BUNGALOW BLITZ

An Interview with Paul Antick

by Aoife Mac Namara

Given the complicated ways in which these houses have become meaningful in Ireland do you think that photography, your photography, can extend the ways in which we can understand a specific architectural and spatial phenomenon such as this?

The presence of the inhabitants of these places in the photographs themselves represents an attempt to humanise the architecture in order to provide the viewer with a familiar point of identification. That is, with an idea of the bungalow as �a way of life�. Which is to say that rather than simply being invited to identify, and identify with, the particular style, type or class of building on display, the viewer is encouraged to engage with those people whose everyday lives are partly played out within and around it. Of course this could be a negative, as well as a positive form of identification. For some, my pictures may simply reinforce certain engrained prejudices about bungalow culture; its mass-cultural tackiness. However, engaging with the people that live in these places, even acknowledging that people actually do live their lives here is, it seems to me, conspicuously absent from most of the criticisms levelled at the bungalow. My pictures are intended, in part, to remind the viewer that what is at stake here � what is worth considering above all – are not just buildings, or a profane set of aesthetic values, but the ways in which people actually live their lives.

What were you attempting to do, to communicate about the people that live in these places, when you were making these photographs?

These buildings are not just buildings, but live environments, inhabited by people whose way of life might, to some extent, be structured by the �bungalow� (as both a physical and symbolic space) but is not, I think, altogether determined by it. Hence, the rather unpredictable, playful nature of some of the photographs.

Despite bearing certain hallmarks of documentary photography most of the photographs are not especially naturalistic or �candid�. They�re more obviously staged. Like theatre. This method of staging, this particular aesthetic, where the cohesiveness of documentary realism is partially interrupted by visual elements that are generically alien to it, amounts to a reconstitution of documentary �realism�. In other words, documentary realism is figured here as a system of representation apparently bereft of innocence. An ironic system of representation that can, in some cases, tend toward a form of �inwardly critical� cynicism. A form of cynicism � perhaps scepticism is a better way of putting it – that takes as its object, not the specific people figured in a particular set of pictures – the photograph�s �content� – but that particular set of beliefs and values that have historically served to define, or epistemologically locate, �documentary realism� itself.

Martha Rosler, from the bowary in two inadequate descriptive systems, Halifax: The Press of The Nova Scotia College of Art and Design, 1974

This attitude is certainly not peculiar to my pictures. In fact I�m not sure that my pictures here are an especially good example of this approach. I�m talking about a genre of postmodern documentary that, because of its hybrid nature, paradoxically appears to lend itself quite comfortably to the fields of art, journalism and fashion. The work of people like Philip-Lorca DiCorcia, Gregory Crewdson and Larry Sultan exemplifies this attitude, as does Diane Arbus I think. Abigail Solomon-Godeau refers to work of this type � though not necessarily this work -as �inwardly critical�. Although she�s referring to the type of work produced by conceptual artists like Martha Rosler and Victor Burgin who, in the 70s and 80s, deconstructed popular photographic languages like documentary in order to expose their ideological �roots�, I think that an extension of this attitude or practise, whilst perhaps having dissociated itself from a rather na�ve brand of anti-realist didacticism, has made the leap from the critical photographic avant-garde into the glossy grey mainstream. Here it is often increasingly difficult to distinguish a piece of conceptual fine art photography from the type of image you might routinely find in a Sunday magazine feature article, or Vogue Italia. That is, distinguish on the basis of its appearance alone.

Documentary photography is, potentially, an incredibly powerful medium, precisely because its relationship with the notion of realism is so strong. Which, for deconstructionists, is its fatal flaw, and for opportunists like myself, its strength. Clearly it�s an imperfect system of representation – an especially duplicitous one – which perhaps explains why I try to use it in an �inwardly critical� fashion. Ultimately though, I�m a pragmatist. So, if it gets the job done�

You said that you want to alert the viewer to the fact that these are �live environments� not just buildings. In what ways do you think that these �live environments� are significant to the people that inhabit them?

It very much depends upon the extent to which they make them significant. Lived environments are strange places. There are many different things happening in these spaces, often simultaneously. For instance, the fact that two people can be making certain design decisions about the form that their living room should take � which pictures to hang and where � whilst at the same time being involved in a conscious or unconscious redefinition or reiterationof their relationship with one another. They are still making important design decisions but in a way this simply functions as an alibi for another kind of event, one that can result in a quite different set of outcomes.

Jeff Wall, Outburst, C-print, dimensions variable, 1989-1991

What interests me is the way in which the home provides people with an excuse and an opportunity to �interrupt the silence� that, existentially speaking, exists between them, as well as the relationship between the specific forms that such communicative exchanges assume, the environments within which they are situated, and those ideologies, conventions and idiosyncrasies that characterise the production of �interruptions� generally. Of course, I�m sure that this kind of thing happens in all shared domestic spaces. For me, a good example of work that touches on this � albeit in a conventional �work place� – is Jeff Wall�s Outburst, 1989, an image of a factory foreman, photographed haranguing his workers in what looks like a twentieth century version of the 19th century sweatshop. In representing a response to Brecht�s famous remark about how little a photograph of a factory can disclose about the life of a factory, Wall makes manifest, in a deceptively simple manner, the way that environmental and economic forms impact upon communicative technique. It�s a fantastic image.

Whether or not there is something peculiar to the architecture of the Irish bungalow that contributes significantly to the production of a �bungalow-specific� style of intersubjective engagement, I don�t know. I think it�s an interesting question though.

There are people present in most of these photographs, yet it�s difficult to understand what their role is. They don�t appear to be agents in direct control of the circumstances they find themselves in with you, yet it�s also difficult to see them as �victims� of your direction, as bystanders. Is this ambiguity deliberate?

Yes, they�re neither �agents� nor �victims�. I suppose they�re a bit of both. I hadn�t given this much thought before, but you�re right. This relates to what I said earlier about the fact that the bungalow, as a style of living, might structure the lives of its inhabitants to varying degrees but it can never be said to entirely determine them. In some ways the pictures � this style of photography � plays on the often paradoxical relationship that exists between the idea of structure and agency. How we might navigate our way through a set of pre-existing social and cultural conventions. Although the photographic encounter does structure the kind of relationship that evolves between photographer and subject, for me it is interesting to test the boundaries of such a relationship. At what point does it become untenable for either photographer or subject? For what reason is it untenable? And, most interestingly for me, how does one party or the other manage to articulate feelings of discomfort or resistance? What form does this take?

Paul Antick, Design No.34 (Fr.Gallaher), C-Type Print, dimensions and media variable, 2001-7

In his review of the earlier exhibition in CIRCA magazine, Declan Sheehan remarks about how, in your photographs of the interiors of Jack Fitzsimon�s bungalows in Donegal, � the windows of the bungalows acted internally as wide-screen cinema-style views onto the wildness outside, safely double-glazed away from the harsh realities of the south-western seaboard, but remaining fascinated and unable to stop looking.� Thinking about pictures such as the Father Gallagher image you�re using in the Walter Phillips show, do you remember thinking about the placement of the windows in this sort of way?

Paul Antick, Design No.28 -extension (Byrne Family), C-Type Print, dimensions and media variable, 2001-7 Paul Antick, Design No.12 (Danny Gillespie), C-Type Print, dimensions and media variable, 2001-7

Not consciously, but it�s interesting how Father Gallagher and Danny Gillespie � a priest and a schoolteacher � have views that are facing the landscape whereas the Byrnes � factory workers – consciously chose to look out at the road. I suppose that, in contrast to a set of specifically bourgeois aesthetics wherein the appearance of the land is fetishised to such a degree that its primary value, for the bourgeoisie, its exchange value, becomes obscured, what might be called a nouveau-peasant aesthetic is marked by a turning away from the land altogether. As Rose Byrne said, �who�s gonna see your front room from the top of a mountain?� For Rose, if anything should be seen it�s the people who work the land, not the land that they work. More to the point, what�s critical is the making visible of their domestic labour � labour that is paradoxically expended during �leisure time�. Labour spent on design, on the production of status. In part designed for the enjoyment, appreciation and, perhaps also, envy of voyeurs like myself for whom the product of their labour is most conveniently seen from the road.

How do you work with the people you photograph?

When I photograph people I rarely give them explicit instructions as to how to behave in front of the camera, beyond where to stand. I try to leave the pose or, more specifically, the facial expressions they assume down to them. There are exceptions, the Gillespie family on the lawn for instance. As I say I wasn�t overly prescriptive about how people should pose. That said, I probably would have advised against particular facial expressions that, for some reason, I considered unsuitable. Although I cant think of an instance when I�ve actually done so. So, while I�ve made certain decisions about how to represent their presence in these sites, they too have made certain crucial decisions;, for instance, how to organise their domestic spaces before the camera and how to behave in relation to the making of these photographs. Having said that one cannot escape the fact that I was the one who framed the shots, chose the lens, determined the kind of lighting technique I would use, chose the moment when to press the button and decided which pictures I wanted to use. They had nothing to do with any of this.

Actually the poses that most people assume probably have as much to say about their relationship to photography and the media generally, as they do about anything else. For example, the extent to which their understanding of me as a professional informs the ways in which they present themselves to the camera.

Paul Antick, faszymu, birkenau, dir. 11 2004 c-type print, dimensions and media variable, (from the publication, web and billboard project i tourist?” ), 2004-7.

I�m confident that if I�d approached the people in Donegal – or Poland, and Germany, where I was working recently – with a snap shot camera then their responses would have been quite different. People would have presented themselves to me quite differently, if they�d agreed to present themselves to me at all, which is doubtful. The young woman posing outside the women�s camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau is a particularly good example of this. The irony about this image � ul. faszymu, birkenau, dir. 11, 2004 � or, at least, my encounter with the woman in it, is the fact that after having explained that she had decided to revisit Auschwitz, following a school trip to the camp, because she wanted to consider its meaning or significance in a more contemplative fashion – without being distracted by her school pals – she then effortlessly slipped into the kind of pose one would probably associate with a fairly seasoned young model in some frivolously hip British style magazine. Dazed and Confused for instance. Whether or not she was aware of the contradictions I�m not quite sure, but the more I think about it the more extraordinary, the more fabulous, the whole situation seems.

For me, photography can be extremely manipulative. The type of photography I�m interested in. I must admit that I do derive a certain amount � probably a lot � of pleasure from this, photography�s sadistic aspect. Having said that, it�s likely that my own pleasure is actually tinged with a powerful sado-masochistic impulse as well. After all, although I feel compelled to massage, reconstruct and generally meddle with people�s images; basically using them in order to satisfy my own ends, I am also acutely aware that in entering into this kind of relationship I am bound to take some responsibility for what I do. For example, in the event that the people I photograph become upset with the images I produce. The extent to which both they and myself are able to withstand (or not) these kinds of assaults, this testing of boundaries, is probably important to me at some level. I don�t know. Perhaps I�m hoping that they will be upset.

From a rather less personal point of view, however, I do think that the expectations that many liberal critics and theorists have of people (in this case the people in the photographs), that they�re poor passive dopes who are not remotely media literate and therefore need to be protected from the likes of photographers like me is problematic.

Paul Antick, insert correct title here 2004 c-type print, dimensions and media variable, (from the publication, web and billboard project i tourist?” ), 2004-7.

Clearly a lot of people don�t know what they�re letting themselves in for when they agree to be photographed, but many do, or at least should think rather more carefully about the consequences of their actions. Take for example the young Slovenians larking about on the ramp where SS doctors decided which Jews should be worked to death and which ones immediately gassed. An obvious criticism of this photograph is that, as a photographer, I was exploiting these people in order to make a photograph that in some way uses the codes of style photography to address the relationship between commodification, memory and the Holocaust. Of course, this is true. But I have to say that if these young people were prepared to present themselves in such a way, in a place as symbolically loaded as the ramp at Auschwitz-Birkenau, then if they happen to be less than happy with the results, well I�m afraid I have little sympathy for them. I would, however, have far more sympathy for someone who made the connection between my interest in the holocaust and the extent to which I am effectively exploiting this, partly in order to enhance my career as an academic and artist/ photographer!

You seem to be very conscious of the self-limiting potential of photography in the context of a project like this.

The photographs in Bungalow Blitz certainly make a stab at disclosing something about the Irish bungalow. It�s a picture story and of course one could use innumerable types of pictures to tell similar or quite different kinds of stories about the bungalow. No doubt this particular story amplifies certain aspects of bungalow culture at the expense of many others. Photography, by its very nature, is utterly seduced by the appearance of things, and the idea of the designed appearance of things is central to this story. The way in which one designs one�s living room or lawn, the way that one designs one�s own body through the way that one dresses, the way that one holds oneself. Precisely how significant these features of everyday life have become in relation to the project as a whole very much depends on the relationship that exists � or is made to exist – between the project�s component parts; photographs, words and, in the case of Jim Grant�s installation piece, bricks and mortar.

That�s one of the things I most enjoy about working this way, the fact that no individual piece is autonomous, the project has been collectively produced and its meanings are arrived at through an amalgamation of each of its constituent parts. No one piece is really any more important than any other. In fact this is one of the reasons I was unhappy about the fact that each individual piece was authored. I found this rather divisive and, for the viewer, potentially distracting. Instead of being a show about the Irish bungalow it is subtly repositioned as a show about the work of three named artists which happens to take the Irish bungalow as its theme. Although I enjoyed this at many levels, it did not quite square with the ideas I had about the purpose of the show, its ideological raison d�etre. Of course, if I were a career artist � if I depended on art to earn a living � then I�d probably have a very different attitude. But currently I�m not. I work in a university. Perhaps my feelings about art and authorship betray this position of relative privilege.

Can you talk about why you were interested in thinking about diversity in relation to these houses and their inhabitants?

I�m not sure. On the one hand I was keen to challenge the rather skewed histories and accounts of these houses, their designers, builders and inhabitants that circulate in the Irish media. In fact, the most interesting aspect of diversity with regards the Irish bungalow, for me at least, relates to the way in which people use the bungalow to act out certain differences based on class, income and education. Different attitudes towards design, the landscape and so forth. For me, Bungalow Blitz is about complicating a debate that tends to be articulated in rather black and white terms. Bungalows � bad, traditional cottages � good. Representing the culture of the bungalow, and by implication the lives of the people who live in them as an homogenous lump simply reinforces the ideological basis of the objections to them. So I guess I wanted to say, �Look, not only is this not just a question of aesthetics, but it�s also not the case that one can arrive at a variety of spurious judgements about the kinds of people that occupy these places simply on the basis of the physical appearance of their homes.� One has to dig a bit deeper than that. Perhaps one of the ironies here is that I�ve tried to use photography � which, as I mentioned, is obsessed with surface � to do this.

Indeed, answering this question, why I was interested in the differences between the different households and their inhabitants, again brings up the challenge, or problem, of using photography as a research tool in this field. If I were to approach these scenes, the scenes that feature in these photographs, as an anthropologist or social geographer then I might employ a very different research style. As a photographer, I wasn�t trying to find out anything as such. It was like being a child let loose in a room full of lego. You can put the pieces together in any way you wish and, for better or worse, the end product may or may not have something in common with the actual lifestyle it purports to represent. It is first and foremost symbolic. And the fact that its symbolic aspect tends to be subjugated to its representational aspect is what not only makes documentary photography so deeply ideological but so exciting to use as well.

Ultimately I�m always conscious of the extent to which I�m producing difference for ideological purposes, that is at the level of representation, rather than simply recording differences that objectively exist in the world. Once you acknowledge the limitations of photography, as an objective method of visual enquiry, one somehow becomes aware of the ways in which it can be practically deployed for purely ideological purposes. Documentary photography is primarily a means with which the world may be symbolised. It is not an objective record as such. Although, having said that, what is symbolised in the photograph, whilst not necessarily having much in common with the particular event depicted may still correspond to a larger political or social truth, of which the event is a symptom.

Were you to have worked on this project as a social geographer or anthropologist would your text have been any less ideological?

I�d be tempted to say, �No, any form of representation is simply a story and so, therefore, every story is contingent on the storyteller and whatever it is they want to say about whatever it is they happen to be talking about.� The fact is though, that while I have some sympathy for that position, I also believe that some stories are more truthful than others. In other words, some stories bear a greater relation to a world that exists beyond the realm of visual representations than others.

I should stress that, for me, photography is, above all else, an ideological tool. Having said that, it may be the case that if I visit a place then I might discover certain things about it that alter any ideas that I might have had about that place to begin with. So, in a sense the act of photography has provided me with an opportunity to interact with people I wouldn�t ordinarily interact with, in environments that I wouldn�t otherwise visit. But the photograph itself, that�s something completely different. Here, I have something in mind that I wish to communicate, it may not be thoroughly worked out, it might be utterly transformed when it assumes the form of an image, but it is an attempt to change or consolidate an existing set of ideas or values that I happen to feel strongly abpout believe in at the time. Moreover, it�s a response, not primarily to that thing that I have specifically chosen to photograph, that thing in itself � a man, a woman, a bungalow, an extermination camp � but to. Its symbolic or representational value. It�s a response to other images of it. I consciously try to imagine the kinds of conversations my pictures will effectively be having with a whole host of other pictures that take something similar as their object. I�m not primarily interested in the pictures� relationship with the real, how �accurate� or �honest� they are � but in their relationship with other images. In the end of course it is this relationship, this conversation or argument that images can have with one another that will ultimately feed back into our understanding of the real, the bungalow, the holocaust tourist and so on. This is what interests me about photography.

Finally, you�ve talked about your interest in the bungalow from an ideological point of view. On a more personal level, as a relative outsider, an Englishman, do you think that the bungalow really is a �blot� on the Irish landscape?

Paul Antick, untitled family snapshot (Chandlers Ford), 1972, press Image, Souxsie and the Banshees, 1976-1996

To be honest, I�m not especially fond of the bungalow as an object. I grew up in a suburb in the south of England in the 1970s. We didn�t live in a bungalow but it was a new town, and I suppose the house we lived in was bungalow-esque. Like many other people I don�t have many happy memories of living in a suburb.. It�s no coincidence that many of the most visually iconoclastic punk bands in England at the time, Siouxsie and the Banshees, for example, came from the suburbs. So, for me, I guess I still associate this style of building with the feelings that I have about suburban living generally, feelings that I have inherited from my youth. Which isn�t to say that bungalows or the people that inhabit them are dull, in and of themselves, but it is difficult for me personally to shake those associations.

With regards the Irish bungalow in particular, having been immersed for some time in the debates surrounding them I am struck by the ways in which the bungalow, as a socio-cultural as well as architectural phenomenon, not to mention the land itself, have acquired meanings that are specific to Ireland. Meanings that are inextricably tied to a number of factors, most notably perhaps, Irelands post-colonial status. However, as much as I can see in the bungalow something that might appear to subvert certain residual forms of colonialist ideology, I still find it difficult to work up much enthusiasm for them on anything other than a fairly abstract intellectual level.

Andrew Kearney, Design No. 12, c-type print, dimensions & media variable, 2001-7.

That said, I must admit that there is something immensely appealing to me about the high-camp style of bungalow one sometimes encounters. For me, this type of building is as much a barbed comment on the rather more sober variety of bungalow as anything else. In this respect it is once again worth stressing that bungalow culture is actually an heterogeneous phenomenon and that perhaps in future it would be interesting to see more work that doesn�t so much concentrate on the differences between the bungalow and its other, the mythic rural cottage, but some of the internal differences that characterise. Irish bungalow culture in general.