Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Ǻň İňțěřvįěẅ Ẅįțħ Șųșǻň
Șǿňțǻģ
JŲŇĚ 1, 1975
ȘŲȘǺŇ ȘǾŇȚǺĢ, ĢĚǾFFŘĚỲ MǾVİŲȘ
Movius: Do you think that is happening because people feel a need to get in
touch with the past—their own or other people’s?
Sontag: I think it has more to do with their lack of connection with the past
than with being interested in the past. Many people don’t believe that one can
give an account of the world, of society, but only of the self—”how I saw it.”
They assume that what writers do is testify, if not confess, and a work is about
how you see the world and put yourself on the line. Fiction is supposed to be
“true.” Like photographs.
Sontag: I suppose the main tradition in photography is the one that implies
that anything can be interesting if you take a photograph of it. It consists in
discovering beauty, a beauty that can exist anywhere but is assumed to reside
particularly in the random and the banal. Photography conflates the notions
of the “beautiful” and the “interesting.” It’s a way of aestheticizing the whole
world.
It also does queer things to our sense of time. Never before in human history
did people have any idea of what they looked like as children. The rich
commissioned portraits of their children, but the conventions of portraiture
from the Renaissance through the nineteenth century were thoroughly
determined by ideas about class and didn’t give people a very reliable idea of
what they had looked like.
Movius: Sometimes the portrait might consist of somebody else’s body with
your head on it.
Sontag: Right. And the vast majority of people, those who could not afford to
have a portrait painted, had no record of what they looked like as children.
Today, we all have photographs in which we can see ourselves at age six, our
faces already intimating what they were to become. We have similar
information about our parents and grandparents. And there’s a great
poignancy in these photographs; they make you realize that these people
really were children once. To be able to see oneself and one’s parents as
children is an experience unique to our time. The camera has brought people
a new, and essentially pathetic, relation to themselves, to their physical
appearance, to aging, to their own mortality. It is a kind of pathos which
never existed before.
Movius: But there’s something about what you say which contradicts the
idea that photography distances us from historical events. From Anthony
Lewis’ column in the New York Times this morning I jotted down this quote
by Alexander Woodside, a specialist in Sino-Vietnamese studies at Harvard.
He said: “Vietnam is probably one of the contemporary world’s purest
examples of a history-dependent, history-obsessed society… The U.S. is
probably the contemporary world’s purest example of a society which is
perpetually trying to abolish history, to avoid thinking in historical terms, to
associate dynamism with premeditated amnesia.” It struck me that, in your
essays, you too are asserting about America that we are deracinated—we are
not in possession of our past. Perhaps there is a redemptive impulse in our
keeping photographic records.
Sontag: The essential American relation to the past is not to carry too much
of it. The past impedes action, saps energy. It’s a burden because it modifies
or contradicts optimism. If photographs are our connection with the past, it’s
a very peculiar, fragile, sentimental connection. You take a photograph before
you destroy something. The photograph is its posthumous existence.
Movius: Why do you think Americans feel that the past is a burden?
Sontag: Because, unlike Vietnam, this isn’t a “real” country but a made-up,
willed country, a meta-country. Most Americans are the children or
grandchildren of immigrants, whose decision to come here had, to begin with,
a great deal to do with cutting their losses. If immigrants retained a tie with
their country or culture of origin, it was very selective. The main impulse was
to forget. I once asked my father’s mother, who died when I was seven, where
she came from. She said, “Europe.” Even at six I knew that wasn’t a very good
answer. I said, “But where, Grandma?" She repeated, testily, “Europe.” And
so to this day, I don’t know from what country my paternal grandparents
came. But I have photographs of them, which I cherish, which are like
mysterious tokens of all that I don’t know about them.
Sontag: Yes.
Sontag: I think it has to do with the nature of visual memory. Not only do I
remember photographs better than I remember moving images. But what I
remember of a movie amounts to an anthology of single shots. I can recall the
story, lines of dialogue, the rhythm. But what I remember visually are
selected moments that I have, in effect, reduced to stills. It’s the same for
one’s own life. Each memory from one’s childhood, or from any period that’s
not in the immediate past, is like a still photograph rather than a strip of film.
And photography has objectified this way of seeing and remembering.
Sontag: Of course.
Sontag: I don’t own a camera. I’m photograph junkie, but I don’t want to
take them.
Movius: Why?
Movius: Would that be bad? Would that mean that one had moved from
being a writer to being something else?
Sontag: Writers ask more questions. It’s hard for the writer to work on the
assumption that just anything can be interesting. Many people experience
their lives as if they had cameras. But while they can see it, they can’t say it.
When they report an interesting event, their accounts frequently peter out in
the statement, “I wish I had had my camera.” There is a general breakdown in
narrative skills, and few people tell stories well anymore.
Movius. Do you think that this breakdown is coincidental with the rise of
photography, or do you think there is some direct causal relationship?
Movius: All of this also relates to your reluctance to rely principally on your
own experience in your fiction.
Sontag: Not at all when I write. When I talk about writing, yes. Writing is a
mysterious activity. One has to be at different stages of conception and
execution, in a state of extreme alertness and consciousness and in a state of
great naivete and ignorance, Although this is probably true of the practice of
any art, it may be more true of writing because the writer—unlike the painter
or composer—works in a medium that one employs all the time, throughout
one’s waking life. Kafka said: “Conversation takes the importance, the
seriousness, the truth out of everything I think.” I would guess that most
writers are suspicious of conversation, of what goes out in the ordinary uses
of language. People deal with this in different ways. Some hardly talk at all.
Others play games of concealment and avowal, as I am, no doubt, playing
with you. There is only so much revealing one can do. For every self-
revelation, there has to be a self-concealment. A life-long commitment to
writing involves a balancing of these incompatible needs. But I do think that
the model of writing as self-expression is much too crude. If I thought that
what I’m doing when I write is expressing myself, I’d junk my typewriter. It
wouldn’t be liveable-with. Writing is a much more complicated activity than
that.
Sontag: I don’t think the problem with photography is that it’s too simple
but that it’s too imperious a way of seeing. Its balance between being
“present” and being “absent” is facile, when generalized as an attitude—which
it is now in our culture. But I’m not against simplicity, as such. There is a
dialectical exchange between simplicity and complexity, like the one between
self-revelation and self-concealment. The first truth is that every situation is
extremely complicated and that anything one thinks about thereby becomes
more complicated. The main mistake people make when thinking about
something, whether an historical event or one in their private lives, is that
they don’t see just how complicated it is. The second truth is that one cannot
live out all the complexities one perceives, and that to be able to act
intelligently, decently, efficiently, and compassionately demands a great deal
of simplification. So there are times when one has to forget—repress,
transcend—a complex perception that one has.
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