Master class: Pleine mer

Anyone who has spent much time reading this blog knows that I hold the photographic essay and its presentation in book form as the very apex of accomplishment. My passion for long term documentary photography projects and the books that follow is what led me to create Blueeyes Magazine, which was the direct result of having my world rocked as a student at Missouri in Kim Komenich's incredible "Photo Essay" class.

In my last post I talked about trying to refocus and devote my vision back to my own work in this new year, and I can think of no better way to do this then to return once again to my bookshelf and the masters who have come before. So I'll be writing a series of "Master class" posts that will try to explore for me personally what is important and inspiring from a few of my very favorite photo books. As always this is a conversation I'm trying to have with myself and the work, but maybe there is something in it for you too.

Pleine mer (Men at Sea) by Jean Gaumy

March 1984 - I've been photographing now for fifteen years. Sometimes hard pictures, difficult moments. Combine them one day with other pictures: moments of rivers, winds and shores. They belong to the same world. It'll come on its own. I don't know how. I want to go out to sea and the desire already contains this seed. It can't be about reporting. It's about something else. I don't really know what. I'll have to describe. Simply describe. Avoid deception, the heroic vein. Stick with just man. -Jean Gaumy (introduction to Pleine mer).

Simply put, Men at Sea is a photographic tour de force. Its incredible simplicity of focus and passion for life and work at sea is overwhelming, as is the discipline that Gaumy forecasts in the introduction above when he talks about seeking to just describe (and in doing so honor), instead of "reporting." This intensity of thought and process has in time seared these images into my brain to the point that in closing my eyes I can see the wet, slimy, hot and freezing, scales rough, ropes worn and tight, air thick with stew and men, nervous fingers over maps, omni-directional rain, eyes wide, sea all. Every several months I can see one of these pictures so clearly that I return again to the book and try to retrace its steps.

Like photography itself, not moving or sounding, Men at Sea, published in 2001 after trips taken out on trawlers over more than fifteen years, is most notable and stronger for what it is not; for what it was not allowed to become because of a personal vision by the photographer. Foremost I don't think the book seeks to be an expression of authority about its topic, even if its photography is masterly and content dripping in knowing experience.

By including his personal thoughts through journal entries Gaumy is almost trying to show us that we are on a journey with an unreliable narrator, doing something bigger than himself, who is also trying to figure things out, both on the water and in his craft (that this time we are together is sacred that it is his own). Like other exceptionally talented photographers I've heard speak about their work, they are uncomfortable calling their results anything but fragments, fleeting and gray. This has always struck me as a deeply important distinction of integrity that the aims of journalism school and broadcast media always either ignore or fuck to hell.

Moving on to an aesthetic level the next important thing I think a lot about with Men at Sea is the decision to reproduce these images like giant contact sheets, so that each full-frame image (and its black border with sprocket holes) butts up against the next frame, emphasizing the attitude that the sea, these boats, and this work can not be contained here (again "fragments"); that there is so much more just out of view. Within the images the repetition of exercise mimics the grueling work that spins in circles. By pounding away at image after image of these fishermen working Gaumy is himself metaphorically filling the hold of his book with catch, stacking layer upon layer. Instead of shying away and trying to do the editors' trick of moving in and out, leaning on variety of scene, we are instead shown the very heart of it over and over.

Interrupting the work though are studies of the ocean, catch, birds, and weather that are just plain stunning (long live film grain!), much in the same way that fellow Magnum photographer Alec Soth broke away from the portraiture in Niagara with his powerful visions of the falls. Other double-page spreads go back to the contact sheet idea directly (again playing with the notion that this will never be over and final) to show long sequences of the men on the deck doing maneuvers. I love seeing the sequences here but always find it difficult to create them in my own project work as effectively as they were used in yet another book that will certainly be in this series: Luc Delahaye's Winterreise.

By the end of the book Gaumy follows the fish and men into the belly of the trawler and digs deeper inside. We are shown more of the group meals, cramped living quarters, and private moments, before spitting us back out as quickly as the rush of the next wave, crashing back to the open deck and the living history of these all but vanished vessels. The book draws to a close almost as if this had all been one dark and powerful day. In the last images we see yet another crush of water sweeping over the sides nearly obscuring the men and their work, again emphasizing the true main character.

In closing I am deeply inspired by the way that Gaumy steals the atmosphere into his pictures. Men at Sea is truly a visceral experience, as are all of the great photo books, and its something I've struggled and thought hard about as I try to document stories. Among many other things, I love the imperfections that are made perfect through time and process; the many blurred images throwing us off balance as are the men. And I love the very idea of documenting men in this one moment and place, where time stops and the water and wind is everything and everywhere; the themes common and grand at once. By choosing something so personal and specific to his life and background, we are made witness to such a huge personal vision that it extends beyond its borders and expands our understanding of our own lives. Its a vision that is big and bold but also inviting and inspiring. Thanks to you Jean Gaumy for these many lessons.

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Comments (5)

Pleine Mer is definetly and without a doubt one, if not the one, of my most favourite photography books. Exactly for the reasons you describe. Very well written John!

This book reminded me of something more recent, namely Corey Arnold's work: http://www.coreyfishes.com/

Excellent post. As with Martin, Pleine Mer is easy one of my favorite photo books. I was lucky enough to catch the show in New York shortly after the book came out. The prints were beautiful, but as a BOOK, it's really a masterpiece. The sequencing, the text. So much thought went into it. It's a knock-out.

And it's great to read your take on it. I feel like it's a really under-appreciated book, but maybe I just get that sense because I keep turning up remaindered copies at bookstores (which I promptly buy and foist on friends).

This is indeed an incredible book. One of the best and one of my favorites. I always feel like Im in a very pleasant dream while looking at it. One of my favorite books to look at while listening to music and drinking coffee. Get lost in in it.....

I found this book just an hour ago at a second-hand book shop for what comes out to be $5. It isn't in great shape, but at least the pages are still attached to the spine. After your post, I can't wait to go through it. Thanks!

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