Space Case

Marco Breuer Investigates Photography’s Outer Limits

Spit, blood, whiskers, and nail clippings. Jello, Windex, a slice of Wonder Bread, a Zippo lighter. Beer, vodka, mold, wallpaper, bottles, kitchen matches, bomb fuses, hot coals, a blowtorch. Photographer Marco Breuer, who has used all these things in the process of creating cameraless photograms, talks about his work as a sort of personal inventory—one that begins with "harvesting" his body and encompasses virtually every element of his immediate world. "I try to ground all the work in my own life," he says, but Breuer's modest, improvisatory means don't begin to account for his sophisticated results. Though often quite literal records of ordinary objects and events, his pictures, now up at Esso Gallery, take off into pure abstraction—a teeming, bottomless unknown, at once utterly enigmatic and simply sublime. Are we peering into deep space or a subatomic stew? A magnetic field or a meteor trail? Like Adam Fuss, Roger Newton, Steven Pippin, and other frequent visitors to photography's outer limits, Breuer takes us places we've never been yet never want to leave.

Breuer, 34, began exploring this territory in the late '80s while enrolled in Berlin's Lette-Verein, one of the oldest and most tradition-bound photography schools in Europe. From the beginning, he was drawn to the medium's firm grounding in technique, if only because it gave him a set of rigid conventions "to rub up against." Although all Lette-Verein students were given a 4x5 field camera upon enrollment and were expected to use nothing else, they were also taught how to make photograms by exposing photo-sensitive paper directly to light and other materials. Breuer liked the ad hoc nature of the photogram process, one of the earliest in photographic history, and when he moved on to a looser program of studies at Darmstadt, near Frankfurt, he took it up almost exclusively, and began to "unlearn" everything he'd been taught.

Breuer treats his medium as an investigative tool, a means of discovery. "I try to use photography and figure things out as I work with it," he says. "The idea is that I create a setup that is very controlled: It's happening in my darkroom; I determine the materials. But then there's always an element of chance—a moment where I do give up control and I let, very often, a destructive force come in and actually determine the outcome of the image." He discovered the limits and rewards of this method with his 1992 thesis project, "100 Days," for the duration of which he lived alone in a tiny East German village and produced a visual diary. By deliberately isolating himself from both people and influences (no TV, no newspapers), Breuer hoped to work out all preexisting ideas and start again with a tabula rasa.

Since he frequently commuted to New York (where he moved for good in 1993), Breuer had been working in various easily transportable book formats, and he spent his 100 days filling these "virtual spaces"—making daily photos for a notebook-size, ring-bound chronicle. The preparation for that work—maintaining his studio, his darkroom, and himself—often took up all of his other time. Gradually, he says, "the lines between all these things started to blur completely. I was cooking and printing at the same time, and when it got cold, I started to use the heater to expose paper. Everything became part of everything else. And I think that really stuck with me."

These days, Breuer lives in a bare-bones Chinatown loft with his wife, Mina Takahashi, executive director of the Dieu Donné Papermill, and a formidable, constantly replenished backlog of photographs. He works almost constantly, usually in a small format, and, due to his "high output," doesn't edition even his camera-based work. He prefers to think of many of his photos as sketches—"There's always something provisional to the work; they're attempts or they're variations of ideas"—and is careful to distance himself from the "big statements" and "assumed authority" of so much contemporary German photography. The intimacy, mystery, and cool elegance of Breuer's notebook-size photograms come as a relief after all the large-scale bombast produced here and abroad. While remaining decidedly of the moment, his work has the intelligence and wit of the midcentury modernist avant-garde and the anything-goes audacity of photography's earliest innovators. But Breuer isn't interested in recapitulating the past. "This is not nostalgia," he insists, but an attempt to access a time before conventions and categories began to constrict photography. "Using early processes is a way of just going back to the beginning and sort of claiming that freedom."

Certainly, no one's written instructions for Breuer's methods. For a 1996 show at the Drawing Center, he set lit bomb fuses on photographic paper, let them slowly sputter out, and printed the results, which looked something like a sparkler in negative: a constellation of tiny sparks, each with its own flight path, around a wormlike, rust-colored spine. (Although Breuer always works with black-and-white paper, heat brings out a range of red-orange colors in the paper.) For a 1998 series of abrasion pieces called "Next to Nothing" at Gina Fiore, he sanded large sheets of photo paper for nearly an hour each, occasionally wearing right through. When printed, the effect was close to drawing: dense nets of fine black lines created the illusion of infinite depth, suggesting cosmic cobwebs or the layering of a hundred star maps.

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