AUGUST SANDER (1876-1964) envisioned his
never-completed encyclopedic inventory of the German populace as
totaling more than 500 photographs divided among seven sections
comprising 45 categories. The deeply absorbing J. Paul Getty Museum show
"August Sander: People of the Twentieth Century" follows the broad
outlines of his classification system. In this selection of 127
portraits from the Getty's tremendous collection of 1,200-plus works by
the photographer, it is as if Sander called roll and the spectrum and
spectacle of humanity stepped forward.
Aged peasant woman, effete student, fiery-eyed
painter -- all here. Dwarfs in their Sunday best, here. Elegant and
self-possessed member of parliament, here. Waitress, composer, coal
carrier, bohemian -- all here. Persecuted Jew, here. And SS chief, also
here, posed in full, daunting regalia and photographed without any
visible irony shortly after Sander's project had been curtailed and his
son jailed for agitating against the Nazi government.
Sander never could have finished his collective portrait, even if the
Nazis had not put a hostile end to his efforts. He brought order,
precision and a spectacularly sensitive eye for character to his
self-appointed task. But that task was as elusive as it was expansive.
He announced his aim to compile an archive of images portraying
"Menschen des 20. Jahrhunderts" (People of the 20th Century) in the late
1920s, more than two decades into his career as a commercial portrait
photographer based largely in Cologne. In 1929, he published a 60-image
preview of the larger project called "Antlitz der Zeit" (Face of the
Time). "Every person's story is written plainly on his face," he
asserted in a radio address two years later. "More than anything,
physiognomy means an understanding of human nature."
Sander's career became firmly established just in time to be undone by
the National Socialist regime, which countered his vision of a
heterogenous society with one of idealized racial purity, lethally
enforced. The true "Face of the Time" had to be suppressed: Sander's
book was banned, confiscated, and the printing plates were destroyed.
Sander moved to the countryside, where he continued to accrue negatives
for his perpetually ongoing project while shifting his professional
persona to that of landscape photographer.
Every archive is, inevitably, also an editorial. Sander's reflects his
belief that civilizations followed patterns of development,
sophistication and decay, a notion popularized in Oswald Spengler's "The
Decline of the West" (1918). He organized his photographic material
according to such a progression, moving from farmer to banker to blind
man and beggar, from archetypes of earthbound solidity to the dregs of
urban industrialization. Much is omitted along the way (he gave
notoriously short shrift to the Weimar Republic's liberated, newly
enfranchised woman), but Sander took in the gritty evidence of Germany's
economic distress as avidly as its cultural florescence.
He posed his subjects to deliver maximum information by economical
means, without flourishes. Every subject is in sharp focus, and nearly
all stare directly at the camera in honest declarations of the self.
An image of a girl inside a carnival wagon, reaching her arm through a
window to place the key in the lock of the door that confines her, is an
entire parable in a single frame. Many of the pictures could yield
whole novels. At least one actually did: "Young Farmers," an iconic
triple portrait, inspired Richard Powers' fascinating 1985 "Three
Farmers on Their Way to a Dance," in which the young men are described
as having "dropped their obstinate masks of individuality and taken up
the more serious work of the tribe."
Every Sander subject oscillates between those obligations to represent
the unique self and the generalized type. Sander's ambition and the
medium's unnerving defiance of temporal laws enable us to lock eyes with
these diverse souls. The effect is staggering, sobering, heartening.
Theme and variation are also in dynamic interplay in an adjacent show in
the Getty's galleries: "Bernd and Hilla Becher: Basic Forms." Both
shows were curated by the Getty's Virginia Heckert, who worked with Judy
Annear of Australia's Art Gallery of New South Wales on the Sander.
The Bechers, German photographers who married in 1961 and worked
collaboratively until Bernd's death last year, built a portrait archive
of their own, only not with human subjects. They photographed industrial
structures such as blast furnaces, water towers and silos, each from a
uniform distance in flat, neutralizing light.
Whereas Sander categorized his subjects by occupation, class or other
social affiliation, the Bechers developed typologies according to
function, displaying their photographs in grids that emphasized formal
similarities and distinctions. Sander was a chief influence on their
work, as were other so-called "New Objectivity" photographers of his
era, particularly Albert Renger-Patzsch and Karl Blossfeldt.
The dispassionate, mug-shot uniformity of the Bechers' approach has been
described as minimalist, and the pictures do read as unsentimental
examinations of geometric form, all linear struts, wheels and planes. At
the same time, a sense of deeply felt social history -- nostalgia, even
-- courses through the work, a preservationist impulse to record forms
every bit as mortal as their human counterparts.
Pairing the two shows makes visual and art historical sense and takes
great advantage of the museum's deep holdings, but their points of
connection feel conspicuously unexamined. Even the most rudimentary
compare-and-contrast exercise would deliver loads of interesting
overlaps having to do with seriality, typology, the archival impulse and
the questionable concept of photographic objectivity -- not to mention
the massive influence of both bodies of work on subsequent generations
of photographers, from Diane Arbus to Thomas Ruff. But wall texts are
mute on the synchronism, and the exhibition brochures no more
Sander, of all artists, would have appreciated a view that took in both shows.
"Photography is like a mosaic that becomes a synthesis only when it is
presented en masse," he wrote in 1951. Just as each of his subjects
gained meaning as a representative of a type, each portrait he made took
on greater significance as part of his broad, brilliant, unfinishable
By Leah Ollman
For The Los Angeles Times