Bard by Night

In the summer of 1979, the photographer Larry Fink premiered the origins of "Social Graces" (1984) at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Beyond the content of the work, which examines the disparity of the American class system and its human ironies, its surface is instantly recognizable for an incidental signature: handheld flash. This was a new approach for Fink, born out of technical necessity to capture "Social Graces"' dimly lit parties and ballrooms, though it quickly evolved into an aesthetic of its own. This method of angled, nanosecond illumination creates a visual hierarchy of alluring highlights and deep valleys of shadows; a contrast which lends a distinct sense of structure to a photograph. It permits the photographer to work the frame discerningly, choosing what to emphasize and what to dismiss. This, not that.

I made this work in 2013 as a sophomore at Bard College, while studying under Larry. I would describe my experience as that of an incessant obsession with all things photographic: cameras and lenses, film stocks, art history, and so forth. I was nineteen and enraptured by everything I was learning, fixated on one day becoming a Photographer (with a capital P.) Although a dedicated student, I was certainly no stranger to college nightlife and its pleasures. It was a time to get down, embraced as an opportunity for extracurricular studies as I danced and indulged with some of the most sensitive, brilliant and mad minds I’ve ever met. Despite photographing during the daytime for an unrelated project, I felt compelled to continue into the night, tethering myself to the camera like a leash to a dog. The photographs needed to be made.

Although this work doesn’t depict the wealthy (and vapid) Manhattanites nor the rural Pennsylvanians of "Social Graces", there is an undeniable emulation of Fink’s aesthetic; this time, composed of determined college hedonists, a sort of self-portrait of my time as a sad, sweet and dark participant therein. I was encouraged by Larry to probe the defining “sensual, primal empathy” of our social experiences, to photograph curiously and intuitively. I consulted with Cartier-Bresson’s "The Decisive Moment", Brassaï, the chiaroscuro of Caravaggio, and all the other demigods of the canon as I entered a familiar and accessible environment where glass Olde English ruled supreme.

Produced under Professor Larry’s guidance, the following pays clear homage to his visual style matched by my own interpretation of the college night life experience. These are party photos, and these aren’t party photos. This is an ode to my heroes, made by an energized and starry-eyed 19-year old student hellbent on producing something substantial, a redemption from the boring and directionless work of his past. It was exciting. My desire was to beautify the debauchery, examine my role within, make sense of its loneliness, and to further explore my neurotic love affair with photography.

Introduction by Alex Hacker:

Sometimes when things slow down a moment, whether I’m in the shower or waiting for a train, I like to imagine what I would tell 16-year old me about the way I live now. I have very clear memories of being a teenager and wishing that I could ask my “adult self” questions. What do I do for work? Do I have a girlfriend? Is New York City still habitable? How does Breaking Bad end?

I often jokingly refer to my time spent at Bard College as a “four-year weekend”, but I’ll admit that this statement is misleading. Of course, I went to class and studied – I even got good grades – but when I reflect back on those years I don’t think about reading Greek tragedies alone in my dorm room or hours spent sitting in a lecture hall. Instead I remember the long talks on cold porches, the hours spent dancing in a crowded basement, or laughing in the backseat of a car.

I look at these photographs and recognize nearly every face, but even now in 2020, just a few years removed from college, I have already begun to forget the names. It is the moments I remember best. I see what you see. I see hands on hips, faces pressed together on the dance floor, hands gripping cans of beer. But the only moment captured here that I don’t remember is my own. I remember the name of the woman draping her arm over me and whispering (shouting?) in my ear – we were friendly and had many mutual acquaintances – but I do not remember it happening. I can’t help but think of what sixteen-year old me would think had I seen this glimpse of myself.

I imagine that sixteen-year old feeling intensely relieved upon seeing the picture of myself at twenty that is included in this collection. “Not only am I social enough to be invited to a party, but cute girls will wrap their arms around me and talk into my ear!”, he would think. It is likely a moment he would eagerly await. But in reality it was so inconsequential that I didn’t even know it had occurred until I was confronted with Brendan’s image. I now find myself forced to reckon with what other moments may be lost to me.

There is an undercurrent of melancholy to this collection which I did not expect when Brendan first approached me about it. When viewed, I imagine many will take from these photos what my teenage self would have: hedonistic young people indulging in sex, drugs, and rock and roll, or whatever the modern equivalent of that cliché is. But what I see is a very specific window into a moment in our lives when we were comfortable and open with each other, a willingness to be vulnerable. Intimate. I’ve shared deeper secrets with people I barely knew than I have with my own therapist. I’m not sure when we lose that, but the absence is felt.

Brendan and I used to sit in his room, drinking and listening to music well into the night. Oftentimes during these sessions, he would reach for a high shelf, retrieving the heavy coffee table books of esteemed photographers and then walk me through their work. Henri Cartier-Bresson was one of his favorites, and his mantra, that “life is once, forever”, struck a chord with me. It clearly had an impact on Brendan’s work as well. All four-year weekends eventually end, faces blur, and moments are forgotten. But through Brendan’s eyes they may yet live forever.