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Failing by Mike Brodie.
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Photographs by Mike Brodie
Twin Palms Publishers, Santa Fe, NM, 2024. 412 pp., 193 four-color plates printed on uncoated paper, 8½x11".
While browsing his latest book Failing, my imagination turns to Mike Brodie in the initial stages of editing. Approaching forty, he’s got a lot of miles under his belt, most of them documented in photos. As he sifts through decades of various prints, his editing task is monumental. Luckily, he has some help in the form of an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. He picks up a print and contemplates. Hmm. The angel and the devil both whisper advice into his ear. He makes a judgment, puts the print into the Yes pile or the No pile, and then moves on to the next one.
I’m happy to report that Failing’s Yes pile was sizable. Almost 200 photos made the final cut, creating a book nearly two inches thick. As the title suggests, the devil on Brodie’s shoulder ultimately vanquished the angel. Perhaps that was an inevitable outcome for someone who approaches both photography and life as a sui generis outsider. Living a vagabond lifestyle, social conventions and niceties tend to feel less pressing. And after the somewhat genial mood of his recent publications Tones of Dirt and Bone and Polaroid Kid, perhaps Brodie felt the time had come to unleash his inner demons.
The result is his grimmest book to date. “Here is the flip side of the American dream, seen from within.” That’s how Twin Palms describes Failing, and they’re not wrong. Whereas A Period of Juvenile Prosperity merely hinted at darker currents, this one plunges headfirst into the deep end. The photos are by turns raunchy, crude, disheartening, passionate, filthy, and occasionally hilarious. I should add that they are also consistently interesting. If it’s any consolation to the angel, the book takes a while to claim its namesake (adapted from a photo of the George E. Failing drilling parts catalog which appears near the midpoint). For a short while in fact, the sequence seems headed away from failure. Then, like so many photographic truths, the effect is revealed as a mirage.
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Brodie’s epic adventures are segmented into three chapters: The Beginning, The Middle, and The End, in rough order of declining fortune. Throw in a King James typeface and liturgical preface, and this dense tome assumes a near Biblical quality. Before Brodie’s fall from grace comes an image of innocence, in the form of two lambs nuzzling in a pen. What could be cuter? This initial photo is followed by more benign material, e.g. a McDonald’s meal with friends, a man jumping for joy under a rainbow, a baby snake, Brodie’s lovely wife Celeste, and their new home under construction in Nevada. Hitchhikers hop aboard smiling, while nature’s bounty is ripe for the picking. Even a potentially ominous array of shotguns shells is photographically defanged in soft amber twilight.
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It seems life is good. But don’t get too comfy. The Middle chapter establishes a darker mood immediately with a photo descriptively captioned Makeup and Meth. There’s probably no quicker exile from the garden than that combo. The Middle soon spirals through even bleaker imagery by way of a burning truck, a dead dog in a box, Brodie’s divorce (represented by a discolored broccoli flower), and a previously intact moth, now photographed in pieces. An impressive double spread photo of a massive derailment offers a summary judgement of where this train is headed: belly up and busted. By the time Brodie shows us a bent heroin spoon and then his erect penis tucked into a steering wheel, we’re mostly past the shock stage. But still left wondering, who’s the dick driving this thing? And is anyone watching the road? Within a few photos comes an answer of sorts: a cloud of black diesel exhaust spewing into the sky. Any angels in the vicinity have long since scattered.
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If the reader can’t imagine Failing getting more vulgar, the bottom falls out in the last (and longest) chapter. The End opens in explicit form with a bloody heart on a piece of cardboard. Has Brodie’s gone missing perhaps? How else would he present photos of a house fire, dead jackrabbit, staph infection, and used needles with such equanimity? Captured on a phone screen, the needles become a sharp verdict on Instagram, one suffocating addiction shared on another.
And then, well, it just gets worse. A dead chicken, anyone? How about a cat crawling with maggots, a pair of old dentures on the floor, or the filthiest toilet you’ve ever seen? A computer desk stacked with guns, white powder, and Monster cans? A used tampon on the ground? A quick trick in a dirty alley? A Playboy model covered in shit? The sequence passes through death and decay, with deceased roommate, dog, homeless man, and daughter in quick succession. All capped by — a true Biblical miracle — a pregnancy?! The growing belly in the photo belongs to Mia Justice Smith, Brodie’s former lover and travel companion. Tragically, she lost the baby and then her own life, in short order. The book is partially dedicated in her memory, with a considerate plug for Shatterproof addiction treatment.
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The pregnant photo comes near the end. Perhaps it’s meant as a hopeful beacon, to signal salvation after a book of repeated failings. A nice thought, but it seems too little too late. It’s just a finger in the dike here, staunching a sea of depravities. Taken in sum, Failing is brutal. It rivals Joel-Peter Witkin for debauchery, and Dash Snow for hedonistic nihilism. But there’s good news: As with those two photo stalwarts, we cannot look away. If these various pictures hang on the verge of failing, they’re also damned good.
There are a few running motifs which help pace the book, and keep Failure moving forward. Every few dozen pages, the primary photo sequence pauses for a few full-bleed spreads of travelogue imagery. Many of these images are motion blurred, showing roads and fields in passing. Life moves fast. You have to grab it by the horns, or perhaps by the highway shoulder. Then it’s back into the main current.
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Reiterated subjects create another layer of connective tissue. Brodie photographs the same subject over time, for example a baseball in progressively deteriorating circumstances, or his own grimy hand holding common objects. The Winnemuca Hotel is photographed intact, and then being torn apart. In another sequence, a childhood bedroom is rephotographed over the course of several months. As with the full-page spreads, the clock is ticking. Though this be madness, it seems to infer, yet there is method in’t.
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That brings me to the great irony of Failing. The inside joke of this book, of course, is that Brodie is not failing. He’s seen more of backroads America than most other artists put together. He’s a prolific photographer, a former Instagram phenom, the author of four respected photobooks, a diesel mechanic, and one of the more sincere souls in the Machiavellian world of fine art. All while following his own muse. He’s an achiever, in other words. Based on initial word of mouth, Failing seems likely to enhance that reputation. Despite its coarse subject matter — or maybe because of it? — the book is a minor hit in certain art circles. If the critical reaction sustains, it should help cement Brodie as a success.
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