If you are reading this then I am dead. Which is a bummer. The words, however, were written while I was still alive. I considered changing some of the sentences to the past tense, but then I thought that the more alert among you might wonder how a non-corporeal entity could hold a pen, so I let it alone.
In 1970 I was in England editing a photographic journal, Album. It was in such dire financial straits that I decided to lash out a few guineas for a consultation with a management consultant, someone who specialized in refloating shipwrecked companies. It could not hurt. Or so I thought. In fact, the experience has troubled me ever since.
He browsed through a few copies of the magazine. “So what’s the point of all…this?,” he asked, as he pushed the copies back at me.
I began to talk about the sad state of photography in Britain, how I was fighting to gain respect for an abused medium, why I cared about young photographers and the need to nurture their talent, what I perceived as an opportunity, through the pages of the journal, to present ideas, inspiration, historical context, social relevancy, image integrity….
He listened with growing impatience. “Bullshit,” he said. “Let’s start again. You are in this thing for one of three reasons: fame, money or power, just like everyone else. Now you tell me which one you want, and I will tell you how to get it. But don’t kid yourself with ideological/ethical crap. And don’t waste my time. Come back when you have decided what you want.”
I never did go back. I still would not know what to tell him. I still believe in my original motives, even though I might express myself in different words. At root of my existence during my professional life has been my continual delight in photography’s ability to nourish all aspects of existence. I am sure I would still exasperate the poor man if he asked me the same question today.
Nevertheless, his question still intrigues me. If I was forced to choose between fame, money or power, which one would it be?
Money I would rule out immediately. Sure, I would like a lot of loot but not if I had to work for it by spending the greater part of the day in tasks which gave me no pleasure or satisfaction. I have enjoyed teaching, lecturing and writing about photography, activities which are less than likely to make me rich. My last royalty check was for $34 and most of my articles in the past have been freebies, “for services to the field,” as the university so euphemistically calls this activity. I would gratefully accept huge donations, of course, as long as no strings were attached.
Power is also a non-starter. I am convinced that the world would be a safer, saner place if only everyone thought exactly like me. But it would also be very dull. I enjoy the energy, diversity and inevitable conflicts which arise from our different-nesses. It is true that teaching allows the exercise of meager amounts of power, like whether an incoherent, badly researched and largely unintelligible paper should receive a C or D. This is minor stuff compared to the deployment of armies.
So fame it must be. The tricky question then becomes: How to achieve it? I have come up with the perfect solution. What I had to do was produce a photograph which due to its uniqueness would find an instant niche in a major museum and be a curiosity for anyone interested in the medium and its history. I am modest enough (aware of my own inadequacies in this respect) to know that I could not produce such an image through my own creative efforts. Therefore the uniqueness of the picture had to be invested in some non-creative direction.
The solution, if I dare be so bold, was brilliant. I would first die. This is the only disappointing aspect of the idea so far. Then I would be cremated and my ashes used by a photographer I could trust to make a pigment print of my own portrait taken, preferably, while I was still alive. So here would be a picture of me, the image of which was literally composed of me. Unique. Immortality. Fame at last. The critics would rave on, and on, about appropriation of self, and all that.
Now you may be wondering why I am revealing my secret to everlasting fame in the medium. I mean, what’s to stop museums being flooded with post-modern-mortem pictures? The fact is that I’m a bit discouraged. I have discovered that the idea is not original. Browsing through a 1931 copy of Photographic Amusements by Frank Fraprie and Walter E. Woodbury (son of Woodburytype man) I stumbled across this devastating paragraph:
Some time ago we suggested a plan of making what might be termed “post mortem” photographs of cremated friends and relations. A plate is prepared from a negative of the dead person…and the ashes dusted over. They will adhere to the parts unexposed to light, and a portrait is obtained composed entirely of the person it represents, or rather, what is left of them. (My emphasis)
It is true that the authors are describing a dusting-on process which is different from the gum-bichromate or other pigment process which I envision. Nonetheless the principle is the same. I have no idea how many, if any, photographers actually made such pictures. All I can tell you is that my shot at fame looked set to fizzle out.
Still, I liked the idea—a photograph which is not only a representation of me but is me in actuality. I am therefore going ahead with my personal post-mortem project. The result is reproduced here.
James Hajicek, friend and colleague and master non-silver printer, has already taken a large-format portrait of me and he has been willed my ashes to use as the image’s pigment.
In this final portrait, literally of me, I will still exist, sort of, in a limbo-land ‘twixt representation and reality.’ It may not be as unique an idea as I had hoped but I will not be around to think of anything better. Or care.1
Bill Jay
James Hajicek, Bill Jay, 2009, cremains gum bichromate print, 16 x 12.2 cm, SOLARI 13.002.001L