| Phoenix 21: Whose Story Is It? |
| Sunday, 12 July 2009 |
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Tyson Crosbie is a Phoenix-based fine arts photographer. His second collection, Phoenix 21, is an essay of photographs that to me tell a very distinct story: a story of separation, fury, and acceptance. I don’t know if this is what Tyson intended, but his work feels like poetry to me – infused with the artist’s intent as well as the point of view of the observer. As you know I am obsessed with the idea of negative space and how that concept is applied in all art forms: the white between musical notes, the area surrounding a subject, and what is left unspoken on stage. Some refer to this expression as “subtext.” I think I’ve said here before that subtext sounds like something reduced to parentheses (not that there’s anything wrong with parentheses as an aside) in which the full artistic intent is supported but not equal to the words on the page. Subtext marginalizes the presence in the absence. When the silences are taken away, how can there be any meaning to the intention behind the words? I digress. The most creative aspect of Tyson’s work is that the negative space in each piece changes depending on the viewer’s perspective. Check out the work and see what you think. At first, this was alarming to me. Tyson suggests a point of view that is flexible – plastic and Rorschach-esque. My point of view determines the subject, and by definition the background, of each piece. As a character in his story, I am obligated to participate in the silences. Having said that, Tyson’s work is very real, very concrete; it is also abstract. His point of view both narrows and broadens the depth of field to highlight his intention behind each image. It’s just about the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. How does this apply to my work? Phoenix 21 taught me a great deal about point of view or – whose story is it? As a writer fascinated by the negative space in relationships, I am constantly challenged by where the balance of the silence hangs. Is it concrete, or does it change depending on the point of view of “our girl?” If I find that the story belongs to a different character, does the depth of field narrow or broaden and thereby affect the silences in the relationships? When I wrote my first play, another writer asked me, “Which character has the first line?” It took me years to understand this question in terms that applied to my work: which character controls the silence, and what does that say about the power in their relationship? Tyson’s work so profoundly affected me that as soon as Phoenix 21 became available, I bought a copy. I’m going to meet Tyson for the first time next week to get it signed. I hope we can spend some time talking about his point of view, the fluidity of negative space, and the balance within that relationship. I want to know if one is necessarily born out of the other – in his work, which character has the first line? |
