NINE: DAVE, OF THE WEEK.
VINCE ALETTI'S PHOTOBOOK OF THE MONTH CLUB / POTW: BRUCE EESLY / THE LIST / PAUL SCHIEK ON CURRAN HATLEBERG'S 'LOST COAST' / OLIVER WASOW'S NATIONAL PORTRAIT / REVIEW: TRAVIS DIEHL ON DEAN MAJD.
VINCE ALETTI’S PHOTO BOOK OF THE MONTH CLUB.
Forever & Never (Artsuite), Dan Estabrook’s excellent new book, looks like the relic of an arcane religion or, perhaps, a magician’s memoir in pictures. Typically, Estabrook’s images are difficult to pin down to a time and a place. Although they are dated from 1992 to 2024, they appear to have been found—unearthed, discovered—rather than newly made. In large part, that’s due to the antique processes Estabrook uses; his pictures are callotypes, ambrotypes, and tintypes, or salt, albumen, gum bichromate, and platinum palladium prints, often finished with watercolor, gouache, or pencil. “It has never been my interest simply to revisit or revive the processes of the nineteenth century,” he points out at the start. “My past didn’t actually exist in the past. It is a reinvention of a time that never was. I want you to be fully aware that you’re looking at a fake relic, in order to see that history itself is artificial.”
But Estabrook’s snap-out-of-it dash of cold realism can’t keep his images of gothic mystery and romance from casting a spell, especially when they’re teasingly erotic. For every modestly dressed woman or man in a top hat, there are several draped figures or nudes. One of these is captioned “delirium.” Its companion, a silhouette full of white dots, is “euphoria.” Edgar Allan Poe, meet David Lynch. But Estabrook’s mood wouldn’t be so compelling if his images—and the book as a whole—weren’t so finely made. With its meticulous cut-outs, silvery end-papers, and subtle toning, Forever & Never is the best sort of artist’s book: not something to be kept on the shelf, but a pleasure to be passed around and shared.
Dan Estabrook “Forever & Never” is published by Artsuite (2025).
PORTFOLIO OF THE WEEK: BRUCE EESLY.
“The photographs we’ve been shown in brochures and business reports of agricultural corporations in the past century suggest that the Green Revolution was a complete success: the abundant growth of new high-yielding corn varieties is contrasted with meagre harvests from traditional farming. Satisfied farmers sit on new machines that do all the hard work for them. No unwanted weeds in sight. The results are there for everyone to see. But is this the whole truth?
‘New Farmer’ poses as a collection of documentary photographs from the 1960s that seem to reiterate the success story of the Green Revolution: genetic manipulation results in new crop varieties which result in bigger and better harvests. As the story unfolds however, there are cracks. The images hover just slightly beyond believability until finally turning absurd. They are not the historical photographs they claim to be, but AI-generated images. The story itself, while bearing some resemblance to actual events, is also made up: this alternative version doesn’t end in the giant fields of monocultures that surround us today, but instead brings about oversized vegetables.
With absurdity and humour, ‘New Farmer’ questions the dominant narrative of the Green Revolution and aims to highlight our techno-optimism and oversimplification of nature, inviting viewers to take a critical look at our place within the biosphere and the ripple effects of our actions.”
Bruce Eesly’s work was presented at the Rencontres d’Arles in 2024. His self-published book New Farmer was nominated for the PHotoESPAÑA Best Photography Book of the Year Award.
THE LIST. (OF THOSE YOU SHOULD KNOW)
THIS WEEK’S RECKONING OF THOSE WHO ARE ON OUR MIND: A GLOBAL GATHERING OF THE INFLUENTIAL, THE CLEVER, THE SILENT, THE TRULY ORIGINAL, THE TENACIOUS.
PAUL SCHIEK ON REPRINTING CURRAN HATLEBERG: A CONVERSATION WITH HOLLY STUART HUGHES.
Curran Hatleberg had no gallery representation or solo exhibitions to his credit when he first met publisher Paul Schiek, founder of TBW Books. Yet by the end of their conversation, Schiek had committed to publishing Hatleberg’s first monograph. As Schiek recalls. “It was very easy for me to say: Hell, yeah. This guy is honest and cool, and I’m interested in supporting that.” Lost Coast, featuring Hatleberg’s photographs of the people and landscapes around Eureka, California, debuted in 2016.
Since then, Hatleberg has exhibited in museums around the world, and was chosen for the 2019 Whitney Biennial. TBW has grown and improved the production value of its photo books. Long out of print, the first edition of Lost Coast has become a collector’s item. The book market has also changed. Schiek’s decision to produce a second edition took careful consideration.
In this interview (edited for length), Schiek discusses the economics of publishing photo books now.
How long did it take for the first edition of Lost Coast to sell out?
I couldn’t say. But I remember doing a book signing, right when the book came out, at a book fair in New York. Probably 60 people came to get a signed copy. That was a ton of people, especially back then, when TBW was less known. It was exciting.
Curran wasn’t well known yet.
No, it was just driven by interest in the work. His work is special. At first glance, you might think he’s another guy on the road photographing people with a medium-format camera. When you get just below the surface, you think: Holy shit, this is unique and special. Curran walked the tightrope of photographing a dark place, and making pictures that show people who, though they might not be in the best place in their lives, are not bad. They’re just humans getting through life. His photos are non-judgmental and extremely compassionate.
People would write us all the time and ask, “Do you have any copies left?” or “Hey, do have any plans to reprint this book?”
Have you done other second editions?
We’ve had a few books worthy of a second edition, and by “worthy” I mean the market would bear it. Usually with a second edition, we make it cheaper. 42nd and Vanderbilt by Peter Funch had appeal outside the photo world. We printed a new, paperback edition, and reduced the price by 10 or 15 dollars. Carla Williams’ Tender came with a print tipped in. In the second edition, we took out the print, and reproduced the image on the last page. People who got the early edition feel special, while those late to the game get a cheaper, but slightly less special, copy.
With Curran’s book, it was the inverse. There were technical issues with the first edition, and we wanted to make the second edition better. The price goes up, but we feel the market can bear that because people have been hungering for it.
If people have wanted a second edition of Lost Coast for years, why was now the right time?
The book was a decade old. My business had grown to the point that we had resources to print with Massimo Tonelli at Trifolio in Verona, who is just the best. Curran had made prints for a show that was acquired by a museum, so he had perfect master files to work from. Side-by-side, the printing is dramatically better in this edition.
The funniest thing is that the first edition has a gold square cheaply pressed on the cover. As the book got handled, the gold would flake off. People complained about “the goddamned glitter.” This time, we worked with the bindery so the foil stamping doesn’t offset at all.
From 2016 to now, there are fewer bookstores and outlets reviewing photo books. Is selling books more challenging now?
Absolutely. In a chaotic world where you’re scared if you’re going to have money to pay rent and feed your kids, you’re not buying luxury items like books. Especially in the demographic of people in school or freshly out of school, who are our bread and butter. I’ve been staunch that we run this company with full autonomy and full creative control. As a result, we don’t have any cushion. So every book is a little scary.
One of the biggest challenges as a publisher is determining your print run. I based the print run on the numbers for Curran’s book River’s Dream (2022). By then, Curran had become a Guggenheim fellow, he had solo shows and been in significant group shows internationally. We had printed 1,000 copies of Lost Coast, and thought we would also print 1,000 copies of River’s Dream. We didn’t take into account how much larger his following had grown. I almost immediately printed 2,000 more copies. That was a huge risk because the book was big and expensive to produce, but it sold out in two years.
Lost Coast has become a benchmark for collecting: Do you have this book, or not? A lot of people who don’t have the book really want it. And hopefully some of the people who have the first edition will also buy the second. As a book nerd, I know I would do that.
How much money do you ask photographers to contribute to cover costs?
Every book is different. There might be reasons I need money from one artist and not another. Some bring nothing. That’s because, in the case of a photographer like Curran, he has a track record, and I know his books sell. If it’s a first book, and I have no idea if it will sell, I need a buffer, so I’ll ask [the artist] to contribute. Maybe at the last minute an artist says: I want this to be hardcover. I say: That’s a big chunk of money. Are you able to bring funding to the table?
I personally don’t make any money on TBW, it’s just a business I run. But I do everything in my power to make the artists feel supported and the staff feel supported, and to stay independent. Nothing is more important to me than that.
Paul Schiek is a photographer and the founder of TBW Books, which is celebrating its twentieth anniversary this year.
Holly Stuart Hughes is a journalist and writer, and was the Editor of PDN from 1999-2020.
OLIVER WASOW’S ‘NATIONAL PORTRAIT’ (IT’S A FRESH WIND THAT BLOWS AGAINST THE EMPIRE).
REVIEW: DEAN MAJD ‘HARD FEELINGS’ AT BAXTER ST, NEW YORK.
By Travis Diehl
This group of photos at Baxter Street through April 2 document a tight group of graffiti artists living in Queens. Dean Majd is one of them; his photos give an inside view of a subculture. Which maybe is why there’s only one photo, “wiza bombing”, that shows someone tagging. It’s blurry and hectic, in the moment. Other photos have tags in them, like “self-portrait (hard feelings)”, a redsoaked horizontal shot of a man in a bar bathroom, the walls staticky with tags behind him. It’s a simple composition, a selfie shot from a low angle, the man looking into the distance, the corner of the stall bisecting the frame. The right half of the composition a globular graffito echoing the man’s head. We’ve caught him in a moment of contemplation, maybe. Maybe he’s just on the toilet. The photographer, of all people, would know he’s being photographed. But he doesn’t seem to be posing.
They’re raw photos—the word comes to mind—because of the way they’re shot, often with available light casting the subjects’ skin in orange or blue; soft focus, grainy, often with a slight blur. But also raw the way they seem to depict their subjects in vulnerable moments; “cj sleeping (woodstock)”, a white bundle on a grimy floor behind two flipped chairs; “ivan crying in my bedroom” closes in on a guy full sob. Hung to the left is “rissa (battered)”, a woman leaning her head onto her arm, her eye black and the bandage soaked through. Raw because they feel unfiltered.
The walls are marked, and so are the bodies. The young men pictured have tattoos and scars. The photo “self-mutilation (getting high)” shows the tick marks of cutting running down a man’s arm. These are marks of tragedy, but we get a superficial version. Even though Majd is letting us inside, and his friends are opening up their lives to his camera, the viewer still feels removed, the pain in these photos both acute and abstract. It’s tempting to file this work in a category with Larry Clark, Dash Snow, Nan Goldin, and other gifted chroniclers of more or less glamorous and debased young people doing drugs and loving freely and losing one another with youthful intensity lucky to have a friend who can shoot. The style here is masculine and hard. The camera is often low, the figures over us. They are cropped into heads, torsos, busts.
All photos are memento mori, but Majd’s photos feel particularly elegiac. The tenebrism beams down from above. One closely hung pair of photos (“torn”, “heaven’s gate”) shows light raking across someone’s badly scraped back, next to sunbeams blasting through a plaza or doorway around a cruciform shadow. To the right of these is the gladdest picture in the group, “suba (sunshower)” a grinning man barechested in the rain. Reading left to right around the walls, this is the last photograph in the show. This final grouping heavily implies a kind of sublimation from person to light. In fact, a grid of four smaller photos earlier in the row includes a grittier version of this passage: one titled “eni and amal embracing after suba’s wake”, and another, “suba’s bedroom after clean-up (the place of his overdose)”. The bedroom is busily furnished, with prayer flags strung overhead and a plain brown chair and a white secretary with the tag “suba” running down the side. In the gallery, under Suba’s portrait was a pile of dry bouquets in plastic and paper wrappers. In some other show you might wonder if the flowers were an installation, a memorial staged for effect. Here they seem like everything else, intimate and fearless, but on some level not for you.
Travis Diehl is a critic, writer and editor and is a recipient of the Andy Warhol Foundation Arts Writers Grant and the Rabkin Prize in Visual Arts Journalism.