By Lauren Kane | Co-Editor-in-Chief –
The Metropolitan Museum of art was teeming with people, New Yorkers coming by for their weekly grazing on the greats, or scholars hunkering down to spend all day ensconced in Roman sculpture, tourists filing towards Van Gogh’s self-portrait. The Metropolitan Museum is a universe in and of itself, and the energy only increases on a beautiful Sunday in fall, when I joined masses of museum-goers in thanking my lucky stars as I strolled up fifth, letting the current of Manhattan sweep me uptown.
My destination was not Rodin’s Hand of God, nor the special exhibition on Balthus. I was seeking out a small room, tucked away in the South wing of the second floor. The gallery in question was were I would find select photographs of Julia Margaret Cameron. Cameron was a socially prominent British woman who began practicing photography relatively later in life, at age 48. While her work was produced in the late 19th century , the themes and style of her pictures have had far-reaching influences in the art of photography. She had many celebrities of her time pose as subjects, and often styled her work in Arthurian scenes.
However, it was not the content that first struck me as I entered the tiny gallery, but rather the style. The place itself had a hidden-away feeling to it – the door was low and it opened up into a two-part room with high ceilings. But the gallery’s size wasn’t the primary cause of the intimate atmosphere. It was the low hum of electricity emanating from the portraits.
Cameron’s style was the forerunner in long exposures, which is when the camera is set to capture the image for an extended period of time. With this technique, the slight movements of the subject are caught on film and create a blurry look. If done correctly, the resulting effect is electric, and of course Cameron did it correctly, if not perfectly. The nuances in movement that are expressed through her photography make them come to life for the viewer, as though they are memories of moments you have lived.
Victorian tragedy has always had a way of evoking the deep and complex, but in Cameron’s work there is an added dynamic. It’s a low hum of life, that crackles down your spine as the eyes of Alfred Tennyson gaze softly past you, or the candidness of the parting of Lancelot and Guinevere draws you so deeply into the moment that you feel you would never escape.
Perhaps this is why the curators decided to leave the little gallery so sparse (the only décor are two quotes which better illustrate Cameron’s philosophy in photography); the pictures leave one overwhelmed.
