Michael Kenna | Selected works | 18 September — 2 November 2008

The first time I saw Michael Kenna’s photographs on the wall of a gallery, I was surprised how much smaller they were than I had imagined. But it was a pleasant surprise, adding an intimate quality to the beauty that had already struck me upon seeing the work on the printed page. The first time I saw Michael himself, I was surprised at how tall he is, dwarfing me by 35 cms. It was quite a stretch to look at this lovely, genial man face to face, which is why I found my gaze drop to his feet and the wonderfully stylish two-tone brogues he was wearing — black-and-white, of course, just like his pictures. I realized then, intuitively, that there is far more to Michael Kenna and his work than can ever meet the eye.

Michael was born in the north west of England in the early 1950s. His was a large, Irish-Catholic family, and as a young teenager he was set on a path towards priesthood. But after a few years at seminary school he had second thoughts, and went off in another direction that led, via Banbury School of Art and the London College of Printing, to photography and a life in the USA. He settled in San Francisco in the 1970s, working for a number of years as printer for the legendary Ruth Bernhard, who was both an inspiration and an influence on the young Kenna. He found himself gallery representation for his own work, and has never looked back. But he is still an English lad at heart, with a liking for baked beans on toast, fish & chips and Cadbury’s chocolate — interestingly, the pale, milk version rather than the dark that might seem more in keeping with his night work in particular. Like many of his generation — my generation, too — he refuses to grow up and has an enormous and infectious passion for music, football, beer and, above all else, his beloved daughter, Olivia. He was ecstatic when his almost equally beloved football team, Everton, qualified earlier this year for a place in the European Championships. But all those things are tangible. Michael also has a deep passion for life, for travelling solo, and for crossing conventional boundaries to find the possibilities that so many of us cannot even imagine might be waiting to be discovered on the other side. For reasons I cannot quite explain, I know without a doubt that it is the combination of the raucous football supporter, the wannabe bad boy musician and the quiet, gentle person seeking solitude in remote parts of the world that makes him the truly great artist he is. His gift is perhaps not so much that he is a brilliant photographer (which he is) but more that he is a catalyst for pure, simple, breathtaking beauty.

There can surely be no question that Michael Kenna’s photographs — whether industrial buildings or pastoral landscapes — are mesmerically beautiful. There are indeed images, such as the series taken in Hokkaido, Japan, that make one feel as if looking into a whirlpool; slowly but surely one is drawn in until completely consumed by their persuasive pull. I know, as I am sure Michael does, that there are people who consider his work “pretty” and then move on, looking for something they perceive to be “deeper” and more worthy of their critical time. Of course, they miss the point — and the pleasure — entirely; it is their loss. For Michael’s photographs are not simply attractive snapshots of lovely, scenic views, just as true beauty is not something that can be measured at a single, split-second glance. His work can be very dark, in every sense of that word, and bleak — though not at all in a hopeless or depressing way; quite the opposite, in fact. There is an ‘edge’ to the pictures that provides a very important clue; the longer one looks, the more one will find. The beauty here is not just skin deep, and that is what makes it so genuine.

Michael loves to travel; he has visited many parts of the globe, but Japan is perhaps his favourite place to work. He delights in finding wild, remote areas in which to set up his camera. He will often photograph at night, leaving his equipment for many hours while he wanders off to do something else, or sits contentedly and contemplates the peace and tranquillity that he is simultaneously capturing on film. The long exposure time softens the scene further, as winds blow, clouds shift and light slowly changes. It is a beautiful way to work, and it surely makes the results more real. Identification guides, such as for birds or flowers, often use paintings or drawings to depict the different species. The reason for this is that a photograph, taken in one particular moment of time, can only show that one example at that very instance. A different form of illustration, while less finite, can thus actually present a more accurate overall picture. Paradoxically, this to me is how Michael’s photographs work, and why they are so very special. The images shown here, taken in Hokkaido, do not show the landscape as it is exactly at the instant of clicking the shutter; this is the landscape as it really is, over a period of time, while no-one is watching. It is an incredible thing to be able to record, and to share with others.

Michael has often described his work as a visual haiku (a short Japanese poem of just three lines and 17 syllables). It’s a perfect description for pictures that are seemingly simple but are, thanks to the vision and patience of the photographer, also wonderfully complex. However, to flip yet another idea on its head, they are also the complete opposite of a haiku — and I find myself thinking in terms of a beautiful, infinite poem.

Unlike many artists, Michael has never seen the need to reinvent himself, and while his work has naturally evolved, photographs he took in the 1970s perfectly complement those he is busy making in the 21st Century. I suspect that that is one reason why his images are so consistently beautiful. True beauty is surely something that goes far beyond the superficial, something that becomes more intensely exquisite the longer the acquaintance one has with it. It has to be so much more than simple veneer; look as long as you like at Michael’s pictures and the beauty increases. They are timeless. If they were three-dimensional objects, you could cut them with a knife and the inside would be as delicious as the outer surface. He is a man with eyes that are perceptive, feet that never stop exploring, and a heart that ensures that no matter how isolated a place might appear, you can feel its allure also. Perhaps that is the secret to his success. Who knows?

As Albert Einstein so wisely said, “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.” It is a blessing that Michael Kenna has his eyes — and his mind — wide open.

Alison Crosby
July 2007