Any gallery display that has the title, ‘How We Are’ would be failing in its duty if it didn’t reflect the British sense of humour. Tate Britain’s current photographic exhibition is ultimately successful in depicting our love of a laugh, but it is a slow build-up as the first room is crammed with images of Queen Victoria and numerous other subjects who are not amused. It is, however, always engaging.
The 19th century camera was far from ideal for capturing fleeting expressions of character and the only people with enough space in their diaries to pose were the upper-classes. Consequently, the initial images give the impression that early cameras could capture the moustache, but not the chin. Moreover, it is not until the models start to believe the photographer’s assertions that the contraption won’t explode that we see anything resembling emotion. However as the room progresses, the variety of faces from Britain’s pre-laughter era slowly increases. The poses remain stern but they start to suggest that the subject has a pulse, and, towards the end of the room, there is the first of many examples of our fancy for dressing-up.
The room climaxes with Hugh Diamond’s photos and his collection seems to delineate the moment when the camera captured more than just stoical faces. Unfortunately, the subjects are ‘insane’. They are predominantly women, presumably institutionalised because they were capable of more than one facial expression. How times change. If they were banged up in the Big Brother house, they would be voted off for their inability to emote.
The second room covers the early part of the 20th century, leading to the end of the First World War. The photograph is increasingly used for political purposes and there are some interesting shots of the Suffragettes: the images from the criminal record office proved to be an effective recruitment tool to their cause, a reminder that images can have a power beyond their original intention. This theme is explored further with the arrival of the snapshot camera and the democratisation of photography: a child’s confused face, once just a picture in a family album is now, on the gallery wall, part of a living history.
As the exhibition evolves into its third room, there is a sense that the establishment has cottoned onto the image’s power to manipulate the viewer’s emotions. In the preceding room, the brutal, shocking images of the First World War were damaging to the nation’s perception of itself. However, the shots from the Second World War are largely cosy, such as the one of an injured, but un-bloodied, serviceman being safely loaded onto a biplane by serene members of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. The epitome is probably the collection by Captain Alfred George Burkham. His aerial photos of the Thames are inspiring, but look as authentic as the climax of the original King Kong.
One pin prick to the bubble created by the clean-cut, wartime images is the row of Percy Hennell photos. They are of plastic surgery patients from the RAF hospital. The images are arresting, disturbing, and an effective counterpoint to the propaganda.
The twenty five years following the Second World War is the focus of the 4th room and it provides an interesting snapshot of the nation’s changing focus. There is a prevalence of rural photographs from the 1940s which are highly similar to those of the 19th century. It is as if professional photographers (or, the organisers of the exhibition) were aware of the nation’s need for reminders of simpler times, to help forge on and blank out the war’s blitzed city aftermath. Although it is predominantly an exhibition of urban landscapes, there are regular reminders of the role of the countryside in forming the national psyche.
The gallery traces the hangover of war and the growing aspirations of Britain in the fifties. The people are in these images are fed up with the ‘make do and mend’ movement and fully embrace the decade’s Mark’s and Spark’s revolution. There is innocence on display, captured by Charlie Phillips’ inter-racial shots of Notting Hill, and they are a reminder of a time when we would socialise in the street. There are no shots of the area’s riots in 1958, but neither are there any of the following year’s carnival. These images highlight history by showing ordinary people, living through it, not making it.
The next room, 1970-1990, highlights the growth of possibilities for a career in photography, as professionals pursued more than just studio portraiture. With the rise of Thatcherism, a lot of them found a market for photographic satire. There are plenty of shots of offices but it is a hilarious quartet of images called, ‘Looking for Love’ that provides the essence of the exhibition.
It documents the opening of Britain’s first disco-pub and features four couples coming together on the dance floor. The first three images offer a pair about to embark on their first kiss. Trepidation and uncertainty colour their faces as they fumble forwards, dancers of insecurity and nerves. The final shot features two young men hugging each other and they look ecstatic.
It’s a penetrating collection of images because it illustrates the fear of embarrassment and then contrasts it with matey, drunken belonging. It nails the theme of self-consciousness, present throughout the exhibition. Seemingly, if we are to enjoy the company of our fellow Brits, we have to be in work, in costume or intoxicated.
What else could explain the ‘Horn Dancers’, a picture of three 19th century sourpusses, seemingly dressed for a frat party, snapped by Benjamin Stone? It’s the perfect image to comprehend how eccentricity can be born from the anxious need to structure time. In some ways, the costume is a comfort uniform: it helps us to avoid that difficult nonsense of, ‘What do you, then?’ and we cannot be accused of making a scene when we are dressed in clothes fit for the stage.
The exhibition concludes with images taking us into the 21st century but still avoids depiction of celebrity and focuses on changing landscapes. Some of the images from the last ten years highlight the process of Americanisation. Multiplexes, shopping malls and industrial complexes are leaping up in the hinterland between town and country. It is almost as if the pioneer spirit is at its most conquering when presented with land that most closely resembles a prairie.
At one of its final points, the exhibition invites visitors to contribute their own photographs to a gallery, where it will be displayed at Tate Britain, Tate Online and The Observer’s web-site. If interested there are further details here.
It is a project to be encouraged because the exhibition works as a comprehensive family album of Britain and it should be expanded. The shared history resonates and thickens the blood. When you see images of people laughing, holding their hats, on the beach at Blackpool, it doesn’t matter if you have never seen the place; you will have been through a similar experience and sent the saucy postcard. In some ways, it is eerie, like seeing one of your facial expressions on a photo of your grandfather; but, when that passes, you feel connected, amused and proud. Maybe even a tad self-conscious. It’s a poignant experience, as it always is when you open the family album.
The 19th century camera was far from ideal for capturing fleeting expressions of character and the only people with enough space in their diaries to pose were the upper-classes. Consequently, the initial images give the impression that early cameras could capture the moustache, but not the chin. Moreover, it is not until the models start to believe the photographer’s assertions that the contraption won’t explode that we see anything resembling emotion. However as the room progresses, the variety of faces from Britain’s pre-laughter era slowly increases. The poses remain stern but they start to suggest that the subject has a pulse, and, towards the end of the room, there is the first of many examples of our fancy for dressing-up.
The room climaxes with Hugh Diamond’s photos and his collection seems to delineate the moment when the camera captured more than just stoical faces. Unfortunately, the subjects are ‘insane’. They are predominantly women, presumably institutionalised because they were capable of more than one facial expression. How times change. If they were banged up in the Big Brother house, they would be voted off for their inability to emote.
The second room covers the early part of the 20th century, leading to the end of the First World War. The photograph is increasingly used for political purposes and there are some interesting shots of the Suffragettes: the images from the criminal record office proved to be an effective recruitment tool to their cause, a reminder that images can have a power beyond their original intention. This theme is explored further with the arrival of the snapshot camera and the democratisation of photography: a child’s confused face, once just a picture in a family album is now, on the gallery wall, part of a living history.
As the exhibition evolves into its third room, there is a sense that the establishment has cottoned onto the image’s power to manipulate the viewer’s emotions. In the preceding room, the brutal, shocking images of the First World War were damaging to the nation’s perception of itself. However, the shots from the Second World War are largely cosy, such as the one of an injured, but un-bloodied, serviceman being safely loaded onto a biplane by serene members of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. The epitome is probably the collection by Captain Alfred George Burkham. His aerial photos of the Thames are inspiring, but look as authentic as the climax of the original King Kong.
One pin prick to the bubble created by the clean-cut, wartime images is the row of Percy Hennell photos. They are of plastic surgery patients from the RAF hospital. The images are arresting, disturbing, and an effective counterpoint to the propaganda.
The twenty five years following the Second World War is the focus of the 4th room and it provides an interesting snapshot of the nation’s changing focus. There is a prevalence of rural photographs from the 1940s which are highly similar to those of the 19th century. It is as if professional photographers (or, the organisers of the exhibition) were aware of the nation’s need for reminders of simpler times, to help forge on and blank out the war’s blitzed city aftermath. Although it is predominantly an exhibition of urban landscapes, there are regular reminders of the role of the countryside in forming the national psyche.
The gallery traces the hangover of war and the growing aspirations of Britain in the fifties. The people are in these images are fed up with the ‘make do and mend’ movement and fully embrace the decade’s Mark’s and Spark’s revolution. There is innocence on display, captured by Charlie Phillips’ inter-racial shots of Notting Hill, and they are a reminder of a time when we would socialise in the street. There are no shots of the area’s riots in 1958, but neither are there any of the following year’s carnival. These images highlight history by showing ordinary people, living through it, not making it.
The next room, 1970-1990, highlights the growth of possibilities for a career in photography, as professionals pursued more than just studio portraiture. With the rise of Thatcherism, a lot of them found a market for photographic satire. There are plenty of shots of offices but it is a hilarious quartet of images called, ‘Looking for Love’ that provides the essence of the exhibition.
It documents the opening of Britain’s first disco-pub and features four couples coming together on the dance floor. The first three images offer a pair about to embark on their first kiss. Trepidation and uncertainty colour their faces as they fumble forwards, dancers of insecurity and nerves. The final shot features two young men hugging each other and they look ecstatic.
It’s a penetrating collection of images because it illustrates the fear of embarrassment and then contrasts it with matey, drunken belonging. It nails the theme of self-consciousness, present throughout the exhibition. Seemingly, if we are to enjoy the company of our fellow Brits, we have to be in work, in costume or intoxicated.
What else could explain the ‘Horn Dancers’, a picture of three 19th century sourpusses, seemingly dressed for a frat party, snapped by Benjamin Stone? It’s the perfect image to comprehend how eccentricity can be born from the anxious need to structure time. In some ways, the costume is a comfort uniform: it helps us to avoid that difficult nonsense of, ‘What do you, then?’ and we cannot be accused of making a scene when we are dressed in clothes fit for the stage.
The exhibition concludes with images taking us into the 21st century but still avoids depiction of celebrity and focuses on changing landscapes. Some of the images from the last ten years highlight the process of Americanisation. Multiplexes, shopping malls and industrial complexes are leaping up in the hinterland between town and country. It is almost as if the pioneer spirit is at its most conquering when presented with land that most closely resembles a prairie.
At one of its final points, the exhibition invites visitors to contribute their own photographs to a gallery, where it will be displayed at Tate Britain, Tate Online and The Observer’s web-site. If interested there are further details here.
It is a project to be encouraged because the exhibition works as a comprehensive family album of Britain and it should be expanded. The shared history resonates and thickens the blood. When you see images of people laughing, holding their hats, on the beach at Blackpool, it doesn’t matter if you have never seen the place; you will have been through a similar experience and sent the saucy postcard. In some ways, it is eerie, like seeing one of your facial expressions on a photo of your grandfather; but, when that passes, you feel connected, amused and proud. Maybe even a tad self-conscious. It’s a poignant experience, as it always is when you open the family album.
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