I thought this would be a fun counterpoint to the Venetian photographs by Mona Kuhn which I discussed in a blog a few weeks ago. Paolo Ventura, an Italian artist living and working in Brooklyn, is about to exhibit his own Venetian series of photographs at the upcoming Venice Biennale beginning this June (and most likely you will get a chance to see the series in its entirety at Hasted Kraeutler in Chelsea in the early fall). I recently became acquainted with his photographs in late 2009 and absolutely fell in love with his aesthetic from his last show, "Winter Stories", in NYC.
"Winter Stories" was focused primarily on circus and carnival vignettes that seem to be located in the years between the World Wars. The jugglers, clowns and fire eaters fluctuate between joy and isolation. The bright colors are juxtaposed against drab and grey backgrounds. There is something both mirthful and sinister happening at the same time, and this is what makes these works intriguing.
But what really blows you away is that after closer inspection, you realize that these are not living people or real scenes at all but highly detailed, artfully depicted table-top dioramas that have been created and built by Ventura. The maquettes are so skillfully rendered that the mind flip-flops on the fact if they are real or fake.
The Venetian Series (a few which are shown in the images above), called L'Antoma (The Automaton), are also made from his own dioramas, not unlike the photographer, James Casebere, who also famously creates and photographs his own maquettes. Also, like Casebere, Ventura also floods his maquettes to create his Venetian canals. However, where he greatly departs from Casebere, who boils down his depopulated architectural interiors to essential clean lines and forms, Ventura painstakingly takes care adding every minute detail to his scenes. You can see the dust on the doors, the tears in the clothing, the folds in the fabric, the scratches on the windows and the waterline on the walls.
Here he still seems obsessed with Italy between the wars. There is something haunting and eerily nostalgic about the scenes. This is heightened by the atmospheric quality of the work. There is a pervasive fog in the scenes which adds to the alienation between the people in the photographs and an immense sense of foreboding. They are not interacting, but seem to be going around in their own small worlds. There is added surreal quality to those photographs that have no people - a messy or abandoned studio with a half-built mannequin or a dilapidated storefront piled with mismatched objects - a bust, wooden wings, antique chair and uniform hanging on the door - which reminds me of the quietly strange and haunting Eugene Atget images of Paris in the early 20th century.
What I love most is the mysterious narrative going on in the photographs. After spending time with these works, you have a strong desire to make sense of what is going on the scenes. But you are torn - is the man on the roof a worker taking a break to take in the view or is he a man taking one last moment before he plunges to his death? Is the couple in the scene waiting for a gondola to arrive to take them to another place in the floating city or is there a violent act about to occur? The unknown creates a tension that keeps us looking and guessing.
To paraphrase, someone said that great art does not answer questions, but instead, keeps you asking more - and I think this is really the case in Paolo Ventura's beautiful photographs.
But what really blows you away is that after closer inspection, you realize that these are not living people or real scenes at all but highly detailed, artfully depicted table-top dioramas that have been created and built by Ventura. The maquettes are so skillfully rendered that the mind flip-flops on the fact if they are real or fake.
The Venetian Series (a few which are shown in the images above), called L'Antoma (The Automaton), are also made from his own dioramas, not unlike the photographer, James Casebere, who also famously creates and photographs his own maquettes. Also, like Casebere, Ventura also floods his maquettes to create his Venetian canals. However, where he greatly departs from Casebere, who boils down his depopulated architectural interiors to essential clean lines and forms, Ventura painstakingly takes care adding every minute detail to his scenes. You can see the dust on the doors, the tears in the clothing, the folds in the fabric, the scratches on the windows and the waterline on the walls.
Here he still seems obsessed with Italy between the wars. There is something haunting and eerily nostalgic about the scenes. This is heightened by the atmospheric quality of the work. There is a pervasive fog in the scenes which adds to the alienation between the people in the photographs and an immense sense of foreboding. They are not interacting, but seem to be going around in their own small worlds. There is added surreal quality to those photographs that have no people - a messy or abandoned studio with a half-built mannequin or a dilapidated storefront piled with mismatched objects - a bust, wooden wings, antique chair and uniform hanging on the door - which reminds me of the quietly strange and haunting Eugene Atget images of Paris in the early 20th century.
What I love most is the mysterious narrative going on in the photographs. After spending time with these works, you have a strong desire to make sense of what is going on the scenes. But you are torn - is the man on the roof a worker taking a break to take in the view or is he a man taking one last moment before he plunges to his death? Is the couple in the scene waiting for a gondola to arrive to take them to another place in the floating city or is there a violent act about to occur? The unknown creates a tension that keeps us looking and guessing.
To paraphrase, someone said that great art does not answer questions, but instead, keeps you asking more - and I think this is really the case in Paolo Ventura's beautiful photographs.
Link to new series, L'Automa, on artist's website
