In my previous post, I wrote about my favourite downspout and how an accumulation of bird shit contributed to its aesthetic appeal. From there, it was short hop to the work of artists and writers on the so-called aesthetic of shit. In short, they make the serious philosophical claim that nothing has any aesthetic value if it fails to take account of its own rootedness in shit.
I may have clicked “publish” too soon. As it often does, the universe has seen fit to comment on my post. I was mesmerized by the abstract qualities that gave aesthetic force to a scene I had captured: soft light, tension between vertical lines of bricks against the angular descent of the downspout, texture and contrast produced by a patina of guano. Pigeons had been my collaborators in this work.
The next day, another pigeon collaborated in the production of a photograph, this time to challenge my previous suppositions. It was morning and I had just left my wife at her office in the TD Tower before continuing on my way. Walking down York Street, I was approaching the west entrance to the Fairmont Royal York Hotel when I noticed a homeless man lying on the sidewalk. Ordinarily, I don’t photograph what I’ve taken to calling homeless porn. While I do believe photographers sometimes need to document social conditions (which include homelessness), that obligation needs to be balanced against a competing obligation to accord subjects a measure of dignity. That means engaging them, listening to them if they are coherent, and satisfying myself that they understand I am taking their photograph.
Rules have exceptions. One of those exceptions involves balancing dignity against the fact that engagement will destroy the scene. I gave the homeless man a cursory glance. Clearly asleep. Hoodie. Blue surgical mask covering his face. Then I noticed some movement on his chest so I gave a closer look. Christ! There was a pigeon hopping around on his chest. How can I not shoot that? I dropped to one knee and shot a burst. A man in white shirt and tie approached from the hotel but seemed oblivious both to the pigeon and to the man kneeling on the ground taking photographs of the pigeon. One of the strange things about life in the city is that many of its residents develop a blindness to things going on around them. That in turn makes it easier for urban photographers like me to get away with some of the shots we do. Crouched low, I noted a couple things about the man. For one, he had open sores on his left hand, a fact that did not bode well for his health. For another, the hood of his hoodie was spackled with bird shit.
Sometimes bird shit is just bird shit, and a man covered in shit is just a man with a shitty life. And, maybe, intellectuals who talk about an aesthetic of shit are themselves just full of shit. I think there’s something offensive about the longstanding tradition that art has a redemptive quality which can magically elevate a man’s misery. Too long it’s been used to justify apathy in the face of unjust social relations. There’s nothing ennobling about poverty. And there’s nothing in my photograph that is socially redeeming. The only thing that can be inferred for a certainty from my photograph is that once the pigeons are through with this man, it won’t be long before the worms get their chance.
