Interview with Jessica M. Kaufman

Jessica M. Kaufman's anachronistic landscapes appear tranquil at first sight. The subversively morose content of these painterly photographs force the audience to evaluate how something so seemingly provincial and antiquated could represent such contemporary ills. Kaufman's dichotomy of content and process remind us that history doesn't always like to visually remind us of its mistakes.

Jessica M. Kaufman's work appeared in SLPS VI in the spring of 2006 and at SLPS Portland II in the spring of 2009.

Panopticons are described as institutions where observation is an "unequal gaze" or the observer creating a "sentiment of the an invisible omniscience"; who is holding the power of this omniscient power within your images, the haunted landscape or the viewers reclaiming the traumatized land?

I have always been fascinated by the idea and design of the Panopticon, both in the inherent critique of what we think of as a standard prison system and particularly in its definition of freedom, or lack thereof. When I came up with this project-- making images of the landscapes on the grounds of Nazi concentration camps-- I thought of the natural world bearing witness to the atrocities committed, and the ugliness that we wish we would find in those landscapes, as though they could herald the horror of what happened there.

I brought my high school students to an exhibition of "Panopticon," and didn't reveal the origin of the images. They kept telling me how beautiful they found the photos, and because they also found them haunting, they asked where I had photographed the work. When I told them, they all had the same reaction--their faces fell, and they told me they felt guilty for finding them beautiful after finding out their origin. But, I explained to them, as I have explained to other people in discussions of this body of work, they're just trees and fields and bushes! They're blameless, inanimate, but somehow bear the weight and guilt of survivors and witnesses. I don't know that I was interested in the balance or imbalance of power, so much as I was interested in what is seen and known; and how that affects the ways in which we attribute blame and find the ability to move on.

All of your images within Panopticon are "Untitled", yet the images conspicuously represent something in particular about this landscape. Why were certain landscape elements chosen, yet remain anonymous at the same time?

For me, it was important not to announce the names of the sites or definitive titles, but instead have the information available if sought out after. The understanding of the representation of the images could obliterate any real metabolization of the work. The subject matter is a sledgehammer, and it made it a very risky project to pursue. I know I can't get away with saying that the work isn't really about these places, but I want it to be more about the symbolism, what they represent, the emotional content, the landscape, the natural world, not the structure. I'm very decisive when I shoot, and I'm drawn to create certain compositions that I don't really question--but for the most part, I followed a short set of rules that included staying away from most contextual landscapes and focusing on landscapes that would have existed 60 years ago.

The decayed appearance of the images within Seep hint at the concept of Urban Decay, not just a document of the oil spill in Greenpoint. How do the aesthetics of the photo process contribute to the thesis of the project?

I never think of my work as documents, but as portraits. For me that means that "Seep" was not just a series of images of a neighborhood currently in distress, but a neighborhood where immigrants and big industry have been putting down roots side-by-side for over 100 years, and where an environmental disaster of catastrophic proportions has been hidden for all this time, but has been literally seeping into the atmosphere (land, water, air). My work is frequently about that which may be hidden from view, but still ends up coming to consciousness, and I like to think that my process hints at what is underneath-- the history, the decay. The process removes the ability to immediately place the image in time, introducing a disorienting element to my work; one that makes the viewer question what "is" in the image, and what may or may not be the truth.

Most of your images are devoid of humans, or if appearing, exist on a nominal scale. The images are often reminiscent of photographers such as William Henry Jackson, who portray the landscape as commanding over mankind. Do people have these type of relationships with nature within your images? Have you purposely not chosen to document human presence?

My work has gotten more and more site-specific, but has remained symbolic and allegorical. I did work in self-portraiture for some time before I moved into using the landscape. The self-portraiture was less about myself or even the human condition, and more about my body as a convenient stand-in to explore my ideas. Humans exist in my more recent projects; but when they actually appear, they're mere shapes, small compositional elements that my process tends to simplify and obfuscate as much as anything else in the image, and thus don't hold weight within the depicted landscape. I don't think of my landscapes as commanding so much as they are challenging, providing no escape. I'm interested in aloneness, how being trapped forces one to be alone with the self, and how that might bring an awareness of identity.

You write, "I am not a documentarian, but I am an astute observer." What is the difference between the two roles? Does one impose a bias while the other passively attends?

I don't believe in objectivity, or that art should aim for it--and, personally, I allow myself to trust my emotions in most situations. I think bias is inevitable--there are choices associated with any depiction--and I think that it should be understood that artists aim to manipulate. When that manipulation is successful, so is the art, because it introduces pathways to penetrate our consciousnesses. What is art, if not communication?

Your landscapes are not beautified and welcoming but ominous and foreboding, as represented by the entrapment concept in a work such as "Impasse". Why aren't these landscapes comforting instead of threatening?

I like using the landscape as a site of anxiety, as well as a reflection of interior conflict. I'm interested in identity formation and transformation, and primarily in the individual choices we make when confronted with any experience, but most dramatically with trauma. Feeling very alone without any obvious exit or way through, forces us to think most creatively and discover our strengths and resources. Of course, most of us don't choose to be in those kinds of difficult situations--we usually can't control getting into them-- but we can control how we get out of them.

Why this particular process and format for your images?

I've been using the 4x5 for 16 years now, and I feel like it's an extension of my body; it's a language I think in. I'm a fairly formal composer, and the view camera supports that, and allows me to focus selectively and exert total control over the path that the viewer takes through the image. The process is one I started using about 5 years ago (though now have to abandon since Polaroid no longer makes film) and fell in love with because it complemented the way I use the landscape. I've never been interested in the veracity of photography, in any inherent truth that it told, but rather the medium itself, and how it freed me up to think conceptually by drawing for me. I use this process and format because, as I said before, it removes the viewer's ability to immediately place the image in time, and therefore initially disorients, thereby inviting closer contemplation. Vignetting encourages that by suggesting an older image, and also closes off the sky--a potential exit. The process itself is one of decay--the chemicals on the negative are literally patterning and altering it while actually eating away at the original image--and the fact that that conceptually jibes with every series I've worked on gives me a great deal of pleasure.