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Mea Culpa, Garry Winogrand

Garry Winogrand, Untitled (Fish), 1967
I have a confession. I don’t love Garry Winogrand.
I like him well enough. I think I understand what he was trying to do. And I know how hard it is to wrest meaning from daily life. But I’m not sure degree of difficulty really counts in art.
There’s also something about Winogrand that rubs me the wrong way. He had tremendous energy, and I admire that. But I don’t like people in my face. And Winogrand is definitely in your face.
I'm also not quite sure how he fares in comparison to the (other?) giants of his age. Personally, when I want formal inventiveness, I look to Friedlander. Psychological acuity, or at least the willingness to look dysfunction in the eye? Arbus. Political truth? Robert Frank.
What does Winogrand bring to that party? Is he just the guy on the table in the clown hat? He had a great sense of humor, no question. But beyond that, what? Well, there is that pervasive sense of sadness and desperation. I used to think it arose from his subjects. Now I wonder if it wasn’t a price he paid for attempting to elevate coincidence to something it’s not.
The interracial couple with the monkeys, for example. Not profound. Not very funny, either.




























