PHOTO:Gregory Crewdson -An Eclipse of Moths
In his 30 years of work, the photographs of Gregory Crewdson have garnered an international following. Each series: “Twilight”, “Dream House” and “Beneath the Roses” recalls not only 19th Century American and European paintings, but also suggest a cinematic quality that was influenced by his love of vintage films. But his new exhibition transcends to a darker psychological place, exploring themes of isolation and longing.
By Dimitris Lempesis
Photo: Gagosian Archive
Gregory Crewdson’s exhibition “An Eclipse of Moths” comprises 16 large-scale panoramic exteriors, shot using his famously meticulous production techniques and longtime technical crew. Set in a postindustrial urban landscape, the series depicts locales of removed isolation, each of which Crewdson spent months scouting and staging before production began: a taxi depot, a traveling carnival lot, an abandoned factory complex, defunct bars and diners, and vacant storefronts. The series takes its title from an entomological term. Moths use transverse orientation to fly at a constant angle relative to a distant light source, such as the moon; exposure to artificial light confuses the insects’ internal navigation, changing their behavior and destination. Crewdson anchors his photographic figures in relation to a source of light: a street lamp or traffic light, or the hesitant, transitional illumination of twilight. In each image, the viewer is positioned above in a semi bird’s-eye vantage point. In scenes that combine hope with the forgotten and restlessness with ennui, the world of these photographs is laden with premonition. Confounding the eerie, elusive intimacy of an Edward Hopper painting with a Hitchcockian cinematic and compositional precision, Crewdson’s images create wordless, open-ended narratives populated by characters and places that feel remote and unsettling—yet deeply familiar. “Redemption Center” (2018–19) is set in a parking lot where a recent thunderstorm has left behind puddles on the ground and a thick atmospheric fog hanging in midair. A wall faces the viewer, its faded lettering bearing the titular inscription. Outside the open door of a trailer, two teenagers are positioned beside a pile of returned cans and bottles. Closer in the foreground, beneath a towering lamppost, a man pauses to cast his gaze down at a mysterious scattering of rose petals floating on a large puddle. The figure, unmoored from time and place, appears frozen with climactic hesitation.
Gregory Crewdson’s first experience of photography, at the age of ten, was a Diane Arbus retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. He graduated with an MFA in photography from Yale University in 1988. For his thesis project, he took photographic portraits of residents of the area around Lee, Massachusetts, where his family had a cabin. It was also in Lee that Crewdson conceived of his later “Natural Wonder series” (1992–97), in which birds, insects, and mutilated body parts are presented in surreal yet mundane domestic settings. In his next series, “Hover” (1995–97), Crewdson turned away from brightly colored close-ups to black-and-white bird’s-eye views of strange set in the streets and backyards of Lee. His series “Twilight” (1998–2001) and “Beneath the Roses” (2004–08) introduced color and an enlarged scale to this surreal formula, resulting in decidedly cinematic images reminiscent of the films of Steven Spielberg. These photographs have become increasingly spectacular and complex to produce, requiring dozens of assistants, Hollywood-style lighting, and specially crafted stage sets. In 2011 he left New York to live to a remote home and studio in western Massachusetts. Coping with a difficult divorce, he found renewal in daily open-water swims and cross-country skiing on the wooded paths of the Appalachian Trail. There, he stumbled upon a trail called Cathedral of the Pines, which inspired new images.
Info; Gagosian Gallery, 456 North Camden Drive, Beverly Hills, Duration: 24/9-21/11/20, Days & Hours: Tue-Sat 10:00-17:30, https://gagosian.com
