In one of my favorite section from Cynthia Freeland's book Portraits & Persons she discusses the philosophical concept of "air."
"What was captured in the image of my grandmother, that continuing contact that my mother and I responded to, has been given the helpful and non-technical label of the 'air' by philosopher Roland Barthes. His book about photography, Camera Lucida, is both a broad reflection on the medium and a moving personal essay which he was prompted to write in reflections on loss after his beloved mother's death. Barthes mused over the ways in which photographs preserve the past, bringing us into the direct presence of people who are long dead. Sadly, their deaths seems to be foretold in these images. Barthes seeks the truth of the person he had loved as companion for so long in the pages of a photograph album. Suddenly he discovers her, 'the real her', in an image taken of her as a young girl. He feels that he had finally found his mother authenticated in that image, which he calls the Winter Garden photograph. It captures what Barthes describes as her 'air'. A person's 'air' is unanalyzable, he says. Clearly this is not the same as whatever is recorded of the outward appearance that shows someone's legal identity, as in a passport photo. The air has more to do, Barthes says with 'the expression, the look."
If pressed to describe my grandmother's 'air' as shown in that special photo of her, I would say that it had to do with the way in which she combined a witty and observant twinkle with a slight ducking of the head. She seemed to be on the verge of giving way to a broad wink of humor to accompany a penetrating observation, but to be cutting it off out of politeness or decorum. Barthes says more to explain what he has in mind by his label the 'air':
Naturally, readers are curious to see the Winter Garden photograph, but Barthes does not publish it because he thinks it will only have resonance for him, the person who knew and loved his mother in a special way. I am not sure he was right about this. Surely there is something in grate portraits from history that holds our attention just because we do seem to see in them a person's very essence, their 'air'."
And this bring me to a photograph that my nephew Garrett took of me seven years ago when I was living in Abu Dhabi and he and his mother came to visit.
I wonder if this photo captures my "air." Sure, it's a fitting metaphor, and I'm sitting in the desert clearly pontificating on something. He and I had gotten up freakishly early so that we could go out into the desert so that he could take pictures of the sun rising. I posted it on FB yesterday and it drew lots of comments and likes, which I attribute more to Garrett's talent as a photographer than my merits as a model. Still, does it capture my "air"? When I see it I'm struck by how content I seem, and, truthfully, I was very happy at that point of time in my life.
"What was captured in the image of my grandmother, that continuing contact that my mother and I responded to, has been given the helpful and non-technical label of the 'air' by philosopher Roland Barthes. His book about photography, Camera Lucida, is both a broad reflection on the medium and a moving personal essay which he was prompted to write in reflections on loss after his beloved mother's death. Barthes mused over the ways in which photographs preserve the past, bringing us into the direct presence of people who are long dead. Sadly, their deaths seems to be foretold in these images. Barthes seeks the truth of the person he had loved as companion for so long in the pages of a photograph album. Suddenly he discovers her, 'the real her', in an image taken of her as a young girl. He feels that he had finally found his mother authenticated in that image, which he calls the Winter Garden photograph. It captures what Barthes describes as her 'air'. A person's 'air' is unanalyzable, he says. Clearly this is not the same as whatever is recorded of the outward appearance that shows someone's legal identity, as in a passport photo. The air has more to do, Barthes says with 'the expression, the look."
If pressed to describe my grandmother's 'air' as shown in that special photo of her, I would say that it had to do with the way in which she combined a witty and observant twinkle with a slight ducking of the head. She seemed to be on the verge of giving way to a broad wink of humor to accompany a penetrating observation, but to be cutting it off out of politeness or decorum. Barthes says more to explain what he has in mind by his label the 'air':
The air is not a schematic, intellectual datum, the way a silhouette is. Nor is the air a simple analogy - however extended - as in 'likeness.' No, the air is that exorbitant thing which induces from body to soul - animula, little individual soul, good in one person, bad in another.
Naturally, readers are curious to see the Winter Garden photograph, but Barthes does not publish it because he thinks it will only have resonance for him, the person who knew and loved his mother in a special way. I am not sure he was right about this. Surely there is something in grate portraits from history that holds our attention just because we do seem to see in them a person's very essence, their 'air'."
And this bring me to a photograph that my nephew Garrett took of me seven years ago when I was living in Abu Dhabi and he and his mother came to visit.
I wonder if this photo captures my "air." Sure, it's a fitting metaphor, and I'm sitting in the desert clearly pontificating on something. He and I had gotten up freakishly early so that we could go out into the desert so that he could take pictures of the sun rising. I posted it on FB yesterday and it drew lots of comments and likes, which I attribute more to Garrett's talent as a photographer than my merits as a model. Still, does it capture my "air"? When I see it I'm struck by how content I seem, and, truthfully, I was very happy at that point of time in my life.
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