Two seemingly conflicting things can be true at the same time. Someone can be a profoundly troubled person (possibly suffering from a whole array of mental problems) and a gifted photographer at the same time.
Photoland has adopted two strategies to deal with this situation. It either completely ignores the mental-health issues and pretends they have had no influence on the photography (Diane Arbus might be the best example). Or it stresses the mental-health issues but in a fashion that turns people whose lives would ask for our compassion into brutish caricatures: photographic savants whose life and work can be admired with the kind of thrill that the generally bored denizens of photoland would only get from, say, watching a horror movie.
As you might be able to infer from the above, I am not in favour of approaching people that way. In fact, in general I am not in favour of ignoring people’s struggles — mental or otherwise, especially not if it’s done for the celebration of an idea of art that as best is distasteful: approaching art as if its supremacy simply came with its practitioners trampling over all that marks us as human beings.
A better approach would be to acknowledge the presence of the suffering and of the art, parts of which might or might not have emerged from it — without having one side taking over.
One of the problems with that approach is that ultimately, we cannot know to what extent and/or how people suffered. We can try to read something into the photographs (or paintings, sculptures, etc.). However, as we see in the world history that is currently unfolding in front of our very eyes, reading mental conditions into people without actual professionals being able to evaluate them in person is problematic.
I would argue that there is something to be said for accepting the complication that is introduced by dealing with the troubled personality behind a set of photographs. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not eager to use one as an explanation of sorts for the other (as I said this is best left to medical professionals).
Instead, it seems to me that we all live with conflicting aspects of our personalities and behaviours. Moving towards a form of acceptance in the case of artists might help us deal with our own troubles (however different they might be).
Plus, compassion is best exercised when it’s difficult — and not when it’s easy.
Just to make this very clear: as far as I’m concerned nobody is under any obligation to engage with any work. Frankly, there is so much good and wonderful art out there that not looking at, say, Picasso is not really a loss. In any case, I previously wrote about Claire Dederer’s book Monsters, which does a very good job at diving into how to possibly approach artists such as Picasso.
With all of the above said, when Raw Art on Paper by G.P. Fieret arrived in the mail, I felt some trepidation over how I might respond to it, how I might engage with it. I had heard of this artist before, and what I had heard and seen had definitely left its imprint in my mind.
If you don’t know anything about Gerard Petrus Fieret, a Dutch artist who lived from 1924 until 2009, you will pick up a few things while looking at the photographs. In fact, this particular book is the one you want to use. Of all the books I have seen, it does the best job at showcasing the work: both its overall breadth and its idiosyncrasies.
There are two main aspects that are out of the ordinary in the world of photography. First, there are what following standard (art) photographic orthodoxy you would describe as imperfections of the pictures. Those familiar with Daidō Moriyama’s 1972 写真よさようなら (typically translated as Bye-Bye Photography) will notice most of the devices used in that book as well: grainy photographs, photographs printed from what can only be described as partially ruined negatives, “bad” prints, etc.
In a nutshell, Fieret had a different idea of what a photograph might be, and he had a different idea of how a photograph might exist. The standard approach to dealing with photography done in this fashion is to ascribe it to “Outsider Art” or maybe “Art Brut” (as is done in the book’s essay).
Alternatively, you could simply say that there’s no reason why anyone should follow the conventions of art photography, which by themselves make no sense: why would you make a set of carefully printed photographs? Why pick a number — any number really — between 1 and however many you could possibly make? And why do photographs have to be printed in a precious fashion (other than to draw money out of wealthy people’s wallets)?
In addition, Fieret asserted both his authorship and possession of the photographs by either signing them very prominently somewhere on top of the picture or by stamping them with the various stamps he used throughout his life (all of them featuring the word “copyright”, some with his full studio address, some without), again on top of the picture, or a combination of both (often with multiple stamps all over the picture).
Fieret’s mind was not well, and there are plenty of stories you can find online. As I said it’s not overly fruitful trying to diagnose and/or understand from afar. In any case, the man has been dead for a while, so what’s the point?
What makes Raw Art on Paper by G.P. Fieret so interesting is that the book does an incredible job at focusing on both what the artist attempted to express with his pictures and the general time he lived in.
It’s not possible to fully see past the signatures and stamps (and if you were so inclined you could interpret them as parts of the work, a mental exercise I personally would rather not engage in); but it’s possible to have viewers see the art over the antics — as is the case here.
In other words, this new book makes you see the human being behind the photographs to the extent that this is possible with pictures (and pictures alone).
And I can’t help but feel that a viewer’s ultimate struggle to get a (if you will excuse the pun:) clear picture is the same problem Fieret faced himself when he made his pictures.
Recommended.
Raw Art on Paper by G.P. Fieret; photographs by Gerard Petrus Fieret (edited by Willem van Zoetendaal); essay by Franzesco Zanot; 220 pages; Van Zoetendaal; 2026
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