What appear to be a sequence of old snapshots in faded colour have been framed and hung on the gallery wall. They look as if they had been dug from some forgotten trunk in a family home, yet they show only backgrounds—walls, garden lawns, a deserted tea-table, an empty pram. An artist, Stephen Murphy, produced these pictures by digitizing old snaps and replacing their figures with a plausible background sampled from the surrounding area. On close inspection, shapes slightly differing in tone trace the effaced subjects in outline; these photographs are both a glimpse of a future world depopulated by some catastrophe, and images of our passing and forgetting.
Murphy’s pictures are only one example of the recent integration of family photography into fine art. Such work comments not only on the power of digitization over photography but also on that topical matter, the crisis of the family. Many fine-art photographers now take pictures of domestic scenes, and even—most notoriously in the work of Sally Mann—of their own families. Various exhibitions have been dedicated to this trend, which received the ultimate official sanction at the Museum of Modern Art with Pleasures and Terrors of Domestic Comfort.footnote1 On the face of it, this seems a surprising development: fine-art photography had always been concerned to distinguish itself from the hordes of snappers who degrade the medium. Yet now it flirts with subsumption into the mass.
In this context, the reissue of Pierre Bourdieu’s 1965 book on the ‘middle-brow art’ appears singularly ill-timed, for it is hard to see how such a development could be accommodated within the sociologist’s rigid schemas.footnote2 For Bourdieu and his collaborators, photography is determined, not directly by its intrinsic qualities but by the fact that it has become a mass social practice. In making film in rolls rather than single sheets or plates, bringing developing and printing from amateur darkrooms to mass manufacture, producing cameras which automatically expose, focus, wind on, wind back, pretend even to compose, and beep or blink admon
Bourdieu’s aim in this book is ambitious, being no less than to create an account of how social relations become subjectively internalized, and of how that subjectivity in turn acts on the external world. The objective and the subjective are inseparable on this view: ‘aspirations and demands are determined, in both form and content, by objective conditions which exclude the possibility of desiring the impossible.’ (p. 16) To study photography is to look at how various groups actually practice it, and at the relation of these groups to one another. Only in this way can we explain photography’s ‘instruments, its chosen objects, its rhythms, its occasions, its implicit aesthetic and even its subjects’ experience of it, the meanings that they secrete in it and the psychological satisfactions that they derive from it.’ (p. 19)
While, as an art, photography is governed by class-based attitudes which affect culture as a whole, it is more deeply marked by its status as a virtually universal social practice. So while the class battle between bourgeois, Kantian taste and lower, literal, ‘barbarous’ taste is familiar, the combination of views attached to photography is peculiarly illuminating. Bourdieu tells us that senior executives are very likely to grant photography the status of an art when asked about it abstractly, but very unlikely to actually indulge in such a vulgar pursuit. Photography’s equivocal status places those who seek to make it an art in a very fraught position, condemning them to an activity ‘uncertain of its legitimacy, preoccupied and insecure, perpetually in search of justification.’ (p. 129)