In Issue 1 of Art North, Alex Boyd (whose work explores the remoteness of Northern landscapes) has a review on a new volume of photographs by Swedish photographer Håkan Strand, but my thoughts here are not about Strand’s work but that of Boyd; and in particular his image of Stac Lee, located in the North Atlantic and forming part of the St Kilda archipelago of the Outer Hebrides. As Alex tells me, the image was shot on a medium format camera some seven or eight years ago, at a time when he was "photographing sea stacks looming out of the mist" (a subject which still fascinates him, and to which he may return in the future).
What interests me about Boyd’s image here is not the technical process by which the image came into being, but my initial reaction to it. To say that I was and am profoundly affected by it is, I think, an understatement. On first seeing it in reproduction online, It immediately drew me in, yet it also left me with a deep sense of foreboding or, to put it another way, I found the photograph simultaneously beautiful, beguiling and menacing in equal measure.
It is not the first time I have had such a response to a photograph, however. In 2007, I remember having a similar reaction to an image when preparing to write a catalogue essay for a publication to accompany an exhibition of work by the collaborative duo Boyd & Evans. Among the many works included in their exhibition at that time was Driftwood (2006) – seen below – which similarly featured the ocean, although photographed from the shore at a point where it meets with the debris thrown up by the waves and strewn upon the sand at the high water mark.
In the case of the Boyd & Evans photograph, I still recall myself thinking at the time, here is an image that unsettling dreams are made of. I won't call them ‘nightmares’ because that would be overcooking it somewhat, and that is certainly not what I allude to. What I refer to here are the kind of dreams that one feels compelled to recall, yet when one does they bring an unsettling feeling into the waking world, too. Like Alex Boyd's image above, there was an ambiguity with regard scale in the Boyd & Evans image, but also a sense of much lying hidden as well, out there in the mist. It was not so much about what was seen but what was not seen.
Referring back to my essay for the Boyd & Evans exhibition in preparation for writing this brief text here, today, I see that back in 2007 I had quoted from the writings of the the nineteenth century German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, who once expressed the belief that "inorganic nature, provided it does not consist of water, produces a very melancholy, indeed oppressive impression upon us.” And yet, I'm now considering how relevant that reference really was. What Schopenhauer had in mind was the long valley of rock near Toulon on the road to Marseilles, or the desert landscapes of North Africa, his thinking pretty much hinging on the opposition of the “inorganic mass” of desert landscapes and the "immediate pleasure" to be derived from the sight of vegetation, which directly proclaims “the phenomenon of life as a new and higher order of things.”
Even the casual reader will straight away note that there is an abundance of water in both Boyd's photograph of Stac Lee, and Boyd & Evans' photograph of the Pacific coastline, yet it is maybe in the absence of any immediate indication of life, too, that both images seem to fit with what Schopenhauer was getting at (if they do at all). I don't doubt that there would be a myriad of lifeforms apparent to anyone in the immediate vicinity of the locations where these photographs were taken but, for me, the viewer, any sense of that life is not revealed in a way that can reduce the sense of foreboding that I feel. Whether a photograph of a large sea stack in the North Atlantic, or of the silvered timbers thrown up onto the shore by the crashing waves of the Pacific, both images touch upon the sense we may often have of our smallness when measured against the natural world. Is that not, maybe, closer to what Schopenhauer was alluding to, I wonder.
Maybe it also has something to do with the absence of human scale or subject in these images that causes me to feel the way I do, but there is more going on here than just that, surely? If the issue was just about lack of human scale, then why would my mind connect Boyd & Evans' Driftwood and Alex Boyd's photograph of Stac Lee with what I associate, somewhat irreverently, with the generic term 'Nordic Noir' (a categorisation in my mind that is set aside for the cataloguing of a great many stills from Ingmar Bergman's arthouse classic The Seventh Seal of 1957, for example, or several paintings of our most northerly coastlines by Caspar David Friedrich, too)?
Lately, I've been looking at the work of Paul Nash again, also. Nash was a painter (and photographer) whose work I've never felt fully comfortable with, yet it occurs to me that there are similarities in his work that might merit me developing my thoughts on this just little bit further still. Nash, after all, developed a whole body of work around what he referred to as megaliths and monoliths (from sea stacks to standing stones). He also developed a book on the English southern county of Dorset that featured one of his photographs of the sea stacks on the south coast as part of the Shell Guide series.
As a war artist, Nash painted one of his most celebrated and iconic images: a 'graveyard' of downed Luftwaffe aircraft titled Totes Meer (Dead Sea, 1940) that, for me, appears to possess some relationship with the Boyd & Evans image as well, albeit of quite a different nature. Additionally, there are crossovers between Nash's Totes Meer and Caspar David Friedrich's Wreck of Hope – sometimes alternatively titled The Sea of Ice (1823–1824): a painting that shows a wrecked sail ship, the HMS Griper, that took part in William Edward Parry's expeditions to the North Pole. In Friedrich's painting we see the ship crushed by colossal shards of arctic pack ice, and again there appears an ambiguity of scale that can seem unsettling (menacing even). As Andrew Causey has written, Friedrich's painting had a direct influence on Nash in his development of Totes Meer.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this yet, but it's a topic that I'm sure I will return to. Certainly the sense of foreboding that I feel when studying all of the works mentioned here (most of all those by both Alex Boyd and Boyd & Evans) might justly merit some more detailed discussion in the future; I haven’t decided yet. None of the artworks that I refer to include human subjects, clearly (although Bergman's film represents the obvious passing exception), but it is in the apparent 'bigness' of nature in most of these images that my interest really lies (even if, in the case of Nash's Totes Meer, the artist represented his 'dead sea' in the form of the carcasses of twisted aircraft parts). Casting Schopenhauer's reference to water aside, then, what these images have in common is something of the 'inorganic' about them, and it is this that I'm now thinking about; that is, what they have to say (maybe) about what is often referred to as 'the human condition', and then that in relation to what was once thought of as the call of the Sublime.