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Censored Language Fold-out

M-A APO 50 ADOX Color Implosion

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On ‎1‎/‎27‎/‎2021 at 7:51 AM, christoph_d said:

Made me smile, have you worked for a government agency in the past?

Not really, but what made an impression on me was doing some research in the National Archive reading some military record group documents stamped Top Secret were declassified on my reading. Some of these documents dated 1944 were heavily redacted "in the interest of national security."

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1 hour ago, Ernest said:

Censored Language Fold-out

M-A APO 50 ADOX Color Implosion

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I am language, the written word, designed to communicate. But then, I am not. My right to exist, to be seen, removed by “party or parties unknown”. For reason or reasons unknown. Or for reason or reasons so nebulous they are cloaked in a nebulous concept. Did I once exist? Or is it that my once-existence was so un-right, so deleterious, so unpalatable as to be intolerable. Instead of language, thought, idea, communication, my final form is thick black lines. The presence of Absence. Evidence enough that I once existed but that my very existence was anathema - although to whom and for what reason is as yet uncertain. We may disagree - your words, their words may be used to counter my words - but here it is obliteration instead of debate. Ah, well. As I’ve heard it said, some might disagree with them, but I have my beliefs and convictions. Not, mind you, so firmly that I might die for them. After all, I could be wrong.

Then again, so could they.

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7 hours ago, Wayne said:

Never having ventured this far out of the box, with a post, I can contain it no longer. he is my favorite composer/musician. It is difficult to imagine greater mastery with dissonance and resonance.  Carlo Domeniconi.....reminding us that we are analog beasts.

 

Beyond exquisite. Thank you Wayne, sincerely. Already shared with the rest of the family.

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M3 | Summaron-M 28mm f/5.6 | Expired Ilford FP4+ 125 | Rodinal 1:50 

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A humble spontaneous grab shot from the kitchen last summer.

Basil (not Fawlty)

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Flickr
FM3A 55/2.8 micro Velvia 100 CS9000
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5 minutes ago, Bo-Sixten said:

Nostalgia. Dusty oldies. 47th Street Photo, NYC, 1980. My favourite place to shop used stuff in the eighties when in NY. 

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Wow, what a blast from the past! My favorite place, too. There was a sign over the register that went something like this: "Have complaints? Here's the number to file with the New York City Consumer Affairs." 47th Street could care less about service, but I shopped there anyway!

Edited by bags27
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12 minutes ago, Bo-Sixten said:

Nostalgia. Dusty oldies. 47th Street Photo, NYC, 1980. My favourite place to shop used stuff in the eighties when in NY. 

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I’m pretty sure I bought a black Minolta x-700 and a new auto everything Maxuum for my sister there around ‘89 / ‘90

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In Dupont Circle DC last November

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Leica IIIf + Elmar 5cm, Tri-X

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Washington, DC one Saturday in November

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Leica IIIf, Elmar 5cm

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On ‎1‎/‎28‎/‎2021 at 3:11 PM, stray cat said:

I am language, the written word, designed to communicate. But then, I am not. My right to exist, to be seen, removed by “party or parties unknown”. For reason or reasons unknown. Or for reason or reasons so nebulous they are cloaked in a nebulous concept. Did I once exist? Or is it that my once-existence was so un-right, so deleterious, so unpalatable as to be intolerable. Instead of language, thought, idea, communication, my final form is thick black lines. The presence of Absence. Evidence enough that I once existed but that my very existence was anathema - although to whom and for what reason is as yet uncertain. We may disagree - your words, their words may be used to counter my words - but here it is obliteration instead of debate. Ah, well. As I’ve heard it said, some might disagree with them, but I have my beliefs and convictions. Not, mind you, so firmly that I might die for them. After all, I could be wrong.

Then again, so could they.

What a brilliant shadow of censorship, the very architecture of redaction! It is a poetic manifesto for the terror of censorship's Theatre of the Absurd. Anathema to the artist, as you allow. It is an ongoing play with actors speaking with silence. Beckett's endlessness, finality without end. The terrifying landscape of redaction, "thick black lines," orchestrated with a voice of silence. Yes, the presence of absence or even the absence of presence, the metronome of miasma. The backlog: I started to consider the censorship of language and, for us, images, what we find arresting, and I determined that censorship and redaction, though not entirely the same, are both a measure of assault and ultimately oppression. A redaction renders privileged language or images mute. Much of my preoccupation is centered on photography as the object itself, so I was challenged with expressing the concept of censorship. Nothing new, perhaps, but I eliminated the specificity of identifiable images of things, places, and language, representing their life hidden under blocks of redacting black (or near black). I used disused color fields of yellow that intimated a sense of history, worn and scarred. I decided on a triptych format to give the sense of a fold-out in a book or magazine. When laying this out, I discovered the fold-out seemed to animate itself in my mind, implying a kind of "turning the pages." Silly, perhaps, but I couldn't prevent myself from mentally animating the turning of the pages. The actual color field is steel, which I thought was humorous, too. That redacted large black block occupying the fold-out represents a photograph image. Why is this image so political that it must be censored? Why is there such repetition in the folding and unfolding, without end?

Your final thoughts express the essence of endlessness . . . "After all, I could be wrong. Then again, so could they."

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