Confronting the dead: ‘The Last Image’ at C / O Berlin

‘The Last Image: Photography and Death’ presents the endeavour of artists throughout the ages to grapple with the mysterious concept of mortality through the medium of photography.

With over four hundred works, the collection is divided into three main sections: ‘Dying’, ‘Killing’ and ‘Surviving’ which explore the human compulsion to produce a lasting image of life after it has been extinguished.

As this exhibition illuminates through fine art, journalistic and scientific photographs, death is an inherent part of the medium of photography itself. For Susan Sontag a photograph is “both a psuedo-presence and a token of absence.” Photographs represent reality, but only ever in a past moment. They portray life and death, presence and absence, simultaneously.

Nowhere is this duality more apparent than in the post-mortem funeral pictures of the early nineteenth century, which were presented in glass cases in the ‘Dying’ part of the exhibition. Limp bodies dressed in smart clothes – their hair neat and faces powdered – were presented, in death, in the manner in which they lived. With eyes closed, their vacant expressions give the illusion of a person dreaming, rather than a person who is no longer alive.  

 

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G. M. Howe, Older Child Propped on Pillow and Tucked in Bed, ca. 1853, Daguerreotype . Courtesy Stanley B. Burns, MD Photography Collection and The Burns Archive, New York

Photographs taken after death were a way of immortalising the departed. Post-mortem photography became central to the grieving process of the loved ones left behind – a way to deal with, and perhaps even defy, the finiteness of death.

The most disturbing images of all in this section were the pictures of dead infants – their corpses propped up in lifelike poses as if still among the living.  

Striking, too, were photographs of women in coffins,  interred with a mass of flowers arranged around their heads. Ostensibly, the aesthetic decoration of a corpse created a more palatable image of death for those left to grieve – a concept that can be seen in wider traditions of nineteenth century culture.

In literature of this period, the trope of the beautiful, dead beloved, made only more lovely by the seal of mortality, reflected ideas about love and memory. Arranging the corpse like a work of art allowed the dead body to be preserved as a lasting image in the mind of the still-living lover.

The next part of the exhibition takes the viewer from the funeral to the morgue in a series of images about murder. ‘The Morgue (Rat Poison Suicide I)’ by Andreas Serano, presents a body – or  part of one, at least – post-mortem. In the image, the foot of a cadaver lies lifeless on a crumpled body bag. Stark white flesh, coloured only by a gaping wound beneath the body’s left ankle, is made visible against an oblique background.

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Andres Serrano, Rat Poison Suicide II, a.d.S. The Morgue, 1992 Cibachrome © Andres Serrano, 2018 . Courtesy Galerie Nathalie Obadia, Paris/Bruxelles

Photographs taken in a medical setting such as this often serve to distance the viewer from their severity. The body’s individuality is reduced to a lifeless specimen on an operating table.

Photographs in journalism and media can arguably have a similar effect on the beholder. ‘The Last Image’ presents photographs of high profile deaths in the last century.  Images of John Kennedy’s murder plastered in newspapers and periodicals of the time, each accompanied by catchy headlines and portraits of the smiling President, remind of how death has, throughout history, often been turned into a public spectacle for the benefit of the voyeur. Death can be a good story, not a tragedy.

A postcard depicting a victim of lynching has onlookers in the exhibition reeling. In the image, a man’s tormented body hangs lifeless above crowds of people who stand moralizing – even grinning – over this supposed demonstration of justice.

From instances of targeted crime to mass genocide, photographs of the Holocaust further reveal the disquieting silence of the still image. Scenes of anguished faces, anonymous corpses piled high and loaded incinerators are fixed in time through the lens of the camera as a memory that cannot be erased.

‘The Last Image’ is brutal and heavy, succeeding in having its viewers shocked and disgusted. It handles a broad range of interpretations of death, suggests its sensationalist potential, and even exposes the voyeuristic compulsion of humans to look at, and wonder, at images of death.

 

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Fragments of a former life

There’s something quite beautiful about old buildings that have fallen into disuse.

I contemplated this as I stood before a shattered house outside the entrance of The Castelo de Sao Jorge in Lisbon. Stripped of its life and warmth, it looked so out of place next to the pastel coloured homes that had aged more delicately.

As I gazed around the square at the foot of the castle – at tourists whose hands and eyes remained glued to their cameras – I noticed how this building was the only one veiled in shadow. It had been banished to a corner where no people gathered, and where no sunlight could share it’s warmth.

I looked up at this place held hostage to the past: at the boards placed adjacently over the windows, where only a crack of light could escape, and at the wrought-iron balconies wearing thick jackets of rust. Weeds had made their way into every crack, sprouting ugly thistles and ash-coloured buds, while plaster fell as dust to the ground below. A palpable sense of loneliness seeped through the walls.

An old sign reading Largo de Santa Cruz Do Costelo bore the name of the home that had been disgraced by its abandoners. The stone steps beneath that used to yield to pattering feet were now stained and empty. I sat there, if only for a moment.

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This house was a symbol of memory, a sad representation of a former life. I thought of the people who had lived there before: how their furniture had been arranged inside and what flowers they has placed on their windowsills. Could they have imagined that their home would one day be in ruins?

I looked at this house, at this soul that had been hollowed out and left for dead, and thought of the chaos it had endured. I thought of my home.

In life, we all want things to stay the same. We remain in comfortable surroundings, afraid of our lives crumbling to ruins.

Shameless in its wreckage, this former abode stood firm. Nature persisted, instilling life in the old bricks where there previously was none. This house was both a relic of the past and a portent of the future. I felt hopeful that a day would come where it was adapted or built entirely anew.

A lady dressed in red would come to her small, rectangular balcony to smoke a cigarette. Flowers blooming at the windowsill would throw spots of colour in the eye of both owner and passer-by, and in the evening, moonlight would line the narrow alleyways for night strollers to chase down the street.

In a moment I was reassured that life isn’t as turbulent as it may seem. Chaos is sometimes just a reminder to begin again. To create something new from the ruins.

 

October rain: escaping the city

It poured with rain in Berlin today. It was an odd feeling. So used to sunny skies, I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have the weather appropriate your mood. It was a pathetic fallacy, if ever there was one.

I don’t often find myself in what I would consider to be the centre of Berlin. Now that I’m not so much of a tourist, areas like Friedrichstrasse, Checkpoint Charlie and Brandenburger Tor are places I’m less likely to come across during my daily activities.

Wandering through the streets of tarmac and white paint on my way to the shopping centre, (an experience that often makes me feel like a cow being sent to slaughter) I was reminded why I always said I’d never live in a city. Turning my eye above street view, I remembered how, even as a child, I thought of skyscrapers as deeply dystopian structures. Unforgivably straight and sinister, they loomed spectre-like over my path, suffocating me, if only for a moment.

I love Berlin: the coexistence of old and new, the multitude of ideas and perspectives brought by people as opposite as storm and sunshine and the remnants of baroque architecture. Even its unashamedly shabby parts offer a unique sense of elegance that no other war-torn city has been able to create.

While Berlin has its pockets of greenery – small havens hidden away from the austerity of concrete – sometimes this just isn’t enough.

City life doesn’t always accommodate those who want to be free, and what I mean by ‘free’ is as physical as much as it is mental. Having space is integral to sustaining my overall well-being. Sometimes I need the room to move my limbs and expand my mind. Broader landscapes and clearer skies are what I always crave.

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I’m inherently a restless person, and my usual answer to this is walking long distances. I’ve struggled my whole life with staying still, and keeping moving is the only antidote. I think this is why writing helps. The more I write, the less I feel like I am losing whatever experience and momentum I gathered with movement.

I recently tore the ligaments around my ankle which, within the first few weeks, meant I had to work from home. Being mostly unable to walk,  I wasn’t able to move and progress in the same way I’d grown so accustomed to, and it wreaked havoc on my mental health.

I’m not a person that can survive for days on end indoors – my mind eventually begins to unravel. Objects that previously seemed inert start to jump around and the sound of the clock becomes more vehement with every tick. This is the same feeling I get when I’ve stayed in the city too long. There are no ticking clocks to be heard in country air.

I like my neighbourhood. It’s simple, family-oriented, far from hipster. It has less of the hustle and bustle of Kreuzberg, or Neukolln, where walking out on the street often feels like entering a zoo.

But sometimes I wake up and hear shouts and cries from outside, the sound of people upstairs moving furniture around at 2am in the morning, (this is just speculation – I have no idea what else they would be doing at this time of night), and wonder whether I will ever wake up in the bliss of quiet.

Skulking through the urban madness of Friedrichstrasse the other day, I pondered on whether it was strange, or indeed wrong, to want to escape the place that you love once in a while. But in fact, I think it’s entirely normal.

Constant thinking, creating, analysing is a product of a city that offers so much cultural stimulation, but it can be a drain on your resources. It’s not unusual to want a change of scenery.

Leaving the confines of your immediate environment can help to renew your perspective and disrupt, if only momentarily, your dependency on routine. Learning to love uncertainty, instability and being on the move is, to me, an important step for self-development.

I may never live in a peaceful neighbourhood. I may never open my mouth to speak and hear the sound of my own voice echoing off the walls, but knowing I am free to roam is the one thing I know that keeps me sane.

Being able to disconnect is just a healthy sign that you are exactly where you want to be.

Through the looking glass: women and art at MeCollectors Berlin

Permanence and transience. Can art represent both of these simultaneously? These questions of time and history are just what “The Moment is Eternity”, an exhibition starting September 26th at meCollectors Room, aims to explore. 

Comprised of some 300 images from over 60 artists, “The Moment is Eternity” illuminates the photographic works of the Ollbricht Collection, and shows them in conjunction with a range of weird and wonderful historic artefacts from the Wunderkammer, or “Cabinet of Curiosities”. 

Considered to be one of the most extensive private collections in Europe, the Olbricht collection is filled with artwork ranging from the 16th century to the most recent contemporary work of artists and photographers.

Through an interplay of art forms, the “Moment is Eternity” looks at the theme of transience in a series of single fleeting moments – the only “perceptible slice[s] of eternity” – as captured through the lens of a camera. As meCollectors suggest in their accompanying press release, “Lending duration to the moment is inscribed into the very medium [of photography] itself.”

“The Moment is Eternity” is diverse in terms of medium and epoch. This is a collection of harmony and incongruity: where images of defining moments in history are placed next to erotic scenes of young lovers, where bodies meet with objects, colour meets with negative, and the passing of time persists despite all human effort to prevent it. 

It is this juxtaposition of the past and the present, the conventional and the absurd, that gives us a peripheral view of identity across the ages. 

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When taking my first steps into “The Moment is Eternity”, I was aware that this was an exhibition with a clear purpose. With the many sheets of information I’d been given in hand, I began looking at these images with preconceived ideas.

These works were about timelessness and eternity and about collecting and preserving, interrogating and reporting, the moment. 

These images were a tangible memento mori, a symbol of transience, mortality, life and death, mapped, at least for the first half of the exhibition, onto visceral representations of the body. 

I glanced from image to image of the human frame. Next to the exposed, elegant physique of the model Kristen McMenamy was an anatomical print of a dissected frog, a quirky reminder from the Wunderkammer of our long standing, human interest in anatomy. 

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Helmut Newton, Nude of Kristen McMenamy, 1995

It seemed odd to have a sexualised portrayal of a woman next to an obscure, even grotesque, image of a dead frog. But perhaps this was the aim: presenting incongruity to inspire new ways of seeing. 

Around the room were shameless depictions of the female body. Women were clothed, or not, arranged in a variety of positions, shamelessly projecting their identity and reflecting the aesthetics of the age from which they were captured.

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I thought of Henri Cartier-Bresson’s dictum of the ‘decisive moment’ that meCollector’s had referred to in their accompanying press release.

To capture the ‘decisive moment’ is to capture the essence of a transitory moment and the “form that corresponds to that essence” simultaneously. 

But as I looked from image to image of women stood gazing either in the mirror at themselves, or outwards towards their viewer, I thought that these weren’t, perhaps, what was meant by ‘decisive moment.’

These didn’t appear to be fleeting moments, caught in time, but moments captured, pinned down and perfectly contrived for the viewer’s pleasure. 

Russ Meyer’s ‘Eve in front of Fireplace’ seemed to confirm my view. A woman lies partially clad on a fluffy carpet, looking seductively out at the camera. The fire glows in the background as a glass of wine sits within reach of her hand – all the indications of cosy lovemaking. The artist calls her ‘Eve’, the first woman who deceived Adam and the biblical figure who has been identified for centuries as a wily seductress. 

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Russ Meyer, Eve in front of Fireplace, 1955

A person’s history is always brought to bear on an image they see before them. Mine was informed by the readings of John Berger in his essay, “Ways of seeing”, which takes a critical look at the way we perceive art. 

Berger discusses the disparity between nudity and nakedness and the rhetoric surrounding it in a chapter of his book. He says, “To be naked is to be oneself. To be nude is to be seen naked by others and yet not recognised for oneself.” 

In an an examination of the European oil painting tradition, he says that only twenty or thirty nudes in the entire collection depict a woman as herself rather than as a subject of male idealisation or desire. After reading “Ways of seeing”, I could no longer look at the naked female frame and not question whether it was indeed nakedness, or nudity, that I saw before me.

These images of women didn’t appear to be caught in time, but purposefully arranged for artistic consumption. Was the ‘decisive moment’ here, one that had been artfully put together, rather than spontaneously captured?

The images represented female identity, their roles and rituals, throughout time. But was it their own self, or one created by another, that was being presented in these images? Was Russ Meyer’s Eve naked or nude? Did she arrange herself this way, or was she arranged? I looked to the next image. 

In a black and white photograph, Cindy Sherman is captured looking into a mirror. She poses, clutching a towel around her and looking over her shoulder with a provocative gaze, as if decidedly arranged this way, perhaps even by a male photographer. The moment here was certainly ‘decisive’, yet not spontaneous. 

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Cindy Sherman, Untitled Film Still 

Through this image her identity is obscured. We see her face, but only through a secondary source – her reflection. Here, the woman doesn’t show us her real identity, but an assumed one. Her body does not relax into its natural shape, but stands perfectly poised for a photograph.

Women, mirrors, make up, masks, are historically tied up with issues of identity, authenticity, beauty and vanity. Paul Outerbridge’s ‘Nude at a dressing table’, not only depicts a woman gazing into a mirror,  but presents her applying makeup – an action seen by the Elizabethan stage as a concealing of the self. Does the woman portrayed looking into the mirror mask her identity, or accentuate it? And if so, then who for? And why?

Andre Gelpke’s ‘Christine mit Spiegel’ presents a woman behind a handheld looking glass, her face completely hidden by the mirror – her arm raised as if applying makeup to the visage she hides from view. And then there is Gerhard Richter’s, ‘Betty’, a woman captured, but looking away. Her identity unable to reach the viewer at all.

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Andre Gelpke, Christine mit Spiegel

The identity of these women, as represented by these images, reveal something about how they are, and have been, perceived, and how they perceive themselves. They are a double image, with a double purpose. A reflection in a mirror. 

I stood looking at a courtly handheld mirror, dated back to 1650, encased in a glass box near these images. Staring at this tangible emblem of “womanhood”, I wondered how many women had looked into this glass through the ages and had truly seen themselves.

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Questions of time and history returned as I wandered through the rest of the exhibition. Historically charged pictures of the first test of an Atom Bomb in New Mexico, the explosion of Mount Vesuvius and a static image of the KKK juxtaposed naked lovers on a back seat of a car and Ed va der Elksen’s photograph of a passionate, cinematic kiss. 

The ‘decisive moment’, one momentarily suspended in time and hastily captured by the lens of a camera, was here, urgent and unrelenting. Whether nude, naked, premeditated, spontaneous, for the self or for someone else, these images have something in common: they are moments in history that cannot be replicated. 

Photographs can capture, as well as distort, reality. They can confirm and conceal the self, but the ‘decisive moment’ remains the same: one that can only be captured by the swift click a shutter. 

‘The Moment is Eternity” is open until the 1st April 2019 at the MeCollectors Room Berlin. The gallery is open every Wednesday to Monday, from 12-6pm.

Autumn

Life in Autumn is but a sepia-toned shadow on a wall. It dissolves in a moment. When the snow falls, Autumn’s warm touch can leave no fingerprints of mist on Winter’s frosty panes of glass.

The other morning, I stepped outside my door and was met by a chill, yet gentle, breeze. It felt like it had been a while since I was encircled by wind, rather than draped in the humidity of warm Summer air. I hastily put on a jumper. Autumn has arrived, I thought.

Autumn air has a particular quality. A crisp edge floats on top of an otherwise warm, enriching breeze. Autumn warms your heart, rather than chills you to the marrow, like Winter. It subtly arrives, not drawing much attention to itself.

In Autumn, trees begin to relinquish their fruits; their skeletal limbs still dressed in Summer jackets. Leaves surrender their deep green colour to a palette of golds and reds, and tumble from the branches to request one last, wistful dance in the wind. The light fades earlier into a gentle hue, the horizon becomes adorned by vague, pink reflections.

Autumn is a time of preparation. Flowers close their buds to defend them from the cold, and animals begin to gather stores for the winter ahead. Slowly the earth begins to temporarily shut down into a period of stillness. Autumn is a time to wind down and look after oneself. It is the perfect time to reflect.

Autumn in literature is often synonymous with the melancholic. Persuasion in Jane Austen is described as ‘autumnal.’ The season reflects Anne Eliot’s slow decline into what she believes will be her spinsterhood: her sighs reveal her fear that her “last smiles” are already behind her.

The arrival of Autumn in literature is often seen as the end of something beautiful: plants that were so recently verdant become decay before our eyes, days end prematurely, the light weakens. And then, darkness. The ‘Autumn of life’ means the closing of days, forever.  

Autumn reminds me of transience. The earth’s physical changes symbolise how nothing lasts forever, but equally that nothing is ever lost. Life is cyclical. The sun may be waning now, but will reaffirm its presence in the Spring.

Autumn holds a mirror up to nature, and in it we can find images and reflections of ourselves. Trees cannot be evergreen, and neither can life. Our journeys will always be coloured by happiness and triumph, but inflected by pain. They cannot always have the golden sheen of Summer.

The leaves of Autumn arrive with the faint touch of a hand, only to remind us of what is real.

Autumn is about becoming and disappearing. Fading and arriving. Projecting and interrogating the self in the silent slumber of the season.

It is but a sepia-toned shadow on a wall. It dissolves in a moment. By Winter, it’s warm touch can leave no fingerprints of mist on its frosty panes of glass.

What silence did for me

 

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It’s hot. My first of Germany’s intense and unrelenting Summers. I feel a silence within me that wavers between peace and ecstasy. It is the silence of lightning diffused by rain. 

I’m sat on a rooftop at sunset, watching the heat seep into the concrete. Up here, the angles of Berlin’s skyline can be observed in their entirety. I watch as the city’s shades of beauty reveal themselves slowly over the changing light of the evening. The buildings are stripped of their sheen; each prism of light revealing their imperfections. I could have been up there for days.

It is through lasting images such as these that we connect ourselves to a time and place. I close my eyes and envision rows of pristine white, post-war houses with gilded balconies; disused buildings anticipating reconstruction; metal tramlines; cycle paths bearing a range of cyclists, some clad in thermals, others with shopping piled high in their baskets; flea markets yielding goods of old boots; exotic handmade jewellery and books with torn pages; local bakeries stocked with crisp rolls and dark rye; underground clubs with graffiti branded across every entrance; elderly couples enjoying cups of coffee across red checked tablecloths. Berlin’s spirit of change and enterprise is palpable. You can do little else but internalise it. 

In six short months, I have nearly perished in Berlin’s deathly cold – never before has my skin been touched by such biting temperatures – and witnessed the lateness of Spring. With time to spare and a mind clear enough to contemplate my surroundings, I have seen the seasons come and go so fleetingly. Snow gave way gracefully to budding flowers, withered branches grew heavy with a sudden fostering of leaves, and I too emerged from spiritual hibernation. I watched as the city came alive. 

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Graefestraße, Kreuzberg

With the first flowers of Spring came the first fleet of tourists, scurrying about the city in any available site like ants near a fruit bowl. I hear you smirking at my confidence to exclude myself from the definition of ‘tourist’, but how long does one have to be resident in a country before identifying oneself as part of it?

From the rooftop, one can cast their eye over the landscape and imagine a city decimated by War and rebuilt from the ashes. Over the horizon, I picture Hackescher Markt, now a thriving scene of commerce, desperate and despondent in its post-war gloom; the crumbling buildings, broken streets and concrete slabs graced only by the life of tangled weeds; the beauty and violence beneath our feet. 

This is a city who still sleeps with one eye open. The legacy of war is what Berlin climbs into the sheets with at night. It is the monster at the bottom of the bed. The city has been constructed anew, with every last brick a tangible emblem of what they can’t forget. 

Yet amidst the rubble, this divided city became worthy of aesthetic attention. Unlike any other place I have been to, Berlin allows its old to coexist with its new. It is a mass canvas of mixed material. Berlin’s task was not to cover and conceal, but to find a way of incorporating the past into the fabric of the future. Stagnation shifted, and reconstruction inspired a new way of seeing. 

In art nothing ever stands still, and Berlin proves it. At every street corner, workmen whistle as they emerge from newly constructed buildings, caked in plaster. The sad frames of disused warehouses brandish banners of images indicating what future form it will take. Baroque architecture maintains its majesty above street view, incorporated into newfound buildings that welcome commerce as a medium for change. Functionality collides with ornament; modernity with history. Art and architecture become the chisel with which Berlin carves itself a fresh identity. I see myself reflected in every new sheet of glass. 

Of course, places can offer you the illusion of feeling changed, or enlightened in some way. They absorb you in a swell of activity, addressing your feelings of anonymity with opportunities for communion with others. There’s a reason why backpackers return with a new set of values to match their post-travelling ponytails. They establish a new sense of self away from routine that reflects their surroundings. Liberation becomes woven into every last strand of dredlocked hair. 

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Sredzkistrasse, Prenzlauer Berg

 

There were nights when I could walk out into the city and forget I was anywhere. I had no shackles. But with an absence of responsibility came an absence of connectivity. Sometimes I felt like I could walk the streets and each house would turn their lights off one by one. No lamp would illuminate the glass allowing me to see my reflection. No flicker of a candle could offer me a nightcap. 

I was alone. The lack of light was just a tangible reminder.

Stefanie Moshammer’s “Not just your face honey” at C /O Berlin ★★★

Stefanie Moshammer’s “Not just your face honey” documents a narrative of infatuation. Through a series of photographs, Moshammer aims to discover more about the “sinister stranger” who arrived, completely by chance, on her doorstep. Using images captured from real life and some produced from her own imagination, she powerfully explores the fine line between romance and delusion, love and obsession.

Upon first entering the exhibition, I got taken up by the swell of the romance of it all. A guy named Troy travels across the continent to say hello to his ex and, upon opening the door to you, falls instantly in love, “not just with your face”, but with “your heart”. He sends a letter declaring his love for you, describing how his life has led up to this moment and how he couldn’t possibly forget the “honey” that he saw filling up the doorframe like a portrait. What more could a girl want?

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C/O Berlin, in their accompanying press release, describe this story as a “bizarre declaration of love from a stranger”, a “fleeting, banal encounter” that lasted no longer than five minutes. Moshammer’s exhibition is a visual curation of this encounter – a story only images could capture. She aims throughout the exhibition to “answer his image of her with her image of him”.

To me, however, it seemed more like the staging of an inquisition. One of the most striking examples of this was the display of Troy’s letter in three different forms. Each time the letter was further zoomed in, the words became clearer on the page. It felt to me like Moshammer was questioning how we would handle such a powerful declaration of love, or perhaps whether it was ever “love” at all.

As individuals who are all susceptible to the daily deluge of romantic culture, Moshammer’s exhibition questioned whether romance of the kind she experienced, the kind that we see in movies, is really what we desire. The image of a gas station and a Motel – a literal emblem of Moshammer’s journey across state lines to learn more about the stranger who sought to steal her heart – was particularly powerful to this end. In scenes of American romance films, the Motel is iconic – a stop off point for travellers, a temporary love nest – perhaps even an imagined life where all you know is the road.

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Using phrases from Troy’s letter to form themes or ideas for each image, Moshammer gives them new power by isolating them. The line “the almost new special car to feel special and appreciated” for example, (taken from Troy’s promise to buy her a new motor if only she would come back to live with him) seemed on the surface to be a man’s humble bargain for affection. But after dwelling on it a little longer, the words take on a sinister quality. This kind of monetary exchange sounded something like prostitution: the giving of oneself for money or possessions. Was this, in Moshammer’s eyes, the ultimate promise of comfortable living, or ownership?

An image of perfectly arranged postage stamps – their neat rows obstructed by an image of a naked woman packaged in bubble wrap as if for sale – seemed to confirm this idea.

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As I continued round the exhibition, I couldn’t help but feel like Troy was trying to silence Moshammer with promises of the perfect life. Troy spoke assertively, not speculatively, in his letter, almost removing her ability to reply. I began to understand Moshammer’s photographs as a visual answer to his letter. Her images became her agency.

Through images of suburbia and domesticity, possessions become conflated with affection. An image of a hotel room and a perfectly laid out bed placed next to each other seemed sinister in their simplicity. I thought of the typical budget hotel bed sheets, steamed stiff with starch, that were strict and imprisoning, unable to be moulded to the body. This seemed the perfect metaphor for what Moshammer thought of a life with Troy. Below the caption read, “Happily married, or want out”.

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Pictures of the landscape, seemingly desolate and infertile, were juxtaposed with images of supposed happiness and unity: a demonstration of the fine line between dreams and reality;  the discrepancy between what we are told we should want, and what we actually want.

Towards the end of my visit, I thought back to the picture of a woman with her face blurred out that I had breezed by at the start of the exhibition. Perhaps it was Moshammer’s own identity that she was uncertain about. Perhaps Troy had unearthed uncertainties within her about her own dreams and desires.

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Another interesting element of the exhibition was the fact that each accompanying title could not directly explain what was going on in each image. It occurred to me that sometimes words are inadequate to convey experience. At times, we need demonstrable evidence. I enjoyed the gap that was left between words and images, feeling that, like Moshammer, I too was having to piece together fragments of a puzzle to form meaning.

A title reading “Duck Sick” caught my eye. It accompanied a picture of an old school motor with “Suck Dick” elegantly printed onto the back of its bumper. A perfectly contrived image, perhaps, of Moshammer’s rebellion against Troy’s offering and an assertion of her own power and identity. His perfect aesthetic arrangement from a movie: the car, the house, the woman, wouldn’t ever, it seemed, quite make the cut.

“Not just your face honey”  is on show at the C/O gallery until 23rd September 2018.