Edmund Clark’s Control House Order is a book that on the surface appears to be about banality. This banality stems from the form of control or detention without trial created as a consequence of the fear of terrorist attack. Control Order House maps, through photographs, diagrams and documents, an apparently unremarkable British suburban house in which a “controlled person” suspected of terrorism is detained, and it details how this space is created and maintained through detailed, bureaucratic practices of control. Far from the exoticised, foreign spaces of terror we see one of the mundane, domestic spaces in which the war on terror is materialised.
I first wrote about Clark’s work in November 2010 when his book Guantánamo: If the light goes out was excerpted in The Guardian. I was struck by the way Clark focused on the objects of violence as a conscious strategy to avoid the dehumanising effects of conventional photojournalism.
Here is a photographer employing a deliberate aesthetic strategy — the exclusion of detainees and guards from the photos — in order to humanise the issue. He does so because the normal photographic strategy for humanistation (giving the issue a ‘face’) plays into stereotypes that drive the war on terror. For Clark, rehumanisation involves not showing people. His understanding of the aesthetic and political issues at play in this subject are I think a model example of the reflexivity that is required to make the best documentary work.
I interviewed Clark (via Skype on 31 October 2013) to discuss Control House Order, and his reflexiveness is evident throughout the recording, which is available here:
We discussed a number of important issues in his work, but four stand out for me:
First, Control Order House is at one level a photo book, but a very different photo book. Because the house is, in Clark’s words, “anondyne,” the photographs and the way they are printed in the book, appear as crime scene images that offer a visual recording of the space. Because of that, Clark focuses on the process of photography, the practices of control implicated in the making of the images, rather than what the photographs show. This is aided and abetted by the publication of relevant documents in the book.
Second, the indispensability of interpretation is at the heart of Clark’s photographs. While he photographs with a particular intention, he knows he does not control the meaning of his images, because meaning is produced by their context, location and encounter with other viewers, and indeed he welcomes this openness.
Third, Clark understands his work as an artist to be political in the sense that it is about political events, experiences and issues, and has a general political motivation in the form of engaging people. However, he notes in the book that, “I’m not writing to persuade you for against these measures,” and does not see it as activist or campaign work. That is because he regards that form of political work as closing off different interpretations inherent in images by insisting on one meaning.
Finally, Control Order House is deliberately made (in collaboration with a talented designer) as a beautiful, tangible object in order to enable the process of engagement. Because Clark is dealing with mundane issues, he is conscious of the need to present them in as attractive a form as possible. Every aspect of the book’s design and production has been thought through, with different paper stocks for particular sections just one example. And as an artist, Clark doesn’t resile from having made a relatively expensive, limited edition book as a general political work, instead seeing it as the condition for engagement. This means Clark understands his book as the beginning of a process of engagement rather than its finished product.
For anyone concerned with the how and why of contemporary documentary work, and how a photo book can function politically, I think Clark’s book and interview are indispensable resources.
Photographs courtesy of Edmund Clark. Copyright Edmund Clark.