Heads Up, Heads Down

Rulx Thork, I Give you Power, Little Big Man Books, 2024

 ‘Heads Up, Heads Down’ by David Campany

You may have noticed that Rulx Thork describes himself as a rather shy person.  This may or may not come as a surprise. Either way, it is worth taking a pause to think about this. In a time when the worlds of art and photography seem to be full of loud and brash personalities, Thork’s shyness is something of a quiet blessing. I say this not to speak on his behalf but because there is a long and important history of shy people turning to the camera and becoming very great in their individual ways, particularly in the area of community-centred observational photography. Many of the image makers Thork himself admires, from Jim Goldberg, Larry Clark, and Diane Arbus, to Arlene Gottfried and Nan Goldin essentially began this way. Maybe their public confidence grew as their work found recognition, but their desire to photograph, and their ways of growing in the process, came from a shy place.

One advantage of shyness is that it allows for curiosity without imposing on the world too heavily. I see this when you look at these photographs. There is a deep affection for people, for a sense of place and time, for details and daily dramas small and large, for the gentle rhythms and energies between people on the street, and in their homes. But there is no judgment, no commentary beyond what the photographs allow us to see.

The psychology of observational photography is so complex. The photographer has to feel both deeply connected and a little separate. Just separate enough to make the image as good as they can make it, while being there in the unfolding flow. The glass lens and the open aperture of the camera permit connection, but they also permit distance. When the photographic observation is really acute, viewers can feel or at least intuit what was going on. Sometimes, Thork’s photographs have such a natural and unforced intimacy that I almost forget he was there. Very often the images appear to have no ego at all, just a profound sense of occasion that comes from feeling, knowing, that nothing is more important than everyday life.

We are all encouraged to be ‘mindful’ these days, to be aware of ourselves in the moment. It is hard to argue with that because it is such lovely idea. But I think that what makes us human is that we cannot ever be fully in the moment, fully in the here and now. Sure, we exist in the present, but we are also creatures of memory, and of hope, of longing and daydreams. Past, present, future. I think shy people know this and feel it deeply. To be shy is to be not quite present, feeling the passage of time, anticipating what is ahead, sensing it come into the here and now, and continuing into the past. Maybe you can see what I’m getting at. The shy photographer anticipates, readies himself to press the shutter when the moment comes, but knows that once the photograph is taken it belongs to the past. This can happen in just a few seconds. Or minutes. Or hours. Or years.

It is true that photographs cannot really explain what they show. In calming the motion and the noise for just a fraction of time, they offer us a world silent and still. That is their gift. What I have come to admire in Rulx Thork’s images is that they do not fight this. There is so much to look at and think about here, so many layers and possibilities, so many aspects of perception, so much human biography, social setting, political consequence, and aesthetic charge, that there is no need for the photographs or the photographer to explain anything. What is important is that Rulx Thork was there, not so much as a witness, although that’s part of it, but as a sensitive respondent – open, sincere, caring. In turn, his photographs invite us to respond openly, sincerely and with care. The quality of our response is set by the quality of Thork’s tender observation.

He has been looking around for a long time now, and he has kept his head down. I mean this not just in the sense of looking down into the viewfinder of his camera. He kept his head down and got on with his work. Year on year, his pictures accumulated. The earliest here are from 2005, the most recent from 2018. The photography got done. He has an archive and it is ongoing. There are more books to come. He has had some showings of his work here and there but shyness can have its own long-term reward. There is no guarantee a photographer’s work will find its appreciative audience, no matter how great it is, but there can be no chance of that if the work has not been made. Rulx Thork’s archive is something to celebrate.

And then there’s the sense of loss, of things having slipped away or been taken. Moments. Relationships. Lives. Thork’s photographs of memorials – candles, informal shrines, newspaper headlines – are threaded through this book like incantations of love and grief, pain and anger. But in a way, every one of these photographs is a memorial. An act of homage. A gesture of safekeeping.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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