by matthew christopher murray-a Unconvicted Major Plagherist

In the past few years, the popularity of photographing ruins has exploded. Aided by the ability to find locations via the internet, the omnipresence and inexpensiveness of digital photography, and the plethora of forums and photo sharing sites to distribute images, interest in the subject has increased exponentially. What was once a niche hobby shared by a small but hardcore contingent of chronic trespassers has mushroomed to such a degree that there are thousands upon thousands of photographs of abandoned locations uploaded daily to image sharing websites, hundreds of gallery shows, books, and websites dealing with them, dozens of articles discussing the subject in high profile newspapers and journals, and even television shows on urban exploration. With the ubiquity of the medium has come an increasing backlash against what has been popularly termed 'ruin porn' that alleges that the genre is more a voyeuristic romp through scenes of economic devastation by a bevy of photographers interested in self-promotion and profiteering on suffering than a legitimate artistic endeavor.

As a photographer who has visited hundreds of abandoned sites across America for nearly a decade, I can't claim objectivity in the matter. I have been to nearly every type of site imaginable, from factories and schools to churches and asylums, and my fledgling artistic career has been built on lecturing on the them and displaying my work on the subject via lectures, gallery showings, and my website abandonedamerica.us (hey! that's where you are now!). The term 'ruin porn' has been leveled at my photography on multiple occasions - much to my chagrin - and each time I have tried to defend the validity of not only my own forays in the field but also the topic as a whole as a sort of modern archaeology and an important critical reflection of our times.



Above: Ruin Porn

'Ruin porn' was originally coined as an angry response to the work of hoards of photographers and journalists flocking to Detroit to show the city's decline and the building resentment among locals at this one-sided depiction of their home. Local writers' frustration stemmed from the fact that they felt the medium was reveling in a shallow, post-apocalyptic representation that ignored efforts at renewal and very real problems that were faced by residents of Detroit. The continual focus on blight and decay, they felt, hampered efforts to promote positive aspects of the city and in fact perpetuated the popular perception of Detroit as a war-torn ghost town. Articles condemning the practice were followed by impassioned (and, to some, also one-sided) essays extolling the virtues of Detroit's burgeoning art scene and efforts toward economic improvement. Detroit had become the poster child for American ruin, and even despite the fact that said art scene (which was arguably aiding renewal) was partly comprised of an influx of artists interested in decay, an attitude of hostility towards this unflattering distinction developed. As in Venice, a city whose economy is based on tourism that is contributing to the rate at which it is sinking underwater, this new 'tourist' industry did have a mixture of benefits and detrimental effects. On one hand, this 'ruin porn' neglected to inform viewers of the efforts of residents to improve their town. On the other, the increased attention of outsider photographers created interest in the subject and brought these stories of renewal and growth to a public that might otherwise not have cared about them. It opened up a dialogue about the status of the city and its future that drew national awareness, and despite their hostility towards the subject, that awareness was nevertheless capitalized on by the very writers who rejected the photographers who visited their city. After all, who would be as familiar with the term 'ruin porn' or the debate on Detroit's status if not for the initial series of articles and photographs? In my opinion, while there is validity to both sides of the debate, nobody would be listening to that debate without the 'eye candy' that brought it to light.

Since then, the term has been used with increasing frequency, to the point that the real meaning has been diluted and is unfamiliar to many of the very people who use it. It is bandied about carelessly because it sounds hip and contemporary, much like 'sexting': it brings to mind a certain raciness, a taboo element of titillation and excitement that perhaps goes hand in hand with viewing images of potentially unsafe environments that often the photographers do not have permission to enter. Many who use the term to do not perceive it to be any insult to the work being discussed at all, which is perhaps in keeping with what it originally implied: a glib, superficial understanding of a deeply complex subject. In this context, it merely represents the gleeful desire and attraction viewers have for the images (much akin to, say, 'food porn') rather than a critical slam at the genre as being exploitative and shallow.

To others, the word represents a sort of victimization and fetishization of despair. What exactly makes one guilty of this egregious sin is still contested: is it merely presenting images of ruin for consumption without any context? Is it aestheticizing decay? Is it profiting from and making a career based on images of ruin? The nebulous nature of the term and its use as an insult means that it can be employed without much consequence and is frustratingly difficult to rebut. One common thread is that it typically applies to making 'pretty' pictures of abandoned sites, but beyond that consensus on the definition starts to fall apart. To one person it could be the use of High Dynamic Range (HDR) photography, which they do not care for and feel is trivializing the subject by making it beautiful. To another critic, it could be making images that romanticize places that they believe should be torn down for urban renewal, while yet another might contend that simply exploring places without properly advocating for preservation qualifies as 'ruin porn'. To some, the mere act of presenting a body of work chronicling ruins is all the qualification that is necessary, regardless of what else is done by the photographer or what the intention is, because they view the entire category as trite and clichéd. It becomes a sort of maddening, meandering mess of expectations and accusations, with each writer feeling they have the correct set of parameters of what the work should and should not accomplish and how it should be done. Because the core definition is ill-defined and constantly shifting, there is no way to adequately defend yourself: whatever it is that you're doing, you should be doing something else, but in the meanwhile your work bears the sleazy stigma of comparison to that of such esteemed photographers as those found in Hustler or Penthouse and you, by extension, are less an artist than a pornographer.

While the term is extraordinarily useful for brushing off the significance of an entire genre of work, it is much less useful for entering an actual discussion. It breezily dismisses the subject as perverse and pointless with the same carefree lack of thought and responsibility that the original photographers who were described with the term were accused of having. When examined more thoroughly, much like the topic of abandoned spaces, it reveals a wealth of material worthy of pondering. What are the responsibilities of an artist or photographer to their subject, and should they be chastised for attempting to make a profession of documenting ruins? What is ethical or unethical in an area so ripe for exploitation? Is art required to make some statement one way or another about a subject, and in that case what should the statement be? More to the point, is existing as an object of beauty justifiable in and of itself or must it 'accomplish' something? Must a photograph present both sides of a story? Is this genre unfairly saddled with a set of standards that are rarely applied to others?

In the following series of articles, we'll examine these topics in greater depth, in addition to trying to shed some light on the topic of urban exploration as it relates to contemporary culture and what its place in the dialogue about renewal, preservation, and art might be. In the meanwhile, please feel free to share thoughts and opinions, and stop back soon for more.


Continue on to Part II: A Chronicle of Failure
Continue on to Part III: On Dealing With the Dead

Comments

By Olivia Antsis: Thank you for taking the time to address some of the issues that the label "ruin porn" raises inside and outside the photographic community. Your first installment of the article provides a good introduction that wets one's appetite and encourages further thought, deliberation, and dialogue. You raise many important questions and put the issue into context for those unfamiliar with or confused by the label's many connotations, misrepresentations, and implications. As someone who has followed your work for several years, I have always been impressed by your integrity and thoughtfulness when it comes to doing right by these places. You live by a self-imposed code of honor that reflects your love and reverence for these spaces, and as far as I can see, you never miss an opportunity to pay heed to a site's historical and cultural significance or the impact it has had on surrounding communities and individuals. Your thoughtfulness and attention to nuance extends to the architects and caretakers of these sites, preservationists, and documentarians. I understand why the term "ruin porn" is so disagreeable to both you the photographer and us the viewers or appreciators. In my mind, whether intended or not, it is a tool that may easily be used to minimize and undermine the meaningful exchange that is really happening here. It is also disheartening that words are so often used as weapons when put into the arsenal of those seeking to destroy another person's credibility -- and for no other end but to buffer one's own insecurities or to satisfy the need for attention and self-validation. If anything, I think that by raising the issues you personally have with this label, you have acknowledged that it is important to you that your work has meaning and significance beyond its aesthetic beauty. While you are still discovering daily what this is all for, what this all means, and what will come of it, I know many of us appreciate that you continue to do what you do despite all of the uncertainty that you feel.

By Tracy S-Homer: I would not hesitate to believe that many have exhaled a breath long held after reading this series introduction. Addressing this concomitant gives supporters erudition to be promoters, rather than defenders, of this art.

By Jason Shepard: This was an interesting read. Actually, I've come across others that despise this terminology even more than you do. In fact, some photographers get rather angry any time they so much as hear this term. But, let's explore this a little bit. I actually prefer the term "ruin porn" as I find it descriptive, intriguing, and interest-generating. Pornography is defined by The American Heritage Dictionary as "Lurid or sensational material" (Farlex, 2012). In fact, I do find photographs of abandonment and decay to be sensational images. They don't "turn me on" per se, however, they do get my creative juices flowing. I spend hours staring at images of ruin, but I'm not doing so because I appreciate them as an art form or because I'm physically attracted to them. Rather, I'm picturing the entire repurposing project in my head. I am imagining not "what has been," but rather "what could be" in a reuse project. I take into account the surroundings, layout, original design intentions, and historical significance (if the photos and information are available of these aspects). If I see enough potential in the location (if provided), surrounding area (if known), and the building itself, I contact friends of mine who are developers and financiers to see if they have an interest in rescuing the place. I have, many, MANY times, had to ignore a place not because it has promise, but rather because the photographer, out of some ludicrous desire to keep a place to him- or herself or in a desperate, generally worthless attempt to "save" the place from vandals, has refused to disclose the location or even the general vicinity of the ruin. While it may, very rarely, prevent damage from vandals, it is also, very frequently, preventing those with the funds and interest from rescuing these blighted buildings and making them available for reuse. The fact that photographers are afraid, for whatever reason, to disclose locations is the primary negative connotation that I associate with the term "ruin porn." Keeping this information "secret" makes it appear to give ruin photography the connotation of being "bad" and this exacerbates the situation. I love your photography, but I see some of the same issues here that I see at dozens, even hundreds, of other websites just like yours: refusal to disclose locations and use of HDR (which does not give those of us looking at the reuse prospects a realistic image of the place). What I am glad to see is a lot more information on the "backstory" of the place that I don't run into very often. That I appreciate and so do those I speak with about these properties. Like you state, there are many different types of people and many different perspectives. Mine is only one of those and probably rather unique in the field. Hopefully, it will give you yet another angle to work from and provide a greater understanding of the term as well as knowledge that there are those out there who are actively seeking to rescue these ignored, derelict places and turn them into useful members of society once again. In fact, my family and I are deconstructing a barn and reconstructing it on our property to use as the framework for our new home and an abandoned silo to use as the framework for a multi-story playhouse for our children - our small part to play in reclaiming history. Speaking of history, that's yet another aspect of this that many don't realize yet (although the recent photographic documentation of New York City that was released to the public should help this be understood) -- You are documenting a fast-being-erased architectural history. As the pace of demolitions rapidly increases in an attempt to "wipe out blight" and "raise property values in the surrounding areas," this aspect of your photography will become more and more important as time goes on. Don't worry if there are people like me that don't see the artistic value of your photography. There are so many other aspects to consider that one small segment of the population with a lack of respect for any value in this photography isn't going to be a problem overall...At least that's IMO. -Jason

Confessions of a Ruin Pornographer Part II: A Chronicle of Failure Posted: 24th January 2012 In: Blog One of the many things that interests me about the locations I photograph is that each one represents failure. On a micro level, this is evidenced in the building itself and the failure of the owners to fund/maintain whatever it was established for. On a macro level, it often applies to the community's inability to support the business, and to an even greater extent can be indicative of lost industries and economic collapse on the county and state level. I would argue that the culmination of these failures shows a trend even greater (and more ominous), that of an overall social decline leading to the fall of an entire empire. When the term "ruin porn" is used, it is frequently joined with expectations that the photographer being discussed is accused of failing to meet. If this were not the case, there would be no need for such a derogatory term. The frequent criticism is that photography of abandoned sites constitutes artistic slumming, that the photographer is exploiting the misfortunes of others for economic and professional gain. After all, there is a profound sorrow inherent in these images. If one approaches them for anything beyond their surface aesthetic, the failures on a micro and macro level become clear. There is a sense of helplessness and injustice about them. Shouldn't someone be able to save this building? What happened to the people who lost their jobs in that factory? Who is to blame? Photobucket The Church of the Transfiguration's demolition remains one of the most heartwrenching examples of senseless architectural destruction I have witnessed. To make matters worse, there are no easy answers presented by the work itself, and happy stories of rehabilitation and reuse are few and far between. The Church of the Transfiguration in Philadelphia was one of the most breathtaking buildings I've ever seen; everywhere you looked there were more mosaics, statues, reliefs. Unlike many other places I've visited, there was very little structural damage. It could have been saved, but shortly after I visited it demolition began and almost none of the church escaped the landfill. The sense of loss and outrage is still heavy among the parishioners, and rightfully so in my opinion. This is the norm in my line of photography. We always are racing the wrecking ball, and sifting through the remains of the hopes and ambitions of others. As a viewer, you want there to be a happy ending. As a photographer, and one who is presenting things as they are to you, there is none that I know of. You can shake your fists at the sky as much as you want, but there are no comforting solutions to the images that allow you to move on. In the polarized political climate of today, there is always someone to blame. We can blame greed and capitalism, the church itself, developers, the Republicans/Democrats, poor city planning - the list is truly endless. The important thing is that, for closure's sake, we need to pin the fault on someone so we can wash our hands of the situation and go back to our regularly scheduled routines. As often as not, it is just as easy to shoot the messenger, to claim their work is without merit because, hey, what are they really accomplishing by showing us these things? Photographs like the ones I produce don't even presume to have an answer. They plop an ugly question at your feet, be it wrapped in a pleasing image or not, and just leave it there for you to ponder. The shattered windows and collapsing floors stare at you wordlessly asking, Why? Why do beautiful things fall to disrepair? Who allowed it? What will be left of us after we are gone? Why must ideals die, and why bother with life if all our endeavors end in oblivion and obscurity? Writers and bloggers tackle the subject from a myriad of angles but the truth is that the tropes are already in place. The images can speak of depression and despair, urban blight, serve as memento mori, romanticize the past, and so on. The problem is that like the images, no matter how much you try to take a fantastically complex subject that touches on everything from socioeconomic conditions to art to the very meaning of life and death, no mere article can ever hope to adequately address the subject or answer the dilemma any better than a picture can. Rather than admitting that this is an issue far too large for any artist or writer to ever manage, it is easier to simply reject the subject outright as well as the person who brought it up. My friend and fellow photographer Matthew Palmer observed, "I never understood how photographing an abandoned building now has some kind of stigma associated with it in the academic world unless you directly use said photos to somehow single handedly save the derelict structure or tell a journalistic story of the woes of the people who lived/worked there. If you posted pictures of national parks nobody would say you are shooting landscape porn because you didn't go into detail on the geological processes that formed the Grand Tetons or the history of the Indians who live at the base of the Grand Canyon. If you posted pictures of animals at the zoo nobody would say you are doing a social injustice for not going into the evolutionary history of the tiger or the fiscal difficulties facing the zoo's lack of state funding." In the face of the insecurity that the lack of certainty inspires, and in light of the fact that the people bringing the questions to light can't possibly hope to answer them either, the easy option is to dismiss the subject. To do so, you must find fault in the one raising the question: the photographer. What is the photographer trying to accomplish? Isn't the subject trite and overdone? How is their work helping the situation? We ask these things knowing that no matter what the answer is, we will deem it unsatisfactory. With minds already made up, we will point to another problem: how have you ever helped anyone? Have you ever saved a building? Who do you think you are? As a photographer of ruins, please allow me to answer that as directly as I can: I don't know. I don't know why I became obsessed with this line of photography, or why I spend all of my time and money creating images of these places. I can spout theories until the end of time, but ultimately I don't know. If I contract mesothelioma from all the asbestos I've inhaled, if I fall through a floor tomorrow and die or wind up paralyzed, I will have no better idea what the purpose of it was or what it accomplished. I've tried to 'raise awareness' and 'promote preservation' and I sincerely believe this is an important subject that we have no choice but to address as American cities decline if we are ever to hope to move forward. Nevertheless, I capture images. They do not save places or people. I may sing the praises of people who restore historic sites, but I never have been able to do so myself. I may try to share whatever fragments of history I have unearthed, and present them in the form of art so that people may understand what it is that makes me love them, but I have no clear indication of a single quantifiable effect this has had on anyone or anything. I can't tell you what we need to do to avert the disasters these sites represent. I can tell you that for all I've looked for an answer - and I sincerely have tried to find one - the problem is layered like an onion, and no matter how deep you cut into it, there are only more questions. I have theories, endless theories. Buy me a drink some night and I'll gladly tell you all the great lessons hindsight can teach when applied to abandoned buildings or the reasons I think the trend will continue until we have little left to lose. I can even tell you my hypotheses on what we should do to avoid it and why we never will. Ask me what I did to keep Transfiguration from being demolished, or how I kept them from tearing Taunton State Hospital down, and I'll probably stare back at you silently for a few long moments before putting my coat on and leaving for the night. I didn't know what to do. Beyond this limited forum on my website, and trying to periodically poke up activism on the part of people who enjoy my work, I haven't done much in concrete terms. Does that mean I am exploiting the misery of others? I don't know that either. Thanks for asking. As stated in the beginning of the article, these images represent failures. They represent failures of individuals, of businesses, of social systems, economies, towns and cities, states, ambitions and ideals, and maybe even our country as a whole. They also represent my own failures. I have not saved these places. I have not saved the people who lost their jobs from the unemployment lines, from poverty, or from any of the other problems the loss of these places caused. I am not perched somewhere safely above it all, impartially decreeing who was right and who was wrong. I live in a word that seems to me to be falling apart, and I can't escape it. When these places are ultimately destroyed, by vandalism and arson and the wrecking ball, it isn't something I observe with idle detachment. Beyond the destruction of our shared history and heritage, the demolition of these sites represents the destruction of my own personal past and the relationship I formed with these places. That grief and helplessness affects me deeply and I feel it at times like I would the loss of a friend. The guilty feeling that I somehow failed the places I photograph, the people who built them, and the people who brought them to life, is something I can never escape. I don't know what art accomplishes. I don't know if it accomplishes anything, or if we just create practical justifications for what we like and what we do. If you ask to measure some tangible benefit that what I do has to justify its existence or validate it as an art form, I can't. I create documents and records of moments that are imploding around me, literally and metaphorically. Beyond that, you're on your own. If that makes my work "ruin porn" and this site little more than a chronicle of failure, so be it. Continue on to Part I: A Lurid Tale of Art, Double Standards, and Decay Continue on to Part III: On Dealing With the Dead Confessions of a Ruin Pornographer Part III: On Dealing With the Dead Posted: 07th February 2012 In: Blog At its core, the photography of ruins is fundamentally about death. While there are a myriad of elements that can be brought into the discussion including but not limited to art criticism, history, preservation advocacy, and sociology, the very basis for the entire genre is that the photographs are of abandoned - or dead - spaces. It could be argued that such spaces still house life (in the form of the flora and fauna that reclaim them), and therefore are spaces in transition, but the key element is that what they once were created for is no longer. Much in the same way, a host of chemical and biological processes continue in a corpse but it is still no longer considered living. It is this concept that frames many of the discussions and accusations about the genre; those living in Detroit, for example, chafe at their city being characterized as 'dead' when there are still living citizens and businesses that inhabit it. Nevertheless, this aspect of the work is what frames our response, and is critical to decoding our reactions (and the reactions of others) to it. The set of expectations and taboos surrounding the photography of death is firmly entrenched. We expect that the images will be presented with respect, and we expect that the photographer will not 'take advantage' of the subject by exploiting them. Sally Mann's work photographing corpses at the University of Tennesee's anthropological facility where decay is studied provoked strong reactions from viewers (much to her delight) because of drawing them uncomfortably close to this fine line. Some described this body of work as 'beyond contempt', and it does raise a host of uneasy questions about motive, such as whether Mann was using the photographs of remains for shock value to promote her career. In one article about it, she is "observed happily wandering from cadaver to cadaver, prodding this body part and stroking that one". The issues of privacy and the idea that someone could potentially treat our remains or those of a loved one in a similar manner can never be far from the audience's mind. Conversely, there is Mann's own statement that "There's a new prudery around death. We've moved it into hospital, behind screens, and no longer wear black markers to acknowledge its presence. It's become unmentionable." Contemporary artists such as Andres Serrano, Enrique Metinides, and Maeve Berry also photograph the remains of the dead, and have similar controversies surrounding their work. In their defense, the photography of corpses is far from a new practice and was in fact much more widespread in the past. Post-mortem photographs of deceased family members or criminals were common in the 19th century, yet flourished for different reasons. Untitled, WR Pa 53 (2001) from the series What Remains. Photograph: Sally Mann/Gagosian Gallery While an abandoned building can certainly be anthromorphized either intentionally or unintentionally, and while it is in many cases used as a metaphor for the human body or spirit, the simple fact is that it is not a corpse. Shattered windows may resemble eyes, open doors may remind us of mouths hanging agape, but an abandoned structure we are viewing is a man-made object. While life has inhabited it, it has never been a living entity. Does this mean that viewing it with the same set of standards and preconceptions is unfair? In some ways, I would argue that it is not. While a derelict building may in actuality not be a corpse, in some ways it may perhaps be far more significant than one. A human's body may only hold a connection to the few dozen people who knew or loved them, but a dead factory may have had deep personal significance to hundreds if not thousands of workers. A church is not just an object, it is for many a symbol of a union with the divine, a place where babies are baptized, couples are married, solace is sought, and the deceased are put to rest. While the meaning and use of these sites can be called merely projections of our own will and desire, these connections are very real and very deeply rooted in the emotions of those who harbor them. To see a place you once called home destroyed by vandals may not physically injure you, but it is an erasure of your past, an attack on a part of your being. We expect a photographer who deals with these sites to tread lightly and with respect, and rightfully so; they are the bodies of hopes and ambitions, and in their link to our shared heritage and common past, they are in essence a part of all of our 'extended family'. Far from images of actual corpses that some may consider shocking and gruesome, these sites allow us to confront mortality on a much larger scale in a context that is perhaps less immediately horrific. Just as the family members might grieve through post mortem photographs of children, posed as though they were sleeping and perhaps surrounded by flowers, photographs can be used for closure and obtaining a sense of release from the confrontation of loss and acknowledgement of memory. However, while closure can be one intent/reaction, as Laurie Beth Clark's pointed out in "Never Again and Its Discontents", her essay about the purpose of museum exhibits based upon atrocities, another possible intent/reaction can be that of disclosure. Disclosure is almost a form of activism or protest. While exhibits with the intention of closure are there to essentially fit "a conventional model of trauma therapy wherein a patient orchestrates a structured visit to the setting of a traumatic experience in order to put to the pain to rest", those with the purpose of disclosure favor "learning from the past and perpetual vigilance lest we repeat these crimes." This is the expectation that I find is most common of the photography of ruins: that the photographer will disclose the history of a site, the status of the community and the impact the loss had on them, and advocate for preservation and prevention of the future loss of historic structures. While this is certainly a legitimate endeavor and one that I have worked towards with my own photography, it can also be limiting. Rather than the photography of ruins existing for its own sake, it must justify itself by what it does or tries to do. It can't simply provide a locus for closure, or a eulogy - this is much derided as a shallow lament for a nostalgic past that never existed or wallowing in the loss of others. Photobucket How does an image like this function differently if viewed as a source of closure for the members of the community who frequented this social club, as an historical record of elks lodges, as advocacy for preservation, or a statement about the overall mortality of mankind's endeavors? Further complicating the subject of the representation of death through ruins, and directly connected to the closure/disclosure schism in their reading, is the separate set of expectations we have for artists representing their own impending demise versus the artist representing the demise of another. Sally Mann's work exemplifies this in the accusations of her critics that she exploits the death of others. That she could merely celebrate the colors and forms of the decay in corpses seems perverse and unpalatable. Checkov observed that what makes a great writer is that they "move you in a certain direction and they summon you there too, and you feel, not with your mind alone, but with your whole being, that they have a goal, like the ghost of Hamlet's father who does not come and trouble the imagination for nothing." When an artist examines the death of another, it is expected that they are not troubling us with the ghost of another for nothing. We anticipate an almost narrative quality to their work, a certain dignity and gravitas, and a destination that their work will take us to where we can close the book on the subject and leave with a feeling of greater understanding - not only of the deceased, but of mortality and the meaning of life itself. Certainly this is evident in cinema and literature. For the death of another person to be displayed as an example of chaos and meaninglessness in a nonfiction work is almost unheard of. However, if an artist is representing their own death, many of the strictures on how the work is presented vanish. We don't expect someone like Jo Spence or David Wojnarowicz (who represented their own death through self portraits) to provide us with some lofty understanding of the meaning of life or death. We understand and accept that their work may be frustrated, confused, angry, accusatory, or sad. Much as we try to allow those who are coping with their own death the freedom to process it in whatever way they need to, we allow the artist to represent the subject as best they see fit and try to view the work for what it is. In this case, impending death is all the context that is needed. While the depiction of abandoned buildings is most frequently seen as the artist's approach to the death of another, and while this is in some cases accurate, it can also be read as their reaction to their own death. If this is the case, then the reading may change entirely and the dialogue over whether closure/disclosure are critical to the merits of the work is rendered nearly irrelevant. What of a photographer who is diagnosed with a fatal illness and chooses to sublimate that into images of ruins? Would we call their work 'ruin porn' or expect that they provide some outside context about the impact on the community? Would we ask that they present their work as activism or as a political statement about the destruction of the past, or could we simply allow it to exist as a manifestation of their own meditation on their mortality? If we would be more lenient with such photographs under these auspices, we must ask ourselves if expecting a terminal illness to allow a work to speak for itself on mortality is justified. After all, we are all mortal, and when stripped of outside context the presentation of ruins speaks of a death that awaits us all. Furthermore, if a body of work presents these places as the death of a way of life or worse, the death of an empire, unless the person presenting them somehow can manage to extricate themselves from the situation, their death may be implicit in the work. Even if it is not the intention of the artist to present their depictions of ruins as some sort of indicator of impending social collapse as I do, the slow deterioration and eventual demolition of a location (or even its renovation, which would still erase the current state of disrepair) are very much analogous to the deletion of their existence and the qualities that make it up by time, and ultimately the frailty of the human condition. If the purpose of the artwork is an exploration of these things, is it not somewhat demeaning to the art and the artist to ask that they package their message for our consumption? If this is so, how does this translate to the artwork that is literally dealing with the dead? These are questions without easy answers, but they merit serious thought before one enters into the critical dialogue about whether a work dealing with ruins is justified or not and whether or not we dismiss the artist and their intentions. Perhaps the one thing that we are excused for expecting of the work is some intentionality and thought, regardless of what that intentionality or thought may be. Dealing with the death of others, one's own death, or the subject of mortality as a whole is a heavy and difficult topic to navigate. I do not think that it is unreasonable to expect, like Checkov did of writers, that the artist does not trouble your imagination for nothing. Continue on to Part I: A Lurid Tale of Art, Double Standards, and Decay Continue on to Part II: A Chronicle of Failure