The Portrait Gaze.
I used to think that I wanted to fuck everyone in the whole world: I now realise I just want to photograph them instead. And by everyone I mean just that, though there are as many photographic motivations as there are people. The impulse is not to construct a gallery of beauty but rather to evoke a sense of the infinite diversity of human experience and form. The way some people's top lip curls slightly upwards when smiling, for example, exposing just a fraction of gum above teeth, yellow teeth perhaps, in need of a clean or denture replacement or maybe the teeth are that particular species of white associated with models and actors, each detail difference conspiring with facial features and expression and clothing and hairstyle and gesture to create something unique and fleeting: an individual.
The portrait impulse also stems from a deep fascination with the human face as a visual spectacle, something which has almost landed me in untold trouble time and again, starting from when I was a kid and had my first guided foray into the realm of public transport, when Mum tapped me on the shoulder, whispering: "it's rude to stare." But I couldn't understand why it was acceptable to stare at pictures of people, such as those found in magazines, but not to stare at actual people, such as fellow train passengers. And anyway, I wasn't starting. I was just admiring a certain shadow shape underneath left ear or some such similar detail.
It is the details which have always exerted the strongest fascination, especially in terms of observing a single person over time when it is not only the expressions which alter but facial form, with the appearance of the dreaded wrinkle being the prime example. But then one also has the delight of seeing a familiar expression on a changing face, of looking at photographs of my parents taken before I was born, for example, and spotting a familiar grin or frown or hand gesture, of glimpsing a kind of continuum within change. The same observation applies to the body taken as a whole, to the way someone stands or the shape they make when walking, or running or performing some other physical action, such as washing the floor. And while my ninety year old grandmother's physique and face has changed considerably since I was a child there is still something unmistakably unique about the way she smiles or walks, something almost impossible to describe but easy to recognise, just like the difference between the regular passengers on the regular work bound train.
Yet there is a significant difference between the accidental and the studied gaze, between glancing at Nanna sitting in the blue rocking chair and peering at a photograph of Nanna sitting in that very chair. Not only is it impossible to offend a photograph but one is expected by others to take time examining each image, even if that image is both familiar and repeated, like all those endless snaps of some tourist icon or the plethora of photographs people feel compelled to take on special occasions, such as weddings and birthdays. There are also a number of socially sanctioned situations in which such a studied gaze is not only accepted but expected, such as when asked for an opinion about another persons new outfit or when attending a speech or concert or some other occasion where an averted or brief gaze constitutes a kind of insult.
In such instances the steady gaze implies that one is paying attention, which is also the main reason the constant gaze of a stranger can be so disquieting- just what is it about me that is so interesting? Or strange or different or somehow worthy of another's attention. And while there are all kinds of mutant conventions shaping the contexts in which it acceptable to gaze at someone as well as the manner in which that gaze will be interpreted, notions of gender and beauty rank amongst the most significant, especially given the degree to which the presence of a conventionally attractive woman is still considered by far too many to be a licence to stare.
The female factor is the prime reason I was worried about the motivation behind my own gazing practices, was worried that I was somehow objectifying people by virtue of finding them fascinating to look at. And while I have gazed at more than one beautiful person walking down the street my gaze is as likely to be snared by hair movement or facial expression or contrast between black lipstick and pale skin as by some beauty notion. In the case of clothing I am far more likely to be attracted to dress ripple while walking than a flesh flash at midriff, for example, am far more likely to wonder why a certain person has selected a certain dress than to be thinking that certain person is pretty.
I am just as fascinated by clothes that I may hate as by those I may like, and as far as the ascription of beauty to the human form is concerned, I am attracted more by facial expression than facial form but my sense of beauty is quite distinct from my fascination with the human face in general. One can, after all, find another person visually fascinating without wanting to fuck them, something which has taken me years to not only realise but to embrace. I can remember being in my early teens, for example, and wondering if I was gay purely because I found the stubble pattern on a certain classmates cheek interesting. And even though I did not find this particular person attractive in any way whatsoever I was concerned because I did not fully understand my gaze motivation: it seemed to be something far deeper than the detached observation referred to in art class, something which transcended a mere interest in form but which had nothing to do with the ascription of value or anything like that. I just find the human form fascinating in the same way that one can be transfixed by water ripple or cloud shape amongst other natural things. And that is all.
