Latest news with #Goldblatt
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2 days ago
- Entertainment
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When the Beach Boys turned into men
Around ten years younger than the Beach Boys, I grew up listening to their music. As if I had a choice! It was everywhere in the air. Every house, every car, every weekend cook-out. The overhead speakers at the mall. Movie soundtracks at the drive-in theater. The low-octane, high-octave harmonies rained down all over. Like a sun shower – I wish I could say. Instead, it was more like pollen. The repeats on the radio actually gave me a headache. Sports cars and 'woodies.' Surf boards. French bikinis. Pretty surfer girls with 'bushy blonde hairdos.' Tanned handsome boys kissing 'Hawaiian dolls' on beach blankets. California culture of youth, beauty, privilege, sexual ease. But I was born in the Midwest. I was raised up North where the sunlight seldom, if ever, 'played upon my hair.' My father and mother both worked at Goldblatt's department store, and the year I got my Social Security card, I landed my first job as a janitor at Montgomery Wards. No T-birds. No little deuce coupes or giddy up 409 muscle cars. No 'surfin' safaris' to Waimea Bay. No one I knew at the city college I attended went to Aruba, Jamaica, or Kokomo for spring break. After school, we reported to work, took the city bus home, then shoveled the snow. And I had yet to find one of those northern girls the Beach Boys sang about, who 'keep their boyfriends warm at night.' Then one winter day when we had freezing rain, I heard a song that touched my heart. With minor chords creating a soundtrack of longing, loss, and sadness, 'Oh Caroline, No' bewailed the end of a love affair, the speaker drenched in sadness 'to watch a sweet thing die.' Finally, an artist who felt our pain! My former classmate and good friend who now lives in New York said he first heard 'Caroline' while sitting in an Army service club in Fort Polk, Louisiana, prior to shipping out to Vietnam, and shortly after receiving a Dear John letter. 'My young life was in ruins,' he told me. But listening to the song over and over, knowing another had the same soul crushing experience, helped him come to terms with it. Meanwhile, I was surprised to learn that the artist who wrote the song was Brian Wilson, lyricist, bassist, and front man for the Beach Boys and for their previous decade of confection, who had transitioned from sugary fantasy to heart-rending reality with the release of their album Pet Sounds. Reflecting on his own feelings of inadequacy and depression in tracks like, 'I Just Wasn't Made for These Times,' and 'You Still Believe in Me,' Wilson strummed the faces of millions of like-minded listeners dealing with loneliness, loss, or lack of direction. The album was transformational, a kind of validating perception of people's quiet desperation. He sees us, I felt at the time. And the shared experience was intensified by the music's cathartic instrumental accompaniment of harpsichord, piccolo, and clarinet. Among the album's most popular tracks, the addictively rhythmic 'Wouldn't It Be Nice,' was an ironic acknowledgment not just of one person's unrequited love, but of all of our dreams deferred. While my favorite number, 'Sloop John B,' was a metaphor for life's paradox: a jaunty, joyful sea shanty that comes to a sobering end with the verse: 'I feel so broke up, I wanna go home.' The album's mega hit single, 'God Only Knows,' with its lilting melody and achingly plaintive refrain, is tinged with the fear of a monumental love disappearing. It's the album's one song that Paul McCartney says brought him to tears. Brian Wilson, whose mid-life struggle with drugs and mental illness has been well chronicled, died last week on June 11th at age 82. I and millions of others will never forget how he applied his genius to enhance an entire generation's quality of life with unique and sensually delightful music and a more honest understanding of who we are. Former English professor at Florida Southwestern State College, David McGrath is author of "Far Enough Away," a collection of his essays and stories. Email him at profmcgrath2004@ This article originally appeared on Fort Myers News-Press: When the Beach Boys turned into men | Opinion
Boston Globe
03-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Boston Globe
At Yale, a David Goldblatt retrospective bears eloquent witness to apartheid-era South Africa and beyond
All of which is to say that the medium has known few greater bearers of witness than Satisfyingly extensive, the show includes nearly 125 photographs by Goldblatt, work by South African photographers who were his contemporaries or friends or students, maquettes, contact sheets, vintage magazines, and various documents, including text for a classified advertisement from the early ′70s. The ad asked interested readers to let Goldblatt photograph them, offering assurances that the photographer had 'no ulterior motive,' hence the exhibition subtitle. Advertisement Goldblatt's artistic stature makes the relative unfamiliarity of his surprising. That's owing in large part to his having faced a kind of cultural double bind. He lived in a society, apartheid-era South Africa, that needed witness borne as have few others. Yet the ostracism of that society meant his work lacked the prominence and recognizability enjoyed by lesser photographers elsewhere. Advertisement David Goldblatt, "At Kevin Kwanele's Takwaito Barber, Lansdowne Road, Khayelitsha, Cape Town, in the time of AIDS, 16 May 2007." Yale University Art Gallery Also, the work doesn't fit easily into a particular genre or category. There are portraits, landscapes, reportage, though that's too limiting a term. In the late ′90s Goldblatt fully embraced color, a further diversification. Color had the effect, however paradoxical, of softening, at least somewhat, the harsh South African light. Note the delicate blueness of the cloudless sky in a 2007 photograph of an outdoor barber in Cape Town. Goldblatt photographed mines, churches, people in their homes, people on the street, workers on the job, Soweto, scenes of wealth, scenes of poverty, and most tellingly perhaps, how those scenes could overlap and confound an observer. Yet he avoided cheap incongruities, even if ever there was a society of not just cheap but grotesque incongruities it was South Africa during those years and beyond. What unites such variousness is a consistent scrupulosity of vision: unfussy, unfancy, unblinking, unfailingly humane, and no less unfailingly curious. David Goldblatt, "Methodists meet to find ways of reducing the racial, cultural, and class barriers that divide them, 3 July 1980." Yale University Art Gallery Being white put Goldblatt in the minority in South Africa, albeit a minority with overwhelming power and no hesitation to use it. Being the grandson of Lithuanian Jews made him an outsider within that minority. It was a status that allowed him to notice things — that made him need to notice them — others might overlook or, far more commonly, choose to ignore. What Goldblatt found himself photographing was, as he once put it, 'the quiet and commonplace, where nothing 'happened' and yet all was contained and immanent.' The show is arranged thematically, under the headings 'Informality,' 'Near/Far,' 'Disbelief,' 'Working People,' 'Extraction,' 'Assembly,' and 'Dialogues.' The abstractness of the groupings underscores how the images are anything but abstract. 'Dialogues' deserves special mention. It consists of the work of those other photographers, including Ernest Cole, Jo Ractcliffe, and Santu Mofokeng. The section comes midway through the show, a nice placement and indicative of the care devoted to the retrospective, jointly put together by YUAG, the Art Institute of Chicago, and Fundación MAPFRE,, in Madrid. Advertisement Other than 'Extraction,' about mining (Goldblatt's first photographic job was working for South Africa's largest mining operation, Anglo-American Corporation), the categories are usefully elastic. They organize but don't confine. That's appropriate, as confinement registers throughout the show in other ways: not just in the innumerable restrictions on Black South Africans evident in so many of the photographs but also the way Goldblatt captures space. David Goldblatt, "Tailings dump after reclamation, Owendale Asbestos Mine, Northern Cape, 24 December 2007." Yale University Art Gallery Part of the fascination of the show is seeing how little Goldblatt owes to other photographers. Artistically, he's very much his own man. His photographs of Afrikaner farmers have drawn comparisons to Walker Evans's of Southern tenant farmers. Actually, all they have in common is arduous agriculture (endured by the subjects) and human sympathy (extended by the photographers). Maybe that's another reason Goldblatt doesn't have the fame he deserves: He doesn't constellate, and constellations can make the work of art historians, curators and, yes, reviewers, far easier. David Goldblatt, "Wedding party, Orlando West," 1970. Yale University Art Gallery In that treatment of space, though, one does see an affinity, and it's thrilling, with Robert Frank. Frank's 'The Americans' is less about the people in his photographs than the space that contains them. Something similar is going on in Goldblatt's images, his rural ones especially. The land and sky — the amazing, pitiless South African sky — take on an eloquence to rival that of the faces of the people Goldblatt photographs, and that is eloquence of a very high order. Advertisement These photographs are in no way modest — excellence, always, is its own, justified, immodesty — but the photographer is. 'I let my subjects place themselves and I try to photograph quite literally what is in front of the camera,' Goldblatt said in 1974. 'You could call it a quality of deliberate accident.' David Goldblatt, "Sunday morning: A not-white family living illegally in the 'White' group area of Hillbrow, Johannesburg," 1978. Yale University Art Gallery That personal modesty, which is to say an absence of self-importance, extends to an absence of self-righteousness. 'Over time, it grew evident that the real conflict was … how to square one's conscience with being white in this country. This was not hair-splitting. It was a moral dilemma that arose in numerous ways in daily life.' That numerousness is seen throughout the show, and that dilemma felt throughout it. Bearing witness does not mean preaching or making judgments, except, it may be, of oneself. David Goldblatt, "Wait-a-Minute Photographer, Braamfontein, Johannesburg," 1955. Yale University Art Gallery Goldblatt's work has a fundamental visual simplicity, even to the point of austerity. This helps contain the emotional power of so many of the images while also deepening it. Injustice and pain and exploitation when presented as INJUSTICE and PAIN and EXPLOITATION are announcements, and announcements are quickly moved on from. Goldblatt offers simple declarative sentences, not that there's anything simple about them. Emphasizing the significance of description and documentation are the increasingly long titles Goldblatt gave his photographs. That's part of the deliberateness of the accident. Mark Klett, "Storm Clouds Moving Fast, One Hour." Yale University Art Gallery YUAG has a nice surprise for visitors, since 'Photography and the Botanical World' isn't listed on the gallery website. It's a terrific little show, with more than 40 photographs of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. It runs through June 8. Advertisement As one might expect with such subject matter, there are photographs from Karl Blossfeldt, Imogen Cunningham, and Anna Atkins, as well as André Kertész's Goldblatt's here, too, with an agave so large the frame crops its leaves (another instance of confinement). He offers the picture as an homage to the Mexican master Manuel Álvarez Bravo. Such a tribute is a reminder that bearing witness can have another, happier aspect: offering praise. DAVID GOLDBLATT: NO ULTERIOR MOTIVE PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE BOTANICAL WORLD At Yale University Art Gallery, 1111 Chapel St., New Haven, through June 22 and June 8, respectively. Mark Feeney can be reached at
