In Conversation: Chrissy LaMaster and Kendra Paitz

(published in Success with Small Fruits by Chrissy LaMaster)

Kendra Paitz:  When I met you four years ago, you were primarily constructing scenarios to photograph that revolved around motherhood. While your current subject matter is still rooted in the domestic and your lived experience, your life and the photos have changed dramatically. How do you think of your role in the new photographs? 

Chrissy LaMaster:  It’s true. My work has changed visually, and, on the surface, thematically. I’ve recently come to the realization that this is just the way I work. Each new series of photographs takes as its inspiration an event, experience, or memory of something I am personally very close to. I try to explore this subject matter in an evocative way, in whatever manner seems to relate to what I’m thinking and feeling myself. There are commonalities in all my photographs, in terms of form and emotional tone, but for a long time, I thought that perhaps I just hadn’t yet determined what my work “was about.” Now I own and celebrate the varied nature of my imagery. It’s an authentic reflection of my personality, which I think feeds back into the work.

KP:  You appear in most of the more recent photographs—always in part—but you’ve been resistant to identifying the work as a form of self-portraiture. 

CL:  My creative practice is largely based on my personal experience. My hesitancy surrounding the issue of self-portraiture may arise from me being an introvert and a private person by nature. I’m uncomfortable with the idea of being in front of the camera, regardless of who is taking the photographs! But, in truth, these images might be described as a curated visual diary of my affective response to events that took place during a specific time in my life. 

Personal experiences directly influence my work, although I am not recreating or referencing specific memories or events within the images. The work is not narrative, but there may be implied narratives within a given image. Within the series, there is no story arc, no beginning, middle, ending. Instead, there is living, being, and feeling. I’m concerned with the essence of a memory or event. 

KP:  You’ve introduced a performative element too. I keep thinking of Carrie Schneider's phrase describing her work as "documents of something performed for the camera" and wonder if that resonates with you.

CL:  I’ve gone back and forth multiple times on whether or not these are actually self-portraits, if I am performing, and if so, on the type of performance taking place. Perhaps Schneider’s phrase best describes what’s going on. When I make these photographs, I’m not following a script; I don’t plan anything in advance other than the time of day, the location of the photograph within the apartment or house, and what I’ll be wearing in it. Everything else is improvised during the 2-to-3 hour shooting session. I use the timer on my camera instead of a remote shutter release, so I only have 10 seconds to get into a position from the time I press the shutter. I edit and make adjustments as I go along, keeping all photographs for later evaluation. My poses, body placement, and interaction with objects are purely intuitive. I attempt to discern what I’m feeling in that moment and how to express that feeling in front of the camera. I use the word “feeling,” but I’m also interested in affect. Recording my affect and creating a picture that is affective.  

I might describe myself as being responsive and reactionary to the world around me. I navigate the world in terms of physical response and I engage in a lot of self-reflection. I’m guilty of overthinking most things, but I base a lot of decisions on intuition or a gut reaction—does something “fit” or “feel right?” It’s kind of a gestalt way of life I guess. I’m very particular about the places where I spend the majority of my time, the items I have in my home, and the clothes that I wear. I’m pretty particular in general, and I suppose this extends to the things I think about. All of these elements have been carefully selected to be present in my life, and, as a consequence, they turn up in the work. It seems like the most authentic way to make art.

KP:  You have recently begun including fresh berries into these scenes (would you call them "scenes"?), and I loved hearing your childhood story about harvesting strawberries. I realize these works are not meant to be illustrative of specific memories, but can you share that story as a way of clarifying how personal experiences inform your work?

CL:  Some people describe them as scenes; I think I’m leaning more towards calling them vignettes. Perhaps because it’s more of a photo-centric term? I will share the story about the strawberries with a caveat: some people think it’s a great story, and others aren’t impressed at all. Perhaps that’s something to examine at another time! 

When I was growing up, we lived on an 80-acre farm a mile west of the city limits of Lincoln, Nebraska. We didn’t farm the land, but we rented it out for farming. We had a large garden in the backyard, with what felt like a half-acre strawberry patch. It didn’t start out to be that large, but strawberry plants multiply, so the patch grew bigger each year. We had these strawberries for our personal use. We didn’t sell them or allow customers to come pick their own like so many other people did. We (my parents, my sister, and I) picked and processed berries every June. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent sitting in front of the kitchen sink washing and cutting strawberries. We couldn’t let them rot on the vine (although birds and other animals were welcome to partake); we had to use them. I picked berries most days, from the moment they were ripe until there were no good berries left to be had. There is nothing that I associate more strongly with my childhood than strawberries. I even collect items with strawberries on them to remind me of the hot Nebraska sun, the cold water in the sink, the sharp knife that never cut me, and the four of us working together as a family.

A few years ago, I happened upon a book at an antique mall titled Success with Small Fruits. It has a deep forest green cover with a gold-stamped illustration of strawberries. I bought it because it was beautiful and enigmatic. It had the potential to be a source of inspiration, and in truth, it has been. It’s a guide to growing berries and other small fruit, but it also includes the personal reflections of the author. It features quite a bit of prose, some of which is not politically correct. My edition was published in 1880, so I’m sure it was written in a similar fashion to many books of that type at that time. The title seemed so appropriate for this recent work, which is based, in part, on my experience of establishing a new identity following a divorce. The title implies process, growth, hard work, waiting, creation, and ultimately, success. I appreciated the metaphor as it related to my own experience, and soon, actual berries started showing up in my photographs. 

KP:  More textiles are making their way into the photographs too, beyond the clothing that you're wearing. How are you making decisions about the tablecloths, napkins, or blankets? They fit into your subtle color palette, but they are also patterns that seem familiar without being connected to specific time periods.

CL:  I’m glad you asked about this. Fabric has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, because sewing is the art of my mother. She is always working on a sewing project, whether it’s for the retail market or for herself. I spent countless hours as a child in fabric stores (at the time, bored out of my mind) waiting for her. She lives and breathes fabric, needles, thread, and sewing machines. It’s so much a part of her that it can’t be separated out. If that isn’t the life of an artist, then I don’t know what is. Therefore, the textiles and patterns are another expression of memory and self. I select textiles for the images from fabric and other items that I already have in my home. I sometimes purchase yardage for pillows or curtains without having a specific purpose in mind, but never with the intention of photographing it. Just because the colors and patterns appealed to me. I’m starting to amass my own collection of random fabrics, which I find amusing because my family used to poke fun at my mother for doing the same thing. 

KP:  You’ve included several fleeting light events from your own apartment. Do you find yourself staring at other people's walls with the same intensity as your own, looking for that perfect dance of light and shadow? Or just the right spot to enact a gesture?

CL:  I used to do this all the time when I first started studying photography. I, like so many other photographers, began with black-and-white film. When one learns to think in black-and-white, they pay great attention to light, shadow, and gradient tones. Now I find myself daydreaming about light that I witnessed within a specific space. When I think of that light repeatedly, I know it’s a good candidate for a photograph. The same thing happens with gesture. I’ll be struck by a specific hand position or posture that I’ve seen, and I’ll wonder how I can incorporate it into an image.

KP:  I'm always curious about the other photographers that photographers are looking at. Uta Barth and Laura Letinsky immediately come to mind. How have they influenced you, if they have, and how are you pushing in different directions? Who are some of the other artists or filmmakers that have impacted your thinking and making?

CL:  I love Uta Barth and Laura Letinsky. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent reveling in their treatment of light and the stuff of everyday life. The work of these two photographers resonates with me strongly, and I consider them to be influential teachers, albeit indirectly. My most recent work has some similarities in visual and emotional tone. However, the physical body is almost always present in my work, and not just the implication of the body. Additionally, I’m using a limited color palette and much of the work was made in one location (multiple rooms within a specific house.) That isn’t to say those photographers haven’t done that, but I think my work in this series is more obvious and deliberate in that respect. And then again, there’s the performative nature of the work, this quality I struggle to identify and define. My images frequently imply action, either anticipated or recently completed, and I think that’s a significant difference between our work. 

 If we are discussing influences, I have to mention Sally Mann, who has had more influence on me than any other photographer. I would not have chosen to pursue photography as my medium, or engage in the academic study of it, if it were not for Sally Mann. Her work is luscious and sensual and evocative. I had two small children at home when I returned to undergraduate school to study art, and at the time, it seemed like it was generally unacceptable for mothers to also be artists. It was especially taboo for them to make work about their children. Being exposed to her work was an amazing gift and provided the foundation for my own expression as a photographer. 

 KP:  I assume that experience of feeling like you couldn’t be both a mother and an artist prompted your involvement with Cultural ReProducers, which supports arts professionals who are parents. 

 CL:  Yes, I decided to go to graduate school the year my youngest child went away to college. I was so much older than the other students and had been away from serious study and artmaking for quite a while. For so many years, I was confronted on a daily basis by the thought that making art and being a mother were mutually exclusive. When I learned about Cultural ReProducers, which is based in Chicago, I immediately felt like their mission was something I could support, and that it was a group I wanted to be involved with. Fortunately, today there is much greater acceptance for parent artists, although there are still many issues like family-friendly artist residencies that need to be addressed. The images in this particular body of work are not as closely related to motherhood in the way that most of my previous work has been; however, I’m a believer in “maternal thinking,” and the idea that being a mother permanently changes one’s world view. Some of feminist philosopher Sara Ruddick’s work was very influential to me in that regard. Motherhood is still present in these images, but it’s a new stage of motherhood. One in which the children don’t live at home anymore and the mother has to figure out who she is without them. And, of course, the berries, besides referencing my childhood, connote sexuality, fertility, and reproduction, among other things. Being a mother is primary to who I am, so I imagine it will always be present in my work in some way. 

 KP:  You have been thinking about a range of writers recently, including Maggie Nelson and her 2015 book, The Argonauts, which addresses, among other things, transitions in families, bodies, and even genres of writing. Her book struck a nerve with so many people. How did Nelson’s approach impact your work? Who else are you reading?

 CL:  Yes, I would describe it as “striking a nerve.” I like using the word “struck” to describe what has transpired. It reminds me of Barthes and the “punctum.” This book was influential for me because it gave me permission as an artist to be incredibly personal and theoretical at the same time. Maggie Nelson crafted that book in such a way that inspired me to try to make something that would resonate with a viewer the way her book resonated with me as a reader. I’m reading Feeling Photography, a collection of essays edited by Elspeth Brown and Thy Phu, about the affective nature of photography, and I’ve been spending time with two of Willa Cather’s works, My Antonia and O, Pioneers! I often revisit books that have been meaningful to me at other points in my life, as I’m curious how my response to the work and my personal perspective has changed. On my reading list are books about the American West and the history of westward expansion. I’ll be moving to Montana soon and I assume that will factor into my next body of work. 

--Kendra Paitz is Director and Chief Curator at University Galleries of Illinois State University