The Photograph: Rudolf Nureyev

Rudolf Nureyev in La Bayadère, Palais Garnier 1974.
Image by André Chino.

The image shows Rudolf Nureyev, the dancer, the lover, the bon viveur: A lone bright figure on a dark Paris stage, his costume as radiant as his face. The performance that night is La Bayadère, Marius Petipa's romantic and exotic classic. 

Having only recently discovered the vast and omnifarious world of ballet for myself - don't worry, I'd rather watch than try the steps myself - I am drawn into the tales behind the perfect little pliés. And, oh my, is the name Rudolf Nureyev rich with stories. Take this image: It's one of those blissful moments in which life imitates (or should I say: is preceded by) art.

Nureyev certainly was the shining figure he presents in the picture. In his androgyny and intensity he quickly became a blazing star once he had escaped the bonds of the Soviet Union. Julie Kavanagh and Joan Acocella describe in detail how he, in his love for tights and self-presentation, set new standards for male ballet dancing.

But there's more to this image than, well, a pretty confident guy in dazzling white tights on a black stage. I was thrilled to learn that the scene depicted is La Bayadère's The Kingdom of the Shades, an opium-driven, hypnotic hallucination of a ballet. Arlene Croce of The New Yorker once outlined its substance beautifully:

"The subject of the Kingdom of the Shades is not really death, although everyone in it except for the hero is dead. It's Elysian bliss, and its subject is eternity ... [it is] a poem about dancing and memory and time."

The scene's theme echoes hauntingly in Nureyevs life. If his life, his world weren't created by hallucinatory drugs, they certainly were shaped by excess, by numerous lovers hidden in the shadows, by a relentless pursuit of fame. And in retrospect one can feel time pressing upon Nureyev - he must have felt it himself, dancing up into his 40s, unwilling to leave the limelight, half-joking about his "old galoshes". The stage, the dancing kept him alive as long as they could, as if to Nureyev death never really mattered - only the eternity in which his name, his work would be remembered. In 1992, shortly before his AIDS death, he, sick and struggling, staged his last ballet on a Paris stage: La Bayadère. 

This is the third installment of 'The Photograph', a series of pictures that I love, find remarkable or important, and which I will present on this blog on a non-regular basis.

Karolus Naga: Trans Islam

We find ourselves in the midst of a wild bout of Islamophobia that seems to have infected not only a large sum of confused individuals in my birth country (Pegida, I'm looking at you!) but indeed quite a lot of people across all of Western Europe - France with Je Suis Charlie and the Front National, Great Britain with its IS runaways and UKIP, Danmark and Sweden, to name only a very few. The tone is agitated, if not hysterical; the news scream at you with headlines and images, heated over the fire of prejudice and ignorance. In fact, the moment could hardly have been any more poignant when I rediscovered Karolus Naga, and his beautiful project Trans Islam. 

It's a fresh breeze, this project. Naga has uncovered the life at Pesantren Senen-Kamis, a Koran school for transgender and transvestites in Notoyudan, Indonesia. The classic black and white photojournalistic images are as adamant as they should be: persistently they remind the viewer that religion should be a place of communal joy and peace, and that the Islam is no exception to this. "People will find this place silly and nonsense", Naga quotes Maryani, founder of the centre, in his synopsis; but there is nothing silly in Naga's still, unbiased look. In the accompanying video the ambient noise of the school draws you in, alluring, almost hypnotising, into peaceful moments of prayer and conversation, shared by young and old, lovingly reflected in the calm monochrome pictures.

But Naga's view does not remain in the school; his eye wanders out to the community, to blazing sunshine and rainy streets, into dark alleyways and crammed back rooms, beauty salons and street markets, onto tattooed upper arms, heavy eye lashes, and happy smiles. In its best moments, the project is reminiscent of Christer Strömholm and his amies de place blanche, in their silent appreciation and admiration of vibrant characters, beauty and life itself. It transcends the subject of religion, captured in the title, and opens up to a fragile community. The perils of harassment and discrimination, sex work and self-destruction are not spared from the viewer, but neither are the cheerful faces, the pretty dresses, the guidance, strength and optimism of the portrayed persons. Every now and then a headscarf or a hand raised for prayer will lead you back to the central point of discussion, with the gentle reminder that you should never, ever judge a person solely on their religion, their profession, their appearance. (So deep, eh?!)

I like to imagine all the bigots crumbling when they see this project, slowly choking with their hate of Moslems, people of colour, trans people, sex workers; or possibly their heads exploding over the idea of a transgender Koran school: Diversity within a world religion, who would have thought? Maybe such a project will change some minds. Maybe it just makes the problem worse. Personally, I will hold on to the serenity and joy of Naga's images, and hope that I don't explode the next time I see a stupid headline, hear a stupid word, have to face all this weird hate. Hey, Europe, get a grip.

James Bidgood: Pink Narcissus, or The Woes of Money

James Bidgood, Cadet, Pink Narcissus

When I had just started university, "back in the days", I was asked to write a paragraph about 'a person I particularly admire'. My teacher at that time was a red-haired, henna-painted San Francisco native who would regularly spread some joy in the gray uni hallways with colourful pro-choice or gay-rights posters on her door. (That is how I remember her anyway...) Hence, I decided not to go with the typical "my grandmother because she has had a hard life" or "Beyoncé because... that booty!" choice. I went all the way and wrote a text about James Bidgood, whose Taschen monograph I had bought on discount in some obscure bookshop a few weeks before.

This is what 19-year-old me wrote about Bidgood: 

"The U.S.-American photographer and filmmaker James Bidgood is a person I particularly admire for his devotion to his work. Bidgood made his only film Pink Narcissus in the years from 1964 to 1970. In those six years, he and his leading actor shot scenes when they had enough money and otherwise lived from hand to mouth and slept in Bidgood's small apartment. There, he would design and build up all the required imaginative sets himself, using cheap and primitive materials such as plastic leaves, aluminium foil and chicken wire. Due to his perfectionism, Bidgood needed twenty to thirty takes and an incredible mass of footage for each scene. When the film was taken away from him before he could finish it he fell into depression and destroyed most of his film material. In regard to his enthusiasm and endurance as well as his creativity James Bidgood is an inspiration for many people who believe in what they love most."

James Bidgood, Mandolin, Gilded Cage, mid-1960s

Makes him sounds like a legend, doesn't it? To be honest, back then I wasn't to prone to research and most of the facts presented are probably taken straight from either the monograph or wikipedia. One thing I definitely omitted to acknowledge - negligently, I need to say, and for no good reason, given my rather, eh, liberal teacher: Bidgood is an artist with a vision. A very queer vision.

James Bidgood should be widely celebrated as a pioneer of gay art, because that is what he is. His images are wonderfully camp, bubblegum-coloured fantasies. The gorgeous boy models - Pink Narcissus' actor Bobby Kendall was Bidgood's lover - are wearing rather little, and in between all the glitter, glamour and kitsch (Bidgood's training as a New York costume designer certainly did not go unused) lies a naive longing for romance. The images, inspired by 1920s nude photography and the legendary Ziegfeld Follies revues, are a feast for the eyes, reveling in excess, in the beauty of a time where, to paraphrase the equally flamboyant Liberace, "too much of a good thing was wonderful".

Bobby Kendall in Pink Narcissus

But in the end, it was just a paragraph I had to write and I would soon move on to pen argumentative essays about whether homosexuals should be allowed to join the army (copies are provided on request). The monograph was packed into some box when I left the country some time later, and basically forgot. So when Out Magazine told their Facebook community today: "Fund This: James Bidgood's Art. The iconic photographer and designer is raising funds so he can continue creating.", it led me to make two surprising discoveries; that a) Bidgood is not, as I had assumed, dead; and b) that I am still totally crazy for his work, that I find it admirable, and that I think more people should be inspired by it.

So here's the deal: James Bidgood is fundraising. The godfather of all camp is alive and kicking, and he needs money to produce more glitz and glam with a new digital camera and (oh my goodness, think of the creative possibilities!) Photoshop. Because, you know, not every pioneer is rich. And even plastic leaves and chicken foil need to be paid.

So get your purse out, and excuse me while I go looking for the box with the monograph. And please say hi to my teacher.

Deutsche Börse Photography Prize 2015

Today, I am really happy to read that Zanele Muholi, who I have written about several times on this blog, has been nominated for the prestigious Deutsche Börse Photography Prize 2015. The judges, among them photographer Rineke Dijkstra and Chris Boot of Aperture, decided to acknowledge Muholi's work Faces and Phases (2006-2014).

Earlier this year, I went to Paris Photo where I found Faces and Phases in its most recent form, an enormous book published by Steidl.

Just chillin' at Paris Photo shelves: Faces and Phases

Although I loved the simple design and the beautiful black and white printing (straightforward-ness always strikes a chord in me) and despite my long-declared love for Muholi's work, I actually did not end up buying the book. For a simple reason: I prefer those images on a wall, in a big print, when her subjects seem to look right back at you. In gallery prints the sheer power of Faces and Phases and other works is enriched by a sense of intimacy, which the book does not quite manage to pull off. Luckily Paris Photo is a powerhouse of photography, and in one of the many corners I found Muholi on the wall, too, as represented by Yancey Richardson Gallery from NYC.

Either way, it's lovely to see her work slowly being recognised on a much lager scale. The Deutsche Börse prize is a big deal, and she's up against strong competitors like the amazing Viviane Sassen. I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Pride: Review

I finally managed to watch Pride yesterday. For everyone who completely missed out on Facebook, Twitter and every relevant magazine, here's the trailer:

I was naturally curious to see it, since it's set in South Wales (where I happen to live), it's about the gay and lesbian community (which I happen to support), and it's about the struggle of the Welsh miners in that capitalist catastrophe better known as the Thatcher era. Produced by the BBC and starring a whole bunch of top actors, the film had its big debut in Cannes, and from thereon set out to conquer our hearts. 

It's a cheery little gem, this film. It just does everything right that is needed in order to give the audience a bloody good time. There are the outsiders and the oppressed, lots of fairly complex yet not overbearing characters to sympathise with. There are cleverly-written, cunning, funny lines, and there's the notorious scene highlight that includes a group of innocent women, some of them elderly, and a dildo. There's the lovely underlying message, quite a few prejudices from all sides taken on with good humour, there's the link to the real events of 1984/1985, and a heart-lifting climax. There's Dominic West and Andrew Scott as a loving couple - how can you not love them?!

It's a simple formula, I guess. Yet it works. It is such a feel-good film, it should be taught in film class at every college as the best example of the feel-good film. I can't quite put my finger on what makes Pride so special. It might be that everyone involved in making this movie really seemed to care. Or maybe it is just Dominic West and Andrew Scott, or that adorable Welsh accent. Maybe y'all should go watch the film and find out for yourselves.

(Warning: You'll find yourselves with a very possessive tune stuck in your head, and a sudden urge to show solidarity to anything around you. That's not a bad thing, mind you.)

Photo Festival Secvențe - a review

©Gabriel Amza

6th September, 2014. It's shortly after 4 pm, we're in the History Museum of Ploiești, Romania, and in less than half an hour I'm scheduled to give a talk. I've titled the presentation "Transcendence: Gender in Photography", rather optimistically, as for in my head it's more something between "the first spoken version of my blog, how exciting" and "what the f*** am I doing here". I haven't practiced. I haven't even looked at my notes twice. And to make everything even less predictable, my laptop won't work with the projector, and I don't have an USB stick.
Thanks God there's Anda. Anda is here, friendly, caring, and although she doesn't speak English very well - and my Romanian is basically non-existent - she's got a laptop, an USB stick, and she knows what she is doing.
The first page of my presentation appears on the wall. Slowly the room fills with visitors, curiously staring alternately at me or their smart phones. I'm ready to go, just waiting for the last group to flood in, and practicing opening lines in my head. 
I turn around.
The laptop is blank, and the wall dark. I have no idea what... "ANDA?"

It's the second edition of the photo festival Secvențe in Ploiești, and although it's my second time exhibiting, it's the first time I've actually made it to the town of 300,000 people south-east of the Carpathians. I'm here thanks to an invitation by festival founder and study colleague Cătălin Munteanu, and I have to say, I'm quite impressed.
Driven by Cătălin and his never tiring volunteers, the festival aims to carefully wake the curiosity for photography among the Ploieștians, and given the versatile and thought-through programs, they've got every reason to be curious. Alongside exhibitions in some of the city's most prestigious buildings, there are a street display, talks, portfolio presentations, workshops, concerts and a lantern party in the city park. And although the program is packed, my companion Mira and I never find ourselves running from one place to another; there's always time for a chat, a stroll through the park or one of the notorious pastries from that Gigi place right opposite the history museum. From a North-Western European (okay, German) point of view, Romanians practice a jolly laissez-faire in regards to time: You're 'late'? There is no such thing as 'late'. 'Ten minutes' might be thirty. Once you get the rhythm, it's truly liberating.
The exhibitions themselves are oscillating between documentary, photo art, fashion, portrait and whatever else comes to mind. It's a colourful, yet challenging mix of foreign photographers like Mira and me, and Romanians from all over the country. While in some places the exhibitions have been carefully curated, others are more motley, and they succeed or fall with the location. In the giant hall of the Cultural Palace the few photo walls seem a bit lost, and the street display is struggling with the strong winds; in the pub Conac however, the giant prints look like home. 
Given that it's only its second edition, it is only natural that Secvențe is suffering from a few infantile disorders. The funding stems mainly from Cătălin and his volunteers' pockets, so the exhibitions are kept as simple as possible (that includes tons of blue tac) and there's a disheartening lack of advertisement which leads to the larger masses ignoring the small festival. It's again the Conac that is attracting the majority of visitors, as it is also the locations for the nightly concerts. Together with the street display, it's where the audience is at. The talks and workshops are rather visited by the photographers, coming from near and far to attend the show, and the volunteers; after a few of them, you know their faces.
What I thoroughly enjoy throughout the festival is the constant exchange with these people, though. By the second afternoon, Mira and I have our 'gang', consisting of a few Romanian photographers - much needed, as they translate to us most of what is going on - and their friends. Together we discuss our projects, the state of women in the arts, Romanian history, traditional sports, studying abroad; or we simply enjoy some documentary films by a bottle of beer. As diverse the exhibitions are, as different are the people we meet: there is always something to discuss, to ask, to laugh about. Most of them are also giving a presentation, like me, and are as excited to hear feedback. Sometimes it gets as profound as it can get in photography:
"Projects are like girlfriends - they come and go", philosophises Gabriel.
- "Maybe you haven't met the right project yet!"
"Maybe there isn't the right project..."
- "You are such a slut!"
At the end of the day it's the atmosphere that makes the festival great for me. It's a good atmosphere. It's warm, summery even, the people are nice, helpful, cheerful (I have mentioned Anda, my guardian angel?). You don't have to speak Romanian, you just get along. There is so much to see, and it feels easy, accessible, even when you're from a different culture entirely.
There's a lot of space to grow in for Secvențe. The blood, sweat and tears of Cătălin and his volunteers are only to be applauded, and I really hope that Secvențe is going to continue, to make more and more people excited about photography - there really is something for everyone at this festival, and if it is just a beer and a good chat, than that's fine.

Meanwhile, back at the History Museum, I've somehow made it through the first few slides, a tour de force through gender theory, and people genuinely seem to like what I'm doing. This is the reason why I don't practice: I'm much more free, I can be responsive, I can happily shout "Gender is fun!" five times in fourty minutes - which I do, as Mira points out afterwards. When Gabriel loudly appreciates my re-telling of the gender-bending adventures of Scott Schuman, "This guy is fabulous!", I'm like f***, yeah. I'm really enjoying myself. Everything is going well. Problems? No problems. I'm in Romania, I don't speak Romanian, I'm at a photography festival talking about Gender Studies, and everyone's fine. Hello, Ploiești, nice to meet you, see you next year.

©Cătălin Munteanu

©Cristina Venedict

The included photographs are examples of work by a few of the many photographers I met during the festival. A write-up of the presentation "Transcendence: Gender in Photography", also known as "GENDER IS FUN!", will follow soon in several blogposts over the next few weeks. Keep your eyes peeled, and watch out for Secvențe!
Also, please excuse the weird font on the Romanian characters. Romanian is something that my blog, like me, sadly refuses to learn.

Jenny Nordberg / Adam Ferguson: Bacha Posh

Following up the Sworn Virgins of Albania, a project by Pepa Hristova, which went viral a few months ago - and will get an entry of its own on this blog soon - an interesting story from Afghanistan emerged recently. Jenny Nordberg, journalist, tells the stories of girls who live as boys to fulfill a social role, who live up to their parents' and society's expectations this way.

Bacha posh Mehran. Photo: Adam Ferguson

These so-called bacha posh are girls made boys to save their families from starving, or mere ridicule in a strictly patriarchal society: Girls and women are often not allowed to work, and families with only daughters are frowned upon. It is yet another example that a change of gender does not need to happen on the basis of body dysphoria and has nothing to do with sexuality - on the contrary, both the bacha posh and the sworn virgins from Albania emphasise the importance of virginity. The change takes place outwardly, through clothes, change of speech and behaviour; what is beneath the clothes is never mentioned or shown. As Mehran's (see above) headteacher points out, "what sets little boys and girls apart is all exterior: pants versus skirts". It is an accepted practice for little girls in Afghanistan, and the only way to ditch the rigorous binary gender regime in which women are valued far less than men.

Zahra, living as a boy since being very little. Photo: Adam Ferguson

As opposed to the sworn virgins, the bacha posh maintain their switched gender roles only until they reach the age of marriage. This only means that children in Afghanistan become part of the patriarchal system very early, and especially the bacha posh experience how fickle freedom can be. Nordberg quotes Robin Morgan on how destructive patriarchy can be to the life of an individual: "[Birth] Sex is a reality, gender and freedom are ideas."

Jenny Nordberg's extensive findings have been featured in the Guardian and The Atlantic, among others, and will be published in a book soon.