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Like The People She Photographed, Laura Volkerding Is Immortalized In The Tools Of Her Trade.
By Margaret Regan
IN THE LATTER part of her life, photographer Laura Volkerding
came upon the subject that she seemed to have been preparing for
her whole career.
Volkerding was a lecturer at Stanford University when the university
commissioned a copy of Rodin's "Gates of Hell" from
the Coubertin bronze factory, the official fabricator of all new
Rodin editions. Volkerding had spent years making images of eccentric
manmade things, like the populist decoration on storefront black
churches in inner-city Chicago; whimsical soda bottle houses on
the Great Plains; and even the tools in the kitchen of a country
cook in China. So when she saw a documentary film chronicling
the casting of the great gates by the meticulous craftsmen of
Coubertin, she was hooked. She headed off to France to do a photography
project on the Coubertin metal-casting workshop. From there, it
was a short hop, physically and aesthetically, to the workshops
of the Compagnons du Devoir (companions of duty), the modern-day
descendants of a medieval guild charged with restoring the splendid
monuments and architecture of older Europe.
Crafting Light: The Photography of Laura Volkerding, a
smallish show at the UA Center for Creative Photography, gives
a tantalizing glimpse of this final project in the photographer's
life. The craftsmen themselves are rarely seen in these reverent
pictures, but their tools speak eloquently for them. In the bronze
studios of Coubertin, and in the metal, wood and stone workshops
of the Compagnons, Volkerding made beautiful black-and-white
still lifes, elegant assemblages of carving tools, of cluttered
work tables, of shelves, of molds. "Workshop of a Woodcarver,
Paris," 1989, is a splendid photograph of dozens of carving
tools, curved in an arc around a wooden fleur-de-lis still under
construction.
The pictures are a respectful homage to craft of a kind that's
relatively rare in an era of cheap manufactured goods and computer
"art." But in Volkerding's hands, the tools of the trades
become elegant abstractions as well. Her fine gelatin silver prints
are full of the strong lines of the shops, their long work tables
and open windows transposed into complex designs of diagonals
and horizontals. Their rough woods and gleaming metals provide
ever-changing textures, while the natural light filtering in from
open doors and windows bathes everything by turns in darkness
and in light. The workshop pictured in "Coubertin, St. Rémy-les-Chevreuse,"
with its partitions and windows hanging into the room, becomes
a breathtaking geometric composition, its shadowy planes alternating
with lights--a Mondrian taken from real life.
Volkerding, a native Kentuckian who died of a brain tumor in
1996 at the age of 57, donated her archive to the Center; director
Terence Pitts curated this show from the Center's holdings. The
earliest works on view are a couple of 1970s colored intaglio
prints--the artist was a printmaker until 1972--and offers a few
examples of all her major series, including panoramic landscapes,
the Yes Lord! Gospel Church series and a group of China
photographs.
The photographer's final crafts works from France are such a
perfect marriage of her gifts with her subject that it's tempting
to see the earlier art as mere prelude. That would be a mistake,
of course, though with the benefit of hindsight we can see what
looks like the inevitable progression of her work toward the great
final art. Her preoccupations with space and line, and her interest
in the works of the human hand, were in place early on.
In "Stonescape," for instance, one of the 1971 intaglio
prints, a pattern of horizontal and diagonal lines crosshatch
planes of color, suggesting a landscape; but like the craft pictures
this one can also be read as an abstract composition. When Volkerding
switched to photography, following a fire that destroyed much
of her early work, she retained her interest in the abstracted
landscape. Her outdoor panoramas are never romantic: They're full
of asphalt highways and rotting docks and cranes. In fact, what
distinguishes them as Volkerding is some human interference with
nature.
"Chicago," 1974, is a riveting diptych of that city's
big lake, here bordered by two concrete walkways. A distant city
skyline in the background. This lake hasn't been pure nature for
a long time, but Volkerding isn't offering criticism. She's just
delighting in the overlay of artificial lines over nature's curves.
In China, in the late '70s, Volkerding took some revealing pictures
of people: a gorgeous baby asleep in a basket, some elderly women
waiting expectantly at a senior center. But the surest, loveliest
Chinese pictures depict a corner in the kitchen of one "Liu
Ja Ling, in Nanjing." Liu herself is not in the pictures;
she doesn't have to be. Instead, her tools, like those of the
French craftsmen, are her stand-ins. Her stacks of ceramic bowls,
her hanging pans, her cupboard illuminated by sun from the kitchen
window, make a lovely assemblage for Volkerding's camera.
Likewise, in the storefront church series, though Volkerding
photographs people, it's their handiwork that gets the most attention--a
cross painted on the brick facade of one church ("New Life
Mission Baptist Church"), the Lord's Prayer carefully printed
out on another ("Palm Sunday").
From here it's not far to the larger expanses of the great French
photographs, to the harmonious wall display in "A Woodcarver's
Workshop, Paris" (a saw, a chess piece king, and a carved
ionic capital) and to the sumptuous piles of curved wooden planks
beneath a window in "Trapani."
About half the photographs exhibited during the show's May opening
have now been removed to make way for the renovation of the Center's
galleries, where the old linen panels are being replaced with
walls that can be painted anew for every show. But the 50 works
still on view are more than worth a visit.
Crafting Light: The Photography of Laura Volkerding
continues through Sunday, July 26, at the UA Center for Creative
Photography. Gallery hours are 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through
Friday, noon to 5 p.m. Sunday, closed Saturday. For more information,
call 621-7968.
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