NEW YORK, NY.-
One wall is gridded up with photos of industrial cooling towers, portrayed in wildly detailed black-and-white.
Another gives us 30 different views of blast furnaces, at plants across Western Europe and the United States. You can just about make out each bolt in their twisting pipework.
An entire gallery surveys the vast Concordia coal plant in Oberhausen, Germany: Teeming photos present its gas-storage tanks, its lean gas generator, its quenching tower, its coke pushers.
These and something like another 450 images fill Bernd & Hilla Becher, a fascinating, frankly gorgeous show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Mets curator of photography, Jeff Rosenheim, has organized a thorough retrospective for the Bechers, a German couple who made some of the most influential art photos of the past half-century. Bernd (1931-2007) and Hilla (1934-2015) mentored generations of students at Düsseldorfs great Kunstakademie, whose alumni include major photographic artists such as Andreas Gursky and Candida Höfer.
But for all the heft of the heavy industry on view in the Met show its easy to imagine the stink and smoke and racket that pressed in on the Bechers as they worked you come away with an overall impression of lightness, of delightful order, even sometimes of gentle comedy.
Wall after wall of gridded grays soothe the eye and calm the soul, like the orderly, light-filled abstractions of Agnes Martin or Sol LeWitt. The very fact of gathering 16 different water towers, from both sides of the Atlantic, onto a single museum wall helps to domesticate them, removing their industrial angst and original functions and turning them into something like curios, or collectibles. A catalog essay refers to the Bechers rigorous documentation of thousands of industrial structures, which is right but its the rigor of a trainspotter, not an engineer. Despite their concrete grandeur, the assorted water towers come off as faintly ridiculous: Whether youre collecting cookie jars or vintage wines or shots of water towers its as much about our human instinct to amass and organize as it is about the actual things you collect.
Consider the 32 Campbells Soup Cans (1962) that launched Andy Warhols pop career, which are a vital precedent for the Bechers ordered seriality. You can read the Soup Cans as a critical portrayal of American consumerism, but a catalog of canned soups also reads as a quiet joke, at least when its presented for the sake of art, not shopping. Ditto, I think, for the Bechers famous typologies of industrial buildings, presented without anything like an industrial goal.
Indeed, the one thing you dont come away with from the Becher show is real knowledge of mechanical engineering, or coal processing, or steel making. In long-ago student days, I cut out and framed a wallful of images from the Bechers glorious book of blast-furnace photos. (Their art has always existed as much in their books as in exhibitions.) After living with my furnaces for a decade or so, I cant say I could have passed a quiz from Smelting 101.
Early coverage referred to the Bechers as photographer-archaeologists and the Mets catalog talks about how they revealed the functional characteristics of industrial structures. There are certainly parallels between the preternatural clarity and unmediated objectivity of their images and earlier, purely technical and scientific photos meant to teach about the constructions and processes of industry. The Bechers admired such pictures. But however systematic their own project might seem, its goal was art, which means it was always bound to let function and meaning float free.
I think its best to imagine that they cast a doubting eye on earlier aspirations to scientific and technical order. After all, the Bechers hit their stride as artists in the 1960s and early 70s, at just the moment when any aspiring intellectual was reading Thomas Kuhns The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, which pointed to how the sociology of science (who holds power in labs and who doesnt) shapes what science tells us. French philosopher Roland Barthes had killed off the all-powerful author and let the rest of us be the true makers of meaning, even if that left it unstable. European societies were in turmoil as they faced the terrors of the Red Brigades and BaaderMeinhof gang, so brilliantly captured in the streaks and smears of Gerhard Richter, that other German giant of postwar art. The Bechers were working in that world of unsettled and unsettling ideas. By parroting the grammar of technical imagery, without actually achieving any technical goals, their photos seem to loosen technologys moorings. By collecting water towers the way someone else might collect cookie jars, they cut industry down to size.
The Bechers werent the only artists working that seam. Their eras conceptualists also played games with science and industry. When John Baldessari had himself photographed throwing three balls into the air so theyd form a straight line, he was simulating experimentation, not aiming for any real experimental result: The repeated throwing and its failure was the point, not the straight line that could never get formed, anyway. When the Bechers friend Robert Smithson poured oceans of glue down a hillside or bulldozed dirt onto a shed until its roof cracked, he was mimicking the moves of heroic construction, not aiming to build anything.
What made the Bechers different from their peers is that they did their mimicking from the inside: They used the language of advanced photographic technology to inhabit the technophilic world they portrayed. Their photos are almost as constructed as any lean gas generator they might depict. The just-the-facts-maam objectivity of their images is only achieved through serious photographic artifice.
Take the Bechers four-square photos of four-square workers houses. Several houses are photographed from so close that, standing right in front of them, youd never take in their entire facades at one glance, as the Bechers do in their images. It takes a wide-angle lens to allow that trick, and only if its installed on the kind of technical view camera whose bellows lets lens and film slide in opposite directions. Thats how the Bechers manage to line up our eyes with the top step on a stoop (we see it edge-on) while also catching the homes gables, high above.
The preternatural level of detail on view and its glorious range of grays and blacks require negatives the size of a mans hand, a tripod as big as a sapling, lens filters and an advanced darkroom technique. And the couple were relying on such labor-intensive technology at just the moment when most of their photographic peers, and millions of average people, had moved on to cameras and film that let them shoot on the fly, in lab-processed color. With the Bechers, the decisive moment of 35 mm photography gets replaced by a gray-on-gray stasis that feels as though it could last forever as though its as immovable as the steel girders it depicts.
But, in fact, those steel girders were more time-bound than the Bechers photos let on. Just as Medieval thinking manifested itself in Gothic cathedrals, our era reveals itself in technological equipment and buildings, the Bechers once declared, yet the era they revealed wasnt really the one they were working in. In many cases, their factories and plants and mines were about to close when the Bechers shot them a few had already been abandoned as Western economies made the switch to services and design and computing. The outdatedness of the Bechers technique matches up with their subjects. Both represent a last-gasp moment in the industrial revolution, which is why theres something almost poignant about this show.
One of its most revealing moments involves a film, not a photo, and its not even by the power couple. The Bechers young son, Max, who has since become a noted artist in his own right, once captured his parents in moving color as they set out to document silos in the American Midwest. Max filmed Bernd and Hilla unloading their heavy-duty equipment, still much as it was in Victorian times, from a classic Volkswagen camper of the 1960s. It was an absurdly underpowered machine, but who could resist its colorful paint job or its mod lines and stylings?
To get the full meaning and impact of the Bechers Machine Age black-and-whites, they should really be viewed through the windows of their Information Age orange van.
Bernd & Hilla Becher
Through Nov. 6 at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1000 Fifth Ave., Manhattan, 212-535-7710; metmuseum.org.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times