but also with a sense of self-induced obstruction between the in-focus “subject” and its viewer. Sometimes both viewer and subject feel hidden.
It’s an innocent form of watching – glancing around with casual intrigue – wherein the distance between the subject and the photographer is more about respectful fascination than some kind of cynical detachment. Rather than threaten with his gaze, this voyeur formally examines the specific conflicts and connections that develop in deep space.
This is the aesthetic of obstruction.
Tell Them I’m Lost on the Sidewalk can be viewed within [lost], on good[eye]meriwether[dot]com.