The Eyes of Photography

The Eyes of Photography
On Viewing “Police Photography as Evidence”
An Exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art

I now know what Sontag meant when she wrote "to photograph people is to violate them . . ."(14). The people whose photographs were on display at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art looked assaulted, robbed, and accosted, as if their image had been snatched away from them. Yes, many of those photographs were an intrusion; a sort of rape.

As I walked through the display of crime photographs, I was subjected to a variety of different sights. All of the black and white pictures featured scenes relating to the criminal side of our society. The photographs, invasions into a private world, displayed a variety of subjects, including blood, death, mug shots, hands, faces, floors, fences, and cells. Some of the pictures were more upsetting than others, and there were a few which were oddly poetic. All of them affected the soul in some way; for, to glimpse into a private world uninvited and not feel any emotion would mean you have forgotten your heart.

The images which made the most powerful impression upon my mind were not those of blood and gore which were displayed in the murder victims' photographs. No, what haunted me were the mug shots of the residents of an insane asylum. It was not their scraggly hair, taut faces, ashy skin, and the hollow cheeks that disturbed me. Rather, what has been branded into my memory is their eyes. Old photographs often make their subjects' eyes look vacant, but this was not so, for, in the eyes of those stares was something more. They did not have the gleam of the insane, but, rather, the dull look which is often the result of years of trauma and fear. These were the eyes of victims. The camera was robbing them of their hopes, dreams, and inner brilliance. I wonder if they were truly insane, or if they only lost their minds after being in the asylum.

A woman viewing the exhibit commented, "The stories are missing; all we have is their photographs, no background on what caused them to end up here." These words clung to me, bringing back all of the horror stories that I have read in history classes about the early years of institutions for the insane. There was mistreatment, abuse, and, most horrifying, there were some people trapped in there who were completely sane. I wanted so badly to ask the black and white images, "Who are you? Why are you here? Who put you here?" I wondered if this woman ended up in this photograph because of disobedience to her husband. Did this man end up in this place because he refused to live his life according to his father's wishes? Who is it that can truly decide who is sane? The questions came from the faces; faces with the eyes of humans whose souls had been ripped from them.

And there these photographs were, displayed before me in a perfect line. These people were caged, raped, in the moment of photograph, having their shame on exhibit for the world to see. They looked at me, like animals in a zoo. However, instead of their freedom being locked in, these photographs had caged their spirits. It was as if I was at a medieval carnival where a crusty old man shows the public freakish people that have been locked behind bars. I could not move, literally, for the crowd had hemmed me in, locking me in place to face the judgment of those eyes.

But now, as I sit, typing away, miles from those eyes, their stares are still with me. This could move me to believe in ghosts. Their eyes are haunting me; I find it hard to believe their souls are at rest. The crime in our history has yet to be paid. These photographs attest to the pain and abuse which our country has afflicted on the mentally ill. Those souls have yet to forgive us, thus they have yet to reach eternal rest.

Will they ever? Sontag wrote, "After the event has ended, the picture will still exist, conferring on event a kind of immortality . . ." (11). Like the art of poetry, photography has the ability to capture time, therefore, the pain in those mug shots will live forever. Those eyes will never blink to see a softer side of reality.
Just as the act of immortalization can be painful, it can also be a savior. A photograph taken in 1944 shows a young boy, possibly fifteen, locked behind bars. His baby-soft skin surrounded eyes that were almost peaceful. The photograph had captured a moment before hatred had filled his eyes, a moment in which his soul had yet to leave his body. For eternity, there is a moment, a place in time, where the viewer of the picture cannot look at him in disgust.

Instead of repulsion, a sense of sadness seemed to drift into my heart as I gazed into that boy’s eyes. His crime was strangling a little girl. In causing her death, he had also caused his own. His face, which had yet to ever need the work of a razor, was to exist forever in a death of the living. His life, his future, was over, and soon, in time, those eyes would become hard and lifeless. In the moment which was captured by the camera he still had something inside of him, but the bars in front of those eyes were predicting his fate. His eyes would not always be able to see past those bars; soon, those eyes would only see the cage which the boy had made for himself. However, that photograph saved him a place in eternity where he still could fully possess his soul.

The question “Why?” runs through my head, dancing around, with no place to go as I walked through the exhibit. A photograph gives no answers; it just displays a moment. Judgment is not for the camera, but for your eyes, the eyes of the viewer. It is your eyes that determine the emotions of what is seen.

Reference: Sontag, Susan. "In Plato's Cave." On Photography. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1973.