CHAPTER 5

Photo-elicitation

On the surface, photo-elicitation is a straightforward method to understand and utilize. It involves using photographs to invoke comments, memory and discussion in the course of a semi-structured interview.

Marcus Banks (2001)

Photo-elicitation can be described as the deliberate exploitation of the viewer’s response to the photograph. It is a method often employed by visual anthropologists, and is a significant aspect of photo-therapy, for example where family photographs can be used to trigger hidden memories (Spence 1987, 1995). It enables the researcher to gain access to subjective responses to the photograph. If one is studying a social or cultural group, showing their members photographs that may have been taken of them, by them or by other people, or of particular locations and events, etc., facilitates a response to the photograph by asking for comments upon the significance of the image. The method enables the researcher to understand how the subjects:

•  view their group from the inside;

•  perceive their own role and sense of self;

•  examine the meanings of their own behaviour and engagement in cultural processes.

This can be viewed as exploiting a characteristic of the family album in its mnemonic function. In addition to providing a record of memorable events, the image can operate as a stimulant to the memory (see Collier and Collier 1986). Banks also suggests there is an added benefit in that the visual image deflects attention away from the interviewee, perhaps making him or her more comfortable and relaxed by not feeling to be the centre of attention. Geffroy, takes this a step further and cites an example where the interviewer’s deflection of attention to photographs led his subject to ‘volunteer’ visual images: ‘She went and opened the doors of an old wall cupboard from which she brought out a large cardboard box, full of photographs, old photographs’ (Geffroy 1990: 374).

PHOTOGRAPHY AND REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST

We might raise the question: how do photographs function as aids to remembering? Does the process of memory resemble looking at ‘mental’ photographs? How do photographs stimulate memory in the photo-elicitation process? However, bearing in mind Barrett’s (2011) criticism of the idea that the brain replicates in our heads an image of what the eye perceives (p. 22 of this volume), visual images, sounds and smells have an ability to stimulate memories. At the personal level, this phenomenon contributes to the value of family photographs – but it can also prove extremely useful in historical and social science research.

In his Á la recherche du temps perdu, 1913–27 (usually translated as In Search of Lost Time or Remembrance of Things Past), the aroma exuded by a madeleine (a small cake) when dipped into tea takes Marcel Proust’s (semi-autobiographical) narrator back to thoughts and memories of his early childhood (Proust 1969). This well-known episode has almost become something of a cliché in studies of literature and is often cited as a popular reference to reminiscing. Nevertheless, Proust’s madeleine not only forms a literary landmark, but would appear to be a natural starting point for anyone interested in the narration of memory in the modern era. Although the ‘casual reader’ might assume that Á la recherche du temps perdu

consists of nothing more than page upon page of recollected details … Proust does more than just recount his past, he also observes his memory in action, and uses these observations to develop a comprehensive theory of conscious experience and artistic creation that potentially has profound implications for any scientific theory of consciousness.

(Epstein 2004: 214)

Proust’s recollections are presented in a self-reflexive mode of narration, which allows him to examine and evaluate his own processes of writing. So while the madeleine episode provides a famous example of how a simple everyday act can trigger a train of reminiscences of former times, the novel traces the author’s growing realisation of the value of recording his memories in literary form – in fact, as readers, we come to realise that the very book that we are reading is the product of these musings. Yet further, according to Proust, everyone is capable of producing art that functions by communicating our life experiences and making them understandable to others. As Epstein (2004: 213) elaborates ‘Proust argues that the function of art is to evoke the underlying associative network indirectly in the mind of the observer by using carefully chosen sensory surfaces to control the stream of thought’. Proust himself cites examples from the visual arts, literature and music in order to demonstrate that art is inextricably linked to memory and experience (see Murphy 2001; Karpeles 2008). Thus Á la recherche du temps perdu furnishes the author with the opportunity to expound his own aesthetic theories through his literary characterisation.

Given Proust’s interest in memory, one would naturally expect that photographs would play an important role in serving as ‘triggers’ for reminiscing. However, according to Susan Sontag, Proust’s aesthetics did not extend to the realm of lens-based media:

Whenever Proust mentions photographs, he does so disparagingly: as a synonym for a shallow, too exclusively visual, merely voluntary relation to the past, whose yield is insignificant compared with the deep discoveries to be made by responding to cues given by all the senses—the technique he called “involuntary memory”.

(Sontag 1977: 165)

In contrast Brassaï, in his study Proust in the Power of Photography, makes a convincing case for photographs and Proust’s knowledge of photography as forming a major influence upon his literary style as well as serving a personal need: ‘my memory … has such lapses that photographs are very precious to me. I keep them as a sort of reinforcement and do not look at them too often in order not to exhaust their powers’ (Brassaï 2001: 56). Certainly, Proust’s regard for photography and film might appear somewhat contradictory. This leads Danius (2002: 119) to conclude:

the narrator needs photography for his theory of memory; photography is mobilized precisely for us to understand the true nature of memory – by way of that which it is not. The same is true of cinematography; it, too, is posited as alien to mnemonic processes.

Naturally Proust’s ‘madeleine effect’ constitutes part of the reading process. Just as the taste and smell of a piece of madeleine dipped into a cup of tea took Marcel Proust back to the village of his childhood, a single word, a name, or an image is often all the reader needs to be transported into a cherished landscape – or into an initially hated one that grew close to the heart with the passing of time.

(Ryan 2001: 121)

And although Proust himself maintains that ‘Nothing is further from what we have really perceived than the vision that cinematography presents’ (Danius p. 119), a type of ‘madeleine device’ has entered the cinematic narrative. For instance, in the opening scenes of Victor Erice’s El Sur (1983) Estrella (the young protagonist) removes the lid from a small black box and draws out a small chain and pendulum that belonged to her father. For her this action constitutes a ‘madeleine moment’; for the viewer, it is a precursory metaphor: opening and unthreading the narrative chain of Estrella’s story, which we are about to witness on screen. This kind of ‘embedded’ narrative device has become a common feature of modern literature and has specific relevance to the Irish style of storytelling: ‘The closed book is opened; something potent enough to keep under lock and key is released. It is a recurring motif in nineteenth-century historical novels, and closely related to the Irish approach to narrative’ (Foster 2001: 3).

Danius (echoing Brassaï: an eminent photographer) maintains that ‘photographic modes of representation are fundamental to the success of Proust’s visual aesthetics’ (p. 94) yet furthermore ‘the narrator alludes to the emergent crisis of art triggered by the advent of new media’ (p. 121). Thus, we find in Á la recherche du temps perdu, the recurring interlinked themes of memory and reminiscence, theories of art, self-reflexive narrativity, lens-based media and a coming to terms with new technology. In our present era (90 years or so after the publication of the novel) many of the issues raised by Proust remain especially relevant to the field of interactive storytelling and the visualisation of memory. Naturally, photography and film have undergone dramatic technological and social changes over the 100 years or so since Proust’s era. And despite his position that ‘photography and film are … deficient techniques for mnemonic storage and visual mimesis’ (Danius p. 118), Proust’s Á la recherche du temps perdu raises fundamental questions concerning the relationship between photography and memory that remain central to the processes of reminiscing aided by the ‘new technologies’ of today. While the purpose of photo-elicitation, in the historical and anthropological sense, is to use the lens-based visual record to trigger memory to provide further information and/or social facts, it is the interaction with the image and the act of recalling that is also significant. Whether the photograph accurately records how we remember things is just as important as its ability to provide stimulation and to encourage processes of interaction. This is particularly so when ‘reading’ the family album. Similarly, historians have found great value in the use of photographs and film to stimulate memory, but may remain sceptical about the reliability of the memories they evoke. Memories are notoriously unreliable in trying to establish the facts, so they need to be checked against other sources.

Thus the historian’s concern for what actually happened, may be taking a ‘forensic’ approach to the photograph – different to that of the anthropologist who may be interested in how the present-day subject thinks about the past. In such instances inaccuracies and embellishments may be especially relevant. As an example of the historian’s unease, Jordanova (p. 93) expresses her doubts regarding the ‘documentary’ nature of Walker Evans’s photographs of the American Depression of the 1930s:

given that they are intensely personal, what generalised insights can be derived from them is unclear. And yet they do convey something extremely significant at an emotional level, so much so that ‘the depression’ and some kinds of documentary photography have become virtually synonymous.

But even for the historian there is value in this stirring of emotions ‘Interviews often pick up dimensions of the past, the way people felt, which are not dependent on the literal exactitude of their memories’ (p. 124). Jordanova continues by citing the ‘mélée’ surrounding the troubled relationship between memories and the history of the Holocaust: ‘there are a number of conflicting perspectives, and the conflicts are not only about what did or did not happen, but how such events should be written about, who has the right to do so, whether historians should assign blame, and so on’ (p. 125).

Some maintain that it is the implied permanence of the photograph that has the potential to undermine ‘true’ memory (Strange et al. 2005; Wade et al. 2002) It has been suggested that the photograph, rather like a cuckoo’s hatchling, implants itself in the mind of the reminiscer and takes over the memory from the original. As Brassaï puts it, in the context of Proust and photography, it derives from the ‘notion that persons and things can engender simulacra endowed with a life of their own and apt to replace those from which they issued’ (p. 86).

Notwithstanding, in contrast to ‘ordinary’ objects (like Proust’s madeleine), there is something special about the photograph in its ability to stimulate reminiscing (whether accurate or otherwise). Although the image represents one single framed moment it contains an implied narrative at the same time. Often it can be aspects of the photograph that are not necessarily the intention of the photographer. This not only depends upon our knowledge of states of affairs in the world, but also our familiarity with stories that exist within our culture may provide a wide range of potential stories, which may lead the viewer, detective like, to look for details in the image which may provide evidence for their story expectations to be fulfilled (Schank 1990). However, the lack of such details, or the presentation of contradictory evidence within the photograph, may simply serve to frustrate the viewer’s quest for understanding and meaning. (This can be the deliberate goal of some artists, photographers or filmmakers, constituting an essential feature of their art.) While it may be a human necessity to build still images into cause and effect narratives so that it becomes difficult to refrain from attempting to situate the image in a narrative structure, we should also be aware that the memories evoked by photographs may not always be pleasant ones (Binney and Chaplin 1991).

It should be emphasised that in the normal practice of commercial photography there is the expectation of fairly rapid results. The chances of the photographer having familiarity with the subjects, and the possibility of finding out much about them or how they themselves wish to be represented are limited. So it becomes difficult to think how community-based projects and cooperation with the subjects will fit into the framework of current commercial practice. With community photographs, the subjects are usually expected to suggest ways that will enable the photographer to become a catalyst or facilitator to help members of the community achieve their own aims and aspirations. So in this context, consultation does not consist of a one-off interview, but will be a sustained process throughout the duration of the project and of a nature whereby community members are able to see the whole process through and be involved at each stage. If they wish to withdraw their involvement at any time, the photographer may need to compromise between carrying through the project and respecting the wishes of the subjects. If this happens, it might be seen as part of the practice of documentation.

Case Study: The Australian After 200 Years Project

In front of the lens, I am at the same time: the one I think I am, the one I want others to think I am, the one the photographer thinks I am, and the one he makes use of to exhibit his art.… I am neither subject nor object but a subject who feels he is becoming an object.

(Roland Barthes 1982: 13)

If, as Susan Sontag maintains, ‘to photograph people is to violate them’ (1977: 14), the Australian Aborigines could well claim to be victims of the camera. The proliferation of photography went hand in hand with colonial expansion and has left a sad record of the subjugation of Australia’s indigenous culture (see Peck 2010). From the viewpoint of a more (though by no means wholly) enlightened time, it is possible to rewrite colonial history: shifting the emphasis to redress the balance and showing new perspectives on events. Of course, photography is not quite so accommodating (or flexible) in this regard. Once events have passed we can alter written accounts as attitudes and circumstances change, but the fixed image of the photograph can only be recontextualised (although this does not account for the issues that arise from digital photography – these will be addressed in another chapter). It was Australia’s Bicentenary that was chosen to provide an opportunity to amend the photographic record. Even though from the Aboriginal perspective it ‘symbolises destruction and loss of life, land and culture’, it was felt it could offer a new, more positive opportunity. With this in mind, over 20 photographers from both the Aboriginal and the non-Aboriginal community were engaged to live and work in communities throughout Australia to document Aboriginal life. The general purpose of the project was to collate images that represented the variety of situations and lifestyles experienced by contemporary Aboriginal Australia. It was proposed that the photographs should act as an antidote to the exotic, or supposedly authentic and traditional, images of Aboriginals that were the products of the colonial viewfinder. The photographs aimed to show those aspects of Aboriginal culture, conditions and activities that were less familiar to an international audience. For example, there were images of urban and rural life that could show the continuity from old to new – including the depressing images of a prison community. As for the means of achieving this, the project ‘attempted to develop a long-term model of co-operation between an institution and its Aboriginal constituents, between an archive and the people whose images would fill it, between photographers and their subjects’ (Taylor 1988: xv).

The representation of one group of people by another can raise sensitive issues, so the success of the project hinged on this philosophy of cooperation and participation between photographer and subject(s). Initially, the project was announced to Aboriginal communities through their local newsletters. Contacts were made with Aboriginal organisations to propose the aims and objectives of the project and to collate suggestions and feedback as to how the project might be conducted from the subjects’ point of view. Old photographs of the area and communities were printed and made available for return and absorption into the community. This had the bonus effect of stimulating discussions as to how the Aborigines had been represented in the past, and could help people to consider how they might wish to be represented in the present and what record of their lives and culture they would like preserved for the future. Once the project was under way, new collaborating communities were shown what had been achieved from earlier collaborations. So to begin with, much discussion took place about general issues of photography and, more specifically, about the public image and perceptions of Aboriginal life. This included their own family albums and the process of matching those and discussing them in comparison and contrast with archive photographs. For example, a stark contrast was noted between photographs taken by outsiders and the family photographs, which showed the Aborigines looking relaxed and interacting with each other. In particular, from schoolchildren there was criticism of those photographs,

which depicted only life in remote areas, illustrated by dark-skinned people catching kangaroos or eating witchetty grubs. These narrow images, they felt, only encouraged their non-aboriginal classmates to believe that people who lived differently were not ‘real’ aborigines.

(Taylor 1988: xix)

From the discussions there also arose the issue of the narrowness of media representations which concentrated on the poorest areas of a town. They were not interested in Aboriginals who had jobs, but served to reinforce the stereotype of the unemployed, drunken and lazy Aborigine. As the media had concentrated on such negative representations, it was felt that the After 200 Years project could assist in the production of a positive image of aboriginal life.

Nonetheless, the project was not without its problems. There were issues concerning visual representation that arose from specific cultural factors. For example, there were cultural restrictions on seeing photographs of recently deceased persons, which meant that the photographic strategy of distributing photographs and subsequently publishing them could have upset and offended certain groups. The introduction to the book that resulted from the project had to include a warning that readers might feel that some aspects of the book could infringe a particular cultural taboo: a taboo which did not necessarily apply to those who had been deceased for two or so generations but only to those whose mortuary rites were still continuing. Similar restrictions applied to certain ceremonies:

one photographer took photos of parts of a ceremony that was privileged to initiated men only. He did so at the request of older men present and on condition that no women or government people would see them. The photographer processed the film himself, made copies of 50 photographs, which were returned to the appropriate person, and then the negatives were destroyed.

(Taylor 1988: xxi)

Another feature of the project involved the production of the third meaning, created by the combination of image and caption. The community members were invited to provide the text for the photographs as well as assisting in the selection of the images.

The general conclusion that we can reach from the example of the After 200 Years project is that there is no absolute formula for success in providing a photographic record of any particular cultural group. The best procedure for the photographer is to establish all the possible relevant factors, and devise a course of action that, although it will not necessarily be perfect or foolproof, will at least be the result of informed decision-making.

CASE STUDY: PHOTOGRAPHY IN THE SEARCH FOR IDENTITY

Camilla Sune is a Norwegian photographer living in Oslo. Born in Korea, at the age of 14 months she was adopted and brought up in Norwegian culture and speaking the language. It was during her studies in England in 1995, that people would ask her where she was from and, when she replied ‘Norway’, they wanted to know where she was really from. This led her to search for her Korean identity and to use photographs to aid her in her quest. In common with other ethnic groups she has used photography as a means of re-establishing her identity (for example, Black photographers, or the Australian Aboriginal After 200 Years project), but Sune finds it difficult to connect with their work. She has in common some of the general issues of race, ethnic and cultural identity, but not the specifics of her own cultural and personal experience.

Feeling that circumstances have denied her an important aspect of her past, she began to place her childhood photographs into items of traditional Korean clothing – literally to redress parts of her missing history. In other images she has produced self portraits that compare and contrast her own Korean appearance, her clothing (which can be either Western or Korean) and the Norwegian landscape. Using photography in this way, her connection to Korea is made through symbols of Koreanness: the sorts of images and artefacts that one finds in picture postcards and other tourist imagery. On the one hand, the photographs seem to come to terms with the two cultures; on the other hand, they can display her difficulties in coming to terms with an aspect of her life that is something of an academic point, as she cannot remember any of her life in Korea and is unable to speak the language. Thus she faces a personal dilemma: in some senses she is attempting to come to terms with her ‘real’ identity, but it is an identity that is largely based upon her own physical characteristics and ‘circumstantial’ evidence. She also faces the cultural contradiction of Korea itself. Since the end of the Korean War (1950–3) the country has been divided into two separate states – North and South Korea – and until recently this political divide has split many families. For the past half-century, the notion of being Korean has implied a divided sense of self – a situation which continues to be the subject of protracted negotiation (Ward 2002).

Figure 5.1
Vinter, 1997.

Copyright Camilla Sune.

Although Camilla does not personally identify with the divided notion of Korea, the issue is by no means fully resolved, but this is the strength of her work. As an ongoing search for her ‘true’ identity, can an adequate conclusion ever be reached? Simultaneously as photographer, subject and viewer, she is balancing her subjective experience with her objective knowledge, using the medium of photography to juggle with some of the contradictions of human existence. James Clifford in his The Predicament of Culture writes of ‘ethnography in alliance with avant-garde art and cultural criticism, activities with which it shares modernist procedures of collage, juxtaposition, and estrangement. The “exotic” is now nearby’ (1988: 10). Similarly, using the camera as a means of self-projection, Camilla Sune’s photographs raise questions about the relationships between personal history, cultural stereotypes and photographic genres such as documentary, ethnographic, family snapshot and self portrait (see Figures 5.1 and 5.2).

Figure 5.2
Vinterterien, 1998.

Copyright Camilla Sune.

PHOTO-ELICITATION AS A SOCIAL SCIENCE RESEARCH

Apart from using photographs to encourage viewers’ responses for artistic purposes, the methods of photo-elicitation have been adopted by more ‘traditional’ areas of social science study. As a ‘qualitative’ interview methodology, it has become a supplementary component of larger scale research investigations particularly within the fields of sociology and anthropology (see Buckley 2014; Freeman 2009). However, in some instances, it can form the main component of the enquiry as some researchers find that visual images can produce responses from subjects that verbal enquiries alone are unable to reach. The process of sitting down with someone to discuss a series of photographs does not bear some of the intimidating connotations of the interrogative interview and works especially well with potentially vulnerable groups and/or in cross-cultural settings.

The following case study in the field of the Medical Humanities was conducted by visual anthropologist Dr Jerome Crowder of the University of Texas Medical Branch. The work was undertaken in Puno, Perú and various Aymara villages surrounding Lake Titicaca,12,507 feet above sea level (Crowder 2007, 2013).

CASE STUDY: APPLIED PHOTO-ELICITATION IN ETHNOGRAPHIC RESEARCH

Jerome Crowder is a visual anthropologist interested in studying culture change through the use of still images. Since the early 1990s he has focused his research on the processes of urbanisation and migration in the Americas, particularly Aymara speaking migrants who live in the Andean cities of La Paz, Bolivia and Puno, Perú. He uses photography as a methodological tool, not as much for documentation purposes but more for discussion and reciprocal gift-giving with migrants. Living with the Aymara for extended periods of time, photography offers a glimpse of Aymara lives that we would not normally see, as these images reveal aspects of their personalities, their families and their struggle to survive in the city (see Figure 5.3).

Figure 5.3
Eduardo builds a window. El Alto, Bolivia 2011.

Photograph by Jerome Crowder. Courtesy of Jerome Crowder. Image originally in colour.

As photographer and ethnographer, his goal is to explore and demonstrate the similarities we share as people from different cultures and to involve migrants in the photography itself. Over time the migrants have become his best critics, embracing those images they feel most accurately depict their lives or explaining why others do not.

Often they ask me to take photos of special events and celebrations (e.g. baptisms, funerals, weddings, first hair cuts, etc.), which allows me access to important cultural happenings where I meet more people to work with. Afterwards I give the photos to the residents and discuss what they mean to them. These photos become keys to understanding the events from their perspectives, and mementos for families to keep. But special occasions are infrequent, and instead I have found that the mundane experiences reveal the most about how people negotiate their lives through culture. Even though I live with Aymara migrants for long periods of time (up to two years) and speak their languages (Spanish and Aymara) I am still a foreigner. And because I am not a native, I cannot see the world as they do. For example, sometimes residents ask me, “why don’t you take a photo of that?” and they point to something that did not immediately catch my attention, like a person, bus or building. Ultimately I realized that my friends whose lives I share should take photographs as well, and by combining their images and commentary with mine, we would create a discourse about what life is really like in the urban Andes.

In 2003 he lived in Puno, Perú, a city of 100,000 people on the shores of Lake Titicaca. His five-month mission was to teach visual anthropology (the study of visual culture, usually by means of still images or video) at the Universidad Nacional del Altiplano and work with Aymara migrants who travel to the city from surrounding villages. Aymara speaking people have populated the Titicaca basin for nearly two millennia, subsisting as agriculturalists and pastoralists, cultivating legumes and tubers (e.g. various types of potatoes) and raising camelids (llamas and alpacas). Owing to external pressures like land reform and the global economy, Aymara peasant strategies no longer support their families in the countryside, so they move to cities to sell their goods and to find work.

His objective was to understand how rural Aymara conceptualise and interface with the city from their perspective. To do this he took fifteen 35mm film cameras to distribute to people who live in the countryside and travel to Puno and other regional cities relatively frequently. They would take photos of the things that they deemed important or significant to their lives: people, places, events, etc. His proposition was to provide them with the camera, film and processing, if they would share their images, explaining where they took the photos, and why they felt they were important to make. Their photos became keys to unlocking information about their lives, about the processes of urbanisation and migration that would not come from lengthy interviews or observations on his part. Instead, with their own cameras, migrants could take photographs of their world and explain them to him, effectively removing his cultural constructions to learn more about theirs. This method seemed to be less ethnocentric and more participatory, which would make Crowder’s job as participant observer less intrusive as well as intimate. All images were returned to the participants in photo albums.

One young migrant woman, Lydia, already used a very inexpensive camera to document her life; she was making photos of her family to take back with her to Lima, as she only visits them once a year. She was given a few rolls of film and later Crowder found her in the capital to talk with her about her images. Gabriel, a 17-year-old male, shot 11 rolls in 10 weeks, while Javier, a 20-something artisan, found photography to be another way of expressing his culture. Each of them maintained their enthusiasm throughout the time period. As the project progressed, Crowder reflected on the work of other social scientists who employ photographic elicitation in their research. He found it to be much more of a hands-on approach, as photography itself became a cultural hurdle to jump in order to understand how people visualise their world.

Up to that point, I had made a number of assumptions, primarily that people would understand the essence of photography, of image making, of recording events to relive later and share with family. As we talked, their conceptualization of an image, what it means and how it is used did not coincide with mine in the least. Certainly, in North American culture we grow up seeing images of ourselves and of others, of things we know as well as things unfamiliar to us, and we perceive how an image is a representation of an event, person or place. However, in the Andes, making photos has an inherently different meaning to people than I thought. They connote photography with wealth and authority. I assumed that migrants’ compositions would illustrate their world view, and I was partly correct. For example, whether they took a photo or not demonstrated their relationship with photography. In other words, their decision or behavior reflects how they perceive photography as well as their relationship with me.

(Personal communication, April, 2015)

In the village of Titilaca he met Ruben, a 32-year-old man whose neighbours considered him crazy or ‘ill’. Ruben explained how his parents had sent him to live with his aunt and uncle in the border town of Tacna when he was eight years old. They promised Ruben would go to school and work. His work was smuggling grain across the Chilean border, which they would sell in their store. When Ruben was not working they locked him in his room, unable to leave the house or attend school. Ruben returned to Titilaca when he was 16-years old and immediately enlisted in the army and was sent to the frontline in the war on terrorism with Sendero Luminoso. These stressors, among others, affected his ability to settle into village life when he returned to Titilaca, making him despondent. Crowder gave Ruben a camera to divert his depression, thinking that it might give him something unique to do. Ruben eagerly took to photography, soliciting his friends and neighbours for photographs. One of his images shows his parents standing in the plaza of a nearby town, Ilave, where the weekly market draws farmers from all around. ‘They go here on Sundays, to purchase things they need and trade potatoes’, he explained. Ruben’s parents stand at attention in the centre of the plaza, a large building is being constructed behind them (see Figure 5.4).

Ruben’s interest in photography stimulated his expression of explaining the lives of the people with whom he lived. He talked photography with Crowder, flipping through his images Ruben talked about each person and his relationship to him or her, frequently adding quite unexpected details. By December villagers no longer referred to Ruben as ‘crazy’ but instead, the ‘boy with the camera’, which gave him a sense of pride no one had ever previously witnessed.

Regardless of the pitfalls and misunderstandings, in the end, participants’ images do demonstrate a migrant worldview, as a majority of the photographs depict family members, modes of transportation, animals and home environments – things important to them personally. Sometimes multiple subjects were crammed in the same frame, sacrificing their size while maximising their quantity. Other times the images were of specific people, places or events, none of which made much sense without their explanation. This commentary on intention reflects their history with photography, their relationships with those around them.

Figure 5.4
The Mamanis, 2003.

Photograph by Ruben Mamani.

The most difficult issue I dealt with during this participatory project was restraining myself from imposing my ideas of composition onto migrants’ images. In my own work I express the intimacy of life by filling a wide frame with candid moments of people I work with. While the participants enthusiastically shared their photos with their families and with me, I felt that the images lacked context, appeared bland and were difficult to interpret. However, participants’ explanations precipitated a deeper understanding and demonstrated their interpretation of the world. For example, Ruben photographed people in his village, who stand at attention, expressionless, and far away from the camera. Ruben explained that this was the way people are used to having their pictures made in school and in the military (the two most frequent places peasant farmers encounter photography), and he considered them formal and genuine.

No matter what their subject, migrants’ images do express their worldview. By combining their worldly possessions, investments and environment into one frame they illustrate a holistic perception of how the elements in their lives go together. What we also ‘see’ are the impediments they deal with every day, the pressures of eking out a life, of struggle and suffering because of the way the systems they deal with adversely affect their ability to get ahead. Finally, their dedication to making images they thought that Crowder would personally appreciate reflects a long history of working for patrons, be they Spanish colonialists, academic researchers or other brands of tourist. Ultimately migrants’ photos reflect the level of trust in the photography facilitator.

The result of the images made during this project was a photo exhibit and publication. To edit the images, Crowder asked the participants to select from the entire collection of photos that best represent the life of an Aymara migrant. The top 50 photographs voted on by the participants were accompanied by paragraphs of text, their words describing why they took the photo and how it reflects an important (positive or negative) aspect of their lives. Through their vision and voices migrants demonstrated their urban survival skills and perception of the world around them. As the audience we also learn about the mundane issues we share as humans, recognising that we have more in common with these migrants than we even care to acknowledge. More importantly they visualise the systems they navigate, which cause them hardship and suffering, everyday discrimination and the effort required to maintain their families.

The art of the image is not necessarily in the final print as much as it is in experiencing the moment the image is made. Images are about relationships, about trust, about sharing—and that’s why when I distribute cameras I feel that participants may be able to connect with their subjects differently than I could, would, or should. It is the same difference between me taking a photo of your family and you taking a photo of your family—there’s something inherent in the relationships that is reflected in the final image.

Ultimately these images are important to them because they belong to them, creating a history to share with family and friends, shedding light on their lives in ways a visitor would never see, nor understand how to discuss without their elicitation.

Like other uses of photographic media, the challenges of technological change have to be met.

In May 2006 Crowder began an investigation about how residents in an east Houston neighbourhood respond to, use and think about technology, especially in its relationship with health. The findings were to be used in the deployment of a wireless health device, allowing those with chronic heart disease to manage their illness. It was also an opportunity to investigate how local youth engage with technology and facilitate adult understanding of technology. In the end, the themes discussed reflect the worldviews of the residents themselves, rather than their relationship with the technology.

The photo-elicitation, offered the older residents a choice between film and digital cameras while the youth were given cell phones with cameras. All were asked to take snapshots of those things important to them and those things they would like to change in their neighbourhood. The researchers found that the type of camera the residents chose correlated to their comfort level with technology, but more importantly their images (or lack thereof) revealed several social issues within the neighbourhood. Specifically they highlighted a lack of communication and understanding between local organisations, the civic association board members, and their resident constituents.

While our intent was to understand residents’ ideas of health and technology in regards to their personal priorities and worldview, we found the simple task of taking (or not taking) photographs equally important to recognizing residents’ attitudes towards technology and health.

Various difficulties arose throughout the research. Based upon previous experience with photo-elicitation in Houston and in Latin America, Crowder and his team assumed that residents would be willing and eager to participate. However, they quickly realised that access to ‘cool’ technology, photography or producing exhibits of their work were insufficient incentives for the neighbourhood residents. As most adults work multiple jobs, or attend school and do not have extra time for taking photos, the incentive of creating a community-wide discussion held little attraction.

Figure 5.5
Who cut off the water? 2006

Photograph by Donald.

Three out of ten of the adult participants, and an equal percentage of the youth were not regularly involved with the project because they didn’t have the time nor interest to do so. The photographs taken by the most active participants either live or work in the area and have different ethnic and economic backgrounds. However, several general themes were reflected in the images they made, including: trust, order, environment, subsistence and health.

Donald is a 68-year-old Navy veteran and retired high-school drama and speech instructor. He lived in the neighbourhood for 30 years and witnessed a gradual change from it comprising of mostly older Anglo Americans to a younger generation of Latin Americans. He took tremendous pride in his community but became frustrated with his neighbours’ values towards maintenance and appearance of their property. Owing to complications from cancer, Donald died in 2012. Another significant photo he made was of the growing mountain of medical bills he accumulated each month (see Marion and Crowder 2013, p. 121).

Donald’s image Driving through the neighborhood demonstrates a lack of trust and inherent fear within factions of the population. Donald has a great deal of disdain for his neglectful neighbours. The opinions held by the residents, while seemingly obvious, are not clearly visible to outside observers. Even more importantly, the differing opinions are not clear to the residents, manifesting in deeper communication rifts between them.

Tiffany’s selfie with a friend demonstrates to the viewers that her sense of community lies with her friends rather than in the geophysical community itself (see Figure 5.6). Living in a large apartment complex with her grandmother, Tiffany found her community of friends in high-school to be her support network as she regularly spent time at her friends’ houses and had close relationships with their parents. One other common image Tiffany made was of the dead animals she found as she hiked across the neighbourhood to school and back – a kind of morbid reflection of her own situation, feeling trapped and wanting to have her own life. She has since left Houston to attend university where she is thriving.

Figure 5.6
Me and my friend, 2006.

Photograph by Tiffany Hinson.

CONCLUSION

The residents’ images effectively portray their diverse worldviews juxtaposed within an urban neighbourhood. Residents’ descriptions and comments on their images highlight their relationships with each other and their environment. These many recurring themes reflect a socially divided neighbourhood, contested ideas about community, and technologically savvy youth who share little of their knowledge with the elders, and who would be ideal candidates for the wireless monitoring device. While these images provide a more thorough understanding of the residents’ worldview to inform potential health care initiatives, they demonstrate the lack of discourse between neighbours, generations and professionals.

THE ‘SELFIE’

In the context of Crowder’s study, the ethnographer/photographer has taken on the role of a facilitator of image-making rather that of a taker of photographs. This offers the possibility of his subjects providing their own views and perspectives of the world they inhabit. This, coupled with recent developments in camera technology, has brought about the phenomenon of the ‘selfie’ whereby people can take their own image in order to present themselves to the world in the ways they wish to be seen.

Self portraits in photography are not new. Hippolyte Bayard not only produced one of the first self portraits in 1840, but staged his ‘Portrait of the Photographer as a Drowned Man’ to produce one of the earliest attempts at photographic deception. A century later Lee Friedlander spent more than 50 years (1958–2011) making it his specialism to exploit the artistic possibilities of the self portrait. This tradition has been extended into the age of digital photography in the work of Dan Ponting for example (Fig.9.7).

However, with the advent of social media and easily portable camera phones interest in the self portrait in the form of the selfie has been given a new lease of life. Holding the camera at arm’s-length, pointing back towards the photographer, the images produce a very casual, informal, on the spur of the moment effect in almost any conceivable location (Figs. 2.9 and 5.6). Often the purpose of the selfie is to produce an ‘authentication’ image – taken to prove that ‘I was here’. They might also be taken with the purpose of social cohesion by making a portrait of a small group of friends. It avoids the necessity for someone to leave the group to become the photographer, the use of a self timer, or having to ask a stranger to take the photo.

It is questionable whether the selfie has actually contributed anything new to photographic representation. There is the positive result of people being able to produce and control their own self image, yet many images so produced conform to established media stereotypes (for instance, how many UK teenagers make selfies emulating US gangsta hand signals?). Self flattering images can then be pasted on social networking sites such as Facebook, inviting friends’ approval to ‘like’ the self-representation suggesting the self-photographer’s demand for peer-group acceptance and/or admiration. The rich and famous can also use the selfie to promote their own image as well as making a personal record. While President Obama was criticised for taking a selfie with Angela Merkel, guests invited to meet Queen Elizabeth during her visit to Germany (2015) were told that selfies were strictly forbidden.

Like many other fads in the history of photography (e.g. stereoscopy in the nineteenth century), the selfie is likely to be all the rage for a few years, then will merge into the general background of photographic practice. Of course it is possible that in moving image reporting a news correspondent in restricted or dangerous circumstances might make a ‘selfie’ piece to camera. No doubt art galleries will be quick to feature exhibitions of the most innovative selfies, but it is unlikely that such images will make a major contribution to the practice of photojournalism.