Book Review Ray's a Laugh Photographs by Richard Billingham Reviewed by Blake Andrews “Ray’s A Laugh is legendary among photobooks, beloved by critics and casual fans alike. It’s hard to believe Richard Billingham was only 26 when the Scalo edition was published in 1996..."

Ray's a Laugh. By Richard Billingham.

Ray's a Laugh
Photographs by Richard Billingham
MACK Books, London, UK, 2024. 104 pp., 8¼x11".

Ray’s a Laugh is legendary among photobooks, beloved by critics and casual fans alike. It’s hard to believe Richard Billingham was only 26 when the Scalo edition was published in 1996. Adapting its title from an old BBC series, his debut monograph offered a candid and uncomfortably probing document of his working class family captured in their grungy flat in Cradley Heath, England. As Billingham described his father in the book’s brief text, “Raymond is a chronic alcoholic. He doesn’t like going outside and mostly drinks homebrew.” As for his mother, “Elizabeth hardly drinks but she does smoke a lot. She likes pets and things that are decorative.”

If Billingham’s words seemed a harsh judgment of his parents, his photographs aired their dirty laundry for all to see. Ray was depicted as a bumbling, groggy, and henpecked figure. Elizabeth muddled about in floral gowns and tattooed forearms, always with a cigarette. Revolving around the central couple was a supporting cast including Richard’s younger brother — “Ray says Jason is unruly. Jason says Ray’s a laugh but doesn’t want to be like him” — and a small army of skittish animals. Billingham used flash, blurred exposures, off-kilter composition, and tight framing to foster an impression of bed-spinning chaos. Ray was a laugh indeed. But it wasn’t clear if we were meant to laugh at him or with him.

The book’s unflinching gaze and brisk design made for a smash hit. Ray’s a Laugh earned the Citibank Private Bank Photography Prize (now called the Deutsche Börse Prize), a rare plug from Robert Frank, a writeup in Parr/Badger Volume II, and a place in the photo canon for Billingham. All was well for Billingham enthusiasts, unless you were an unlucky latecomer hoping to hold his book in person. The initial editions quickly went out of print and have been hard to find since. A 2014 facsimile homage from Errata Editions stemmed market demand temporarily. But it was not exactly the real thing, and it proved to be just a stopgap measure.

Michael Mack to the rescue. In what has become a regular routine for his eponymous publisher, Mack’s recent edition of Ray’s a Laugh breathes new life into the old classic. The resuscitative impulse is familiar, but unlike most of Mack’s reprintings to date, this Ray’s a Laugh is radically altered from the original. According to Mack this is the “director’s cut” which restores Billingham’s original vision for the work. Director’s uncut is more like it. This sprawling update stakes out its own territory in a larger, thicker volume. The two books share the same genetic material. Beyond that, they are distant relatives.

One trait which distinguished the original Ray’s a Laugh was its economy of purpose. It was a relatively thin book packed with full bleed photographs, each one pulling equal weight in unison. Within the first five pages, Billingham had summarily set the scene geographically, introduced his parents, his brother, the pets, and the domestic chaos to come. In following rush of photos, Ray was almost always shown holding a drink or a greasy plate. The apartment was filthy. The pets were frantic. The colors were garish. Strangely inserted pictures of avian greenery hinted at better times, somewhere some place out there. The book struck an indelible crescendo with a centerfold of Ray cowering below an airborne cat.

Mack’s version tells roughly the same tale, and extends it into the next generation for good measure with photos of Jason’s infant. But this book’s journey is far more circuitous. Scalo’s original was 100 pages, while Mack’s clocks in at 320. A few dozen of them are taken up initially with monochrome impressions of Ray. In due time these morph into colorful apartment scenes. It’s another two dozen pages before we finally meet Jason. Other domestic elements gradually come into focus (or blur?) including Elizabeth, the resident dog and cat, flying objects, puzzles, and spills. Most subjects are just as frantic and belligerent as before, but at this syrupy pace their impact is measured. Meanwhile the book’s layout is varied, with images color corrected. Both features would work well in most photobooks, but here they defuse the in-your-face havoc which so electrified the original. The well placed bird photos, which struck a tone of alien dissonance before, are somewhat lost in the mix here. The blunt shock of the original is unpacked into a feature length epic which feels closer to cinema than snapshots.

On the plus side, the expanded scope allows inclusion of several standout images. A shaky photo of Ray behind unfocused shot glasses is a revelation, as is a somber portrait on the sofa lit by an extraordinary open flame. I have no idea how these were left out of the initial cut, but they’ve been happily restored. Other photos fill in missing gaps here and there with snatches of apartment interior or drunken incidents. Jason’s baby is a bright spot, as are glimpses of his partner. A picture of Ray holding his granddaughter is sweet and life affirming. These additions fill out the narrative of existential lineage. But the titular subject remains trapped in his small world. Ray’s a laugh still, just as he was twenty-eight years ago.

Unfortunately Billingham had little influence over Scalo’s original design. While this version of Ray’s a Laugh reinstates his envisioning of work, the expanded tome leaves less to the viewer’s imagination. The first edition was hermetic and assured, invasive if not outright creepy. In Parr/Badger’s words it was “raw, immediate, unpretentious, funny, touching, and desperate by turns.” The Mack version may also possess those traits, but they’re defused in a looser, free ranging tome. There is no explanatory text, no colophon, captions, dates, or written information of any kind. That material, plus critical analysis, is offered in a supplementary primer called Ray's a Laugh: A Reader, also available from MACK this Spring. As a minor homage to Scalo, it features the same cover as the first addition, a blurred visage of Ray Billingham against a red background, laughing to himself.

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Blake Andrews is a photographer based in Eugene, OR. He writes about photography at blakeandrews.blogspot.com.

Book Review Winogrand Color Photographs by Garry Winogrand Reviewed by Blake Andrews “Alas, poor Winogrand. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He was only 56 when cancer cut him down in 1984. Curators have spent the succeeding years attempting to reanimate the corpus. Task number one was to develop and sort the reams of film he’d left behind..."

Winogrand Color. By Garry Winogrand.

Winogrand Color
Photographs by Garry Winogrand
Twin Palms, Santa Fe, NM, 2023. 212 pp., 156 color plates, 12½x12½".

Alas, poor Winogrand. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He was only 56 when cancer cut him down in 1984. Curators have spent the succeeding years attempting to reanimate the corpus. Task number one was to develop and sort the reams of film he’d left behind. John Szarkowski and crew tackled that one. They processed, proofed, and sifted thousands of unseen rolls, paving the way for the blockbuster MoMA exhibition/book Figments of The Real World in 1988. By Szarkowski’s reckoning Winogrand was “the central photographer of his time.” A definitive judgement it would seem. But his opinion was merely the first of many to come.

After Szarkowski, various others took a stab, each mixing unpublished work with reconsidered favorites in varying ratios. The Fraenkel Gallery produced The Man in The Crowd in 1998. In 2002, Trudy Wilner Stack’s Winogrand 1964 focused on the titular year. She was the first of his posthumous champions to dip a tentative toe into his color work. Alex Harris focused on airports the next year with Arrivals & Departures.

These efforts helped set the stage for Leo Rubinfien’s monster SFMoMA retrospective in 2013, the eponymous exhibition/book Garry Winogrand. You might think this exhaustive tome would put his legacy to rest for a while. But it wasn’t too long before Geoff Dyer had a go. His 2018 book of essays The Street Philosophy of Garry Winogrand, borrowed from Szarkowski in format if not assessment. It dived further into his unseen color slides, with photos spiced with roaming asides. “I’m sure Dyer's book won't be the last on Winogrand,” I speculated at the time. “Another one will come along in, say, five years or so.”

Right on cue, the latest Winogrand book has hit the shelves. Co-curated by Michael Almereyda (director of William Eggleston In The Real World) and Susan Kismaric (photo curator at MoMA), Winogrand Color is the first book to cast the late maestro under a fully chromatic lens. With most of the photo world embracing a color palette now, such a reconsideration was probably inevitable. Indeed, it joins a glut of rose-colored crate digs, alongside recent monographs on Joel Meyerowitz, Manuel Álvarez Bravo, Vivian Maier, Saul Leiter, and Werner Bischoff. As it turns out, Winogrand left more than enough breadcrumbs to blaze a color trail. Black-and-white may have been his first love, but he also shot Kodachrome and Ektachrome on occasion, at least in his early career. By the late 1960s those color efforts had mostly fizzled, discouraged by expense, printing difficulties, and a carousel mishap at the 1967 New Documents exhibition. Nevertheless, he managed to expose 45,000 color slides alongside the millions of monochromes. They’re stored with his archives at CCP in Tucson.

Almereyda and Kismaric were given full access to the mounted slides. They were stored in boxes, some seen, some unseen. The pair went about their task with patient diligence, beginning in 2017. “Susan and I were looking for needles in the massive archival haystack,” Almereyda writes. By the time they’d finished six years had passed, with a midpoint detour for a yet another blowout Winogrand exhibition. This one, at the Brooklyn Museum in 2019, was presented as a rotating installation of 425 color slides. It served as a rough precursor to the book’s final selection of 150 plates.

Technically speaking, Winogrand Color spans the early 50s through late 60s. But the vast majority are from a narrow sweet spot, roughly 1962-1966. This was a period of active transition and experimentation for Winogrand. He was still doing commercial assignments, and he viewed color photos as a potential window to job opportunities. At the same time, he felt increasingly drawn to photography as an art form, as a way of life in fact. As he would say later, “my only interest in photographing is photography.” In the early 60s he hadn’t yet fully adjusted to the sentiment, but the ingredients were in place. His 1963 Guggenheim application signaled an aspirational leap from commerce into fine art. Fortunately his application was approved. Better yet, from the POV of Almereyda and Kismaric, he brought color film along on the subsequent road trip. His magical year of 1964 produced a hit parade of all-time winners, and some strong color images. As Almereyda explains in the introduction, Stack’s Winogrand 1964 was the initial inspiration for Winogrand Color.

Winogrand’s 1964 road trip sketched a loose map of his life journey. He traced a path westward over his career, from New York to Texas to California, with various stopovers in between. Winogrand Color is structured accordingly. The sequence is roughly chronological, and follows a general trajectory to LA. The earliest photo is from Coney Island in 1951, when Winogrand was just 23. By the final few pages, he’s reached the Pacific. He’s soaking up the California surf culture, the leading edge of the sixties sunbelt migration.

What transpired in the intervening years? Well, that is the story of Winogrand Color. The book presents a remarkable study of Winogrand’s young life and his rapidly maturing style. We’ve seen glimpses of this period before, but almost exclusively in b/w. If those facts were mysterious, the color work is more clearly described. With rainbowed hindsight, it carries a Wizard of Oz punch. The book’s initial sequence is shot with a long lens, isolating beach goers in moments of reverie. These photos probe the inner thoughts of strangers in a way that would become a Winogrand hallmark. But they are narrow snatches, a far cry from the stilted wide-angle inhalations to come. That style comes into sharper focus as the book moves gradually onto New York City sidewalks. These mid-60s street candids are restless. He was hungry for action, but color was a bucking bronco. His lassoings were scattershot, with mixed lens lengths, depth of field, and clarity. Still, they have a kernel of Winogrand’s wit. His naked curiosity comes through, his penetrating gaze in search of serendipitous moments. And some of the resulting frames are well seen, e.g. a woman in white gloves departing a taxi and a gawking family surrounded by urban greyscale. Both lean on color for visual power. As b/w pictures they would probably miss, at least by my rough guess.

Soon enough we get a chance to test this theory in practice, in the form of a color frame from the Central Park Zoo in 1967. It’s the chimp-holding mixed raced couple made infamous by Winogrand in black-and-white. But in this version the racial subtext is defanged, its content subjugated by colorful outfits and vibrant mood. Alas, form wins again. Just another relaxing Sunday stroll in the park. “The photograph should be more interesting or beautiful than what was photographed,” preached Winogrand. But in this case he’s fallen short. One reason he may have preferred monochrome is that its translation divorced itself naturally from reality. He could slot illusions into the breach. Color film could do the same of course, but the dance was trickier.

He seemed to have similar difficulties elsewhere. Winogrand Color includes several dozen “almost” photos. These are decent frames that work pretty well. But they lack the je ne sais quoi which lifted so many of Winogrand’s pictures into stellar territory. The New York sidewalk photos are entertaining enough, but none are exceptional. The same can be said for his western roamings. Feeling unmoored, he clung to events, fairs, and resorts. “When you put four edges around some facts,” he said, “you change those facts.” The same might apply to car-bound photographers. Nevertheless, he captured static scenes dutifully. When he broke free, he hit occasional pay dirt, as with random green phone booths in El Paso, or a windshield cowboy snapshot from Texas. These are among perhaps a dozen exceptional frames in a book which is largely pedestrian. By the time it winds down on the beach in California, Winogrand has reverted to the same stale long-lens closeups of his youth.

He’s come full circle it seems, and so have his readers. The book’s two best single images — a prismatic poolside from Tahoe and ghostly angel from Dallas — appeared already in Winogrand 1964. If the bones of his archive hadn’t yet been picked clean for Stack’s book, they certainly have by now.

Or have they? The most tantalizing questions raised by Winogrand Color concern the process of curation. For this book is not an unfiltered sample. Any view into his unseen oeuvre is tantalizing, but it comes with a guide. As with other posthumous curations, Winogrand’s archive presents a Rorschach test for scholars. Do they look for pictures to match preconceptions or defy them? Did Winogrand shoot any strange mistakes, half frames, mis-advanced rolls, light leaks, double exposures? Did he shoot photos of his family? Of his home? Of subways? Of nature? Did he shoot outside the U.S.? Who knows. One thing is certain though. Winogrand Color won't be the last book on Garry Winogrand. Another one will come along in, say, five years or so.

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Blake Andrews is a photographer based in Eugene, OR. He writes about photography at blakeandrews.blogspot.com.

Book Review I Made Them Run Away Photographs by Martina Zanin Reviewed by Odette England "Zanin’s book presents a bizarre love triangle. There are photographs made by Zanin mixed with family snapshots. Stitched into the book are smaller slips of peach-colored paper, the same color as the cover. Each features text in typewriter font, authored by Zanin’s mother and taken from her diary called Letters to a Man I Have Never Had. The third arm of the triangle — “the man” — is mostly invisible..."

I Made Them Run Away by Martina Zanin.

I Made Them Run Away
Photographs by Martina Zanin

Skinnerboox, Jesi, Italy, 2021. 132 pp., 6½x9¼".

Did you read her book?
Yes, I read it.

It’s common in language, a word spelled the same that differs in pronunciation. With a word like ‘read’, it also refers to different tenses. They’re called heteronyms, words that change their meaning depending on where the stress is placed. It’s this thought I have upon reading Martina Zanin’s photobook I Made Them Run Away. At first, because the folded softcover features a long tear. Tear as in air, not tear as in fear. Which takes me on a tangent to the Australian rock band INXS’ hits Never Tear Us Apart (1987) and Bitter Tears (1990). Context tells us which tear is the right one.

Zanin’s book presents a bizarre love triangle. There are photographs made by Zanin mixed with family snapshots. Stitched into the book are smaller slips of peach-colored paper, the same color as the cover. Each features text in typewriter font, authored by Zanin’s mother and taken from her diary called Letters to a Man I Have Never Had. The third arm of the triangle — “the man” — is mostly invisible. (Come to think of it, ‘Bermuda Love Triangle’ may be more accurate. After all, all stories contain myth. If they’re good stories — like Zanin’s — they keep us in suspense with complex supporting characters, subplots, and implications).

It’s easy to tell the snapshots from more recent photographs, but there is visual coherence across the two type of images. It’s as if the newer ones were left in Zanin’s back pocket and washed too many times. They are diaphanous and diluted. This is a strength. It works because there is a lot of skin in Zanin’s pictures. Bodies at oblique angles, orifices (lips, holes, slits, vents), creases, seepage, and stickiness. Appendages and objects pulled, tucked, bent, trapped, purged, and poked. Many images are taken at close range where you can see skin prickles, a protruding throbbing vein, damp glans, and hair knots. Some subjects recur such as birds, bathroom mirrors, and palm trees. These images seem more metaphorical and act like haptic feedback devices. I feel the feathers, condensation, and fronds.

Many of the newer photographs lack specificity of place. Backgrounds are lean and hygienic. It’s this curt scientific façade that feels at odds with the proximity of the subjects. Cool and distant with excruciating familiarity. I’m careful to choose the word ‘familiarity’ over ‘intimacy’ because the relationships lack warmth. They refer to connection, yes, and tenderness too but also unease. It feels more like a book about looking over one’s shoulder than it does of looking back. These are the devil-in-the-detail pictures, like the budgerigar clinging to its wire cage with its beak, paired with an image taken inside a car of a seatbelt clutched by an anxious fist. The torn snapshots offer visceral gratification too. Each a swift micro-violence that beheads some male figures while removing others. It’s like photographic voodoo.

Zanin’s mother writes with an infatuated pen. Her private thoughts, presumably never meant for public view, drench the reader in wishes (“I would like someone who loves me sincerely and holds me tight”) and then reality (“there are times like these when I remember why I decided not to become involved with anyone anymore”). The intent and audience for her words changes throughout the book. Sometimes she’s giving herself advice, some read as affirmations. Others come across as directives to “the man”. Several present as cautions to other women including her daughter.

There are two photobooks, both by women, that remind me of I Made Them Run Away. Nikki S. Lee’s Parts (Hatje Cantz, 2005) and Chino Otsuka’s Imagine Finding Me (TRACE Editions, 2006). With the former, men are partially sliced out of images, as if after a breakup. In the words of the publisher, “These halved images clearly and disturbingly point out the empty spots, the striking dependencies and the ways that we all-women particularly-define ourselves through our partners”. The latter is a series of unique double self-portraits based on childhood snapshots taken from Otskua’s family album. Otsuka creates a digital time machine to bring her current and former self together in a single image.

I thought a lot about the title Zanin’s mother gave her diary, Letters to a Man I Have Never Had. To have and hold from this day forward. Who — and what — do we ever really have? It reminds me of that teenage drinking game Never Have I Ever. A great game for getting to know people. A sure-fire way to lose a man you’ve never had.

Zanin’s book reflects the undertow of a girl who wanted to be loved like the man her mother yearned for. It is a beautiful and sad braid of tales because it teeters between reflecting on one’s upbringing with a mix of fondness and ferocity. Making and presenting images that look and feel like still lives, taken by a medical examiner channeling Elinor Carucci, Ishiuchi Miyako, and the sensations (not the aesthetics) embedded in Antoine D’Agata’s photographs, is persuasive. It’s also a photobook that makes sense in book form. It harks back to the size and feel of a diary. And a body, too.

Did I read Zanin’s book? Yes, I read it. I Made Them Run Away reconsiders how we picture and puncture family (and partake in it photographically). How we narrate autobiographical memory through mixed messages. How opposites attract and repel. And, how as we mature and grow, stressors within our blood relationships can wither, bloom, or ignite the need to tear it down and build it back up again.

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Odette England is a photographer and writer based in Providence, Rhode Island and New York. Her work has been shown in more than 100 museums, galleries, and exhibition spaces worldwide. She has two photobooks out this year: Dairy Character, winner of the 2021 Light Work Book Award; and Past Paper Present Marks: Responding to Rauschenberg, her collaboration with Jennifer Garza-Cuen, which received a $5,000 Rauschenberg Publication Grant.