Here's the plan.
By the end of the summer, fifty mini-essays on fifty different photographers.
Why? Because, just recently, it feels like photography's moment's passed a bit. Maybe it was when they started selling lomo cameras in Urban Outfitters. Maybe it was when those groovy iPhone people brought in the hipstamatic app to make all your handheld drunk night out photos you took post-drunk chips pre- the bus home dreamy and sun-lit and just swimming with nostalgia. Maybe it was when Vice magazine started publishing Ryan McGinley photos in a way that made it seem like Vice was the chicken that hatched the Ryan McGinley "hedonism! drugs! skateboarders!" thing rather than vice (HA) versa. Suddenly photography feels more like a gimmick than anything else.
And, well, why let that happen?
Listen: I know if this was going to be encylopaedic, and authorative, I'd start with August Sander or someone. Diane Arbus, maybe. But I'm afraid this is going to be a little bit muddled, and not very coherent. So I'm going to be perverse, and start with someone who's more famous for art than for photography.
So, tomorrow let's start with Eleanor Antin. Because, y'know, she's brilliant and playful and everything, and probably not as well known as she should be.
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