Matthew Kelley

Listening I feel like a low life, the apathy in it. Sounds like blindness.

Doing anything productive lately has been difficult, Chris and I talked about dry spells and I never knew it until I experienced the lowness – but my productivity comes in waves. I graduated college- it didn’t feel too much like an accomplishment much more like an obligation, but I moved out of an upsetting living situation, and now I’m at my parents house in Virginia. When I started college four years ago, scared of being on my own in a completely foreign place and upset about hurting someone I cared about very much, I read Arthur Miller’s After the Fall. I don’t know if that’s lame or not, I don’t know where I got the text – it is real old, says it cost 85 cents on the cover. Anyways I read that again today and it blew me away. Miller says fucking deep shit so casually I just started writing it down. here is one, (maybe its not as good out of context, you should read the play I guess, if you haven’t) I’ve paraphrased the descriptions too..

Atop a hill outside a former German concentration camp, knee deep in wild flowers Quentin turns to Holga
Quentin: It’s that I don’t want to abuse your feeling for me – I swear I don’t know if I have lived in good faith. And the doubt ties my tongue when I think of promising anything again.
Holga:But how can one ever be sure of one’s good faith?
Quentin, surprised: God its wonderful to hear you say that. All my women have been so god-damned sure.
Holga:How can one ever be?

Quentin in the play is Arthur Miller, I guess the play is all about his personal relationships, his failed marriages one of which to Marilyn Monroe, the affairs etc. I’m envious of that story telling. His ease of saying things like that, takes me paragraphs. I told John I cannot go to his wedding tonight, and it was the first time in months that I was able to say something difficult to someone and be answered with poise and understanding. God damn it, it was refreshing fucking caught me off guard. I’m trying to become okay with being dramatic, this fear of expressing something really started to cling to me, and by the end of the year I think it prevented a lot of working. I feel ready for mistakes, they seem more acceptable now – easier to stomach. Ideally at least. For now I am okay without critique. I know I eventually will miss it but by then I will be ready to find it – where ever that is. That could be bad but it is destructive right now, I am trying to anticipate what you will say and fix it before you get the chance to say it. During the second half of winter quarter I began showing, for mostly the first time, my work on Helen Keening. I lived with this woman for three and a half years and took photographs of her. Through all my ideas of what photography was, Helen was this test subject, sometimes she was a person, character maybe – to be honest it depended on the size of the camera I was holding. I am belittling the experience and the work’s value, the pictures to me are more than a bunch of tests or I wouldn’t be talking about them. I’ll talk about that later I guess. The discussions about the work in class were okay. I felt vulnerable again, which is one of my favorite things about my experience at school. We all had to be in the room and had to look at it, and sometimes had to respond to it. It was fun. I couldn’t explain the work at all, I was embarrassed mostly. Christine Shank, our professor at the time, repeatedly told me the images made her sad. I mean that was what she said, just sad. I knew that wasn’t good. I was frustrated, to me this work meant a lot more than what was said in class, or what I was able to say, but I couldn’t verbally communicate any kind of story, and it didn’t help that my statement was the vaguest piece of writing I had ever attached to pictures. I think I was talking about amphetamine optimism coating the interior of Helen’s car and something about how we only stayed in smoking motel rooms. I think at the time I was calling the project, “Seeking Racquet Club” the grad students didn’t like that title very much- too vague, I agreed. The one cool thing it had going for it was the cover which was all Christine if I remember correctly, it was some skin color sampled “sky-like” scape. Eventually in crit someone bravely asked if I ever considered making this a personal project, something I wouldn’t show like other work. I think at the time I rebutted with something snotty like – I make pictures to show to people. I didn’t want to think about making something for myself, I thought that meant it wasn’t good enough. I take pictures, mostly I like looking and if we didn’t have to hold cameras, this all would be so much easier. I always look. I hate photographing most times. I think there is a serious user interface problem with photography.

I changed my mind again, see it doesn’t matter very much because picture wise nothing is different from two days ago when I decided I wasn’t going to show the pictures of Helen. I have been trying to wrap my head around showing them and I’m going to stop. Ethics are why I am interested in ‘art’ photography not journalism. There is ethic in the lack of ethics? At the very least there is aesthetic in a lack of ethic. I do these dumb games with myself because I am lazy and would rather play fucking mind games then res down a bunch of photographs to post online.

The pictures below I didn’t take or at least a few of them, I wasn’t in the same state for most of them I think. I recovered them from the SD card in her point and shoot camera. I was looking for an image I took in a buffalo motel room. It was the start of spring, she picked me up at the airport – drove an hour to save me from a fucking lonely midnight greyhound bus. We fought a lot on the phone while I was away, getting into the car I wasn’t sure how to act- apologetic, stern, happy to see her.. We had sex in the motel while the Academy Awards was playing on the TV. I was angry Avatar didn’t win best picture. I cried 3 fucking times in the theater, god damn IMAX 3D is photography’s antithesis. Smoking naked, I photographed her nude on her knees with an unlit cigarette tucked delicately between her ass cheeks – I think we laughed, I laughed. Titles like photographer or artist only seem valuable – to me at least- during times like this. Coping titles maybe. A few weeks ago I tried getting that photograph back, I think I forgot about it for awhile, and it wasn’t my camera. I ran some image recovery software on her card, but the images below were all I was able to find. Like I said before I didn’t take most of them, but I think I will use them in the book, they feel appropriate and the whole process of stealing a memory card to run image recovery software on it reminds me of the disconnect that grew so strongly between us.

It is my pleasure to introduce Gean Yip to the Sunday and Wednesday collective. Gean is a senior advertising photography major at RIT, graduating this spring. His still lives are meticulous and he makes nice portraits and landscapes as well. I’ve been encouraging him to photograph his studio setups for awhile now. Each time I come in to check out what he’s doing, I’m always real impressed with his mess of grip, string, wire, twigs/sticks, lights, tape, and cords. His work is really tight, I’m very excited. These images are from last quarter, the project is on Cliff bars.

It is my pleasure to introduce Mike Fuchs to the Sunday and Wednesday collective. Recent RIT grad. I think Mike may work harder at his art than anyone I know. He makes real tight photographs and he pulls tones and colors out of PhotoRag Pearl that I have never seen before. It is impressive and inspiring, and I think you will like his contributions very much.

I know Mike intends to use this forum a little differently, some varied land use on Sunday and Wednesday will be good for us. The following images are from his Colonized Waterways project, you should see the rest of the work. Checkout his site @ http://mikefuchs.net

Really good stuff, the 600 wide jpegs don’t do justice.

I have been thinking about this guy, thinking about a lot of things. I like this portrait of you john. Are you still following this? I took it the night we talked about homosexuality. Look at what we’ve become, adults maybe. I’ve been thinking about people about forming memories and how it is I am supposed to look at my life, assess my life, how memories and distance effect things. We all talk about paths about interests about goals and hopes, loves. Its hard for me to describe that reflexive thought process. Maybe that’s why people place such an emphasis on expression. I hate people who love fine art. I need you someone to know that I like taking pictures because it appeals to my twitches and to the looking I do anyways. it is not because I live with some burning desire to express myself. Not that I expect you to care much(reconcile that public/private debate, shut up, I care is why) I guess this is all redundant because I am attempting to explain myself. What I mean is that I don’t see it that way and I don’t see myself that way. So don’t think that. I read and write with headphones now, it was something I never would do, it concerns me a little. I have been thinking about you too Chris Morrison at the bottom of this post I am going to post a little of your work, I hope you don’t mind, I know you haven’t had internet for awhile, but I have been missing it on site.

I am thinking about structering this work similar to that of an epic. I think that would be what you’d call it. Like Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings, or Narnia. Lots of books, long story, emotions, characters, and plot lines inappropriate for a single text. I will call my epic The Fallows of Kendaia. Epics need titles like that, I assure you. Okay serious now. Kendaia was an Iroquois village  in between Seneca and Cayuga lake. Sullivan and his troops charged the town, killing livestock, chopping apple tress, and burning fields in an attempt to disrupt a Native American alliance in 1779. They attacked at night and killed sleeping village people. This area would later become part of Romulus. An excerpt from the diary of Henry McLafferty, Jr. March 19 1856,

“To day has been an out an out cold winter day. The rain storm that commenced yesterday turned to snow at about 10 o’clock A.M and now-(9 o’clock) still continues. Revd. Mr.Jiles the M.E. Clergyman of Ovid called on me this morning and offered while present and after conversation on the subject of religion, a very feeling prayr for all collectively and especially for my Father & Self. I was a good deal effected by his appeal and hope it may be of service in encouraging me to love and serve my God. Yersterday morning a man was found lying dead along the road an in the field side, within 10 or 12 rods of Benjm Warne’s residence which is a little distance south of the Ashery east one mile, of Romulusville. From what facts have been eliceted he has lain there for the past three weeks.”

In 1941 the army displaced 150 farm families with their creation of an 11,000 acre munition storage facility. This ammo mecca was called, The Seneca Army Depot. The facility was constructed in 7 months. In the mid 40′s the site housed 10,000 barrels of enriched uranium from the Manhattan Project. During the 70′s and 80′s more development nuclear weapons were stockpiled in 11 ammunition igloos. My project is centering around this area and I don’t have much to show tonight, these images are flatbed scans of minilab prints. I have been doing a lot of photographing I think it is going well and I am working on the portraits. I haven’t explained this well I’m sorry but I think event hough these pictures tonight are from my first trip, I like them. I will have to show the more serious images from the series next.

this is by Chris Morrison,

The Blind Tiger

March 23^rd, 2009, 1:55 a.m.

part I

Carlson stumbled short of breath, out of the building clutching a small child. He set her aside waiting paramedics and took a knee to meet the little girls eyes; staring into the depths of the northern pine forest that existed in the iris of her eye, he was expressionless. Carlson stared and felt nothing, turning quickly, he headed back into the duplex, still burning with the little girls mother still inside on the second floor. Entering, Carlson knew he was going to burn with the house and the little girls mother. When he got to the first staircase, he could no longer hear the desperate pleadings of the mother, he continued up the stairs. The seventh step gave out on him, tearing and trapping his leg. Carlson screamed and fell backward, deepening the gashes in his leg. He lay for a few seconds, blankly staring at the thick blanket of black smoke rippling across the patched ceiling, when it there as a shift and it fell down upon him.

part II

John gave a sweeping eulogy at Carlson’s funeral, commemorating Carlson for his bravery, honor, sense of responsibility &duty, and for being a good husband and father. Throughout the entirety of the wake, John stood to the right of Jennifer, Carlson’s now widow, with a tear swelled up in the corner of his right eye. He gave the same scattered answer to every person passing, how brave, how honest, a beautiful man for such courage, shaking hands firmly and warmly embracing with open arms when applicable. On the car ride home John sat with arms stretched forward, locked on the steering wheel. His wife half turned to the window, staring at more of her own reflection rather than the scenery, mumbled out striking words. John bit his lip and whimpered with tears streaming from his eyes, he stared out the window and continued to drive into the sunrise.

part III

Jennifer sat across her therapist, a glass table separated them, and along it there were different Japanese nick knacks and prints, a poorly kept bonsai tree was set in the center of it and Jennifer had memorized every single detail of it. She had looked down at that table nearly every day for the past two weeks, detesting every aspect of it. The therapist cleared her throat and caught Jennifer’s eyes away from the table; they met with her therapist’s as she continued to speak,
“Jennifer, you can’t continue with this anger. You don’t know what he was thinking when he went back into that building, and honestly I think it’s unjustified for you to say that he was being selfish.”
With this, Jennifer took her hands neatly placed from underneath her legs and placed them under the glass table, which caught the therapist to break away from the staring contest that had developed between them. Jennifer continued to stare straight ahead and flipped the glass table over. The glass splintered and shattered, covering the floor, leaving only the golden spray-painted metal frame of the table on its side. Jennifer stood up brushing the glass off her white dress and calmly walked towards the door, stopping, then continuing out.

I have a problem with procrastinating and not allotting myself enough time to do the things I don’t want to do. After not giving myself enough time to do the shitty things I run out of time for the things I want to be doing. We had to read Carol Duncan for class and I didn’t enjoy it. I wanted to have many more images to show tonight. This picture is my most recent, I made it over the weekend. And in a real sunday and wednesday fashion, I’m showing it with the blatant cloning marks on the table. There was something large on the table, and I realized after scanning that it needed to be removed, I thought it worked better with just the tree. I am going to re take it this weekend. I turned 22 today/thursday. More new ones on sunday