ART

ARCHITECTURE, TERROR, AND CONTROL

a review of Richard Ross's Architecture of Authority

By Janice Salikin

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Architecture of Authority is a Photobook by American Photographer Richard Ross, and is accompanied with an Essay by Harper's Magazine publisher, John R. MacArthur. At first glance, one might think that the photobook is merely a simple collection of aesthetically captivating photographs of empty architectural spaces. However, upon closer reading, these are not just some photographs of empty classrooms, prison cells, and assembly halls; they are more than what they are at the surface. They are capable of evoking a sort of profoundness to them, as they enable us, viewers to “experience” the feeling of being under authority, be it educational, political, or even religious authority. The book does a good job in illustrating the way institutional buildings exert power over people. It effectively forces us to be cognizant of the fact that we are bound by rules and expectations. In an act of clever refashioning of the problem even the overall design of the book—its composition, juxtaposition of images, pacing and cover—reinforces that idea.

The cover makes that clear enough. The absence of people somehow makes the book more authoritative, as if we’re ready to submit to it before opening it. For instance, the segregation cell at Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq, even without the prisoners or guards, is still capable of exuding a sense of intimidation and fear. That photograph is powerful in what it lacks: people. We’re left to our own imagination to picture what really happened within that cell, which makes it all the more terrifying and disturbing. This also applies to other architectural spaces throughout the book, like the empty classroom, mental institutions, and also airport waiting areas. These depictions of empty spaces imply that even without people—people of authority like cops, military, etc.,—the idea of authority is still present. In many of the photographs leering CCTVs hover above the spaces and show us how we are living in a society where bureaucracy and excessive surveillance is celebrated.

Isolation room ("rubber room"), US Customs and Border Protection | San Ysidro, California 2006

Composition, and pacing wise, the book displays a series of straightforward, and frontal symmetrical photographs to further support the idea of condescending authority and power. Although the beautiful composition of symmetrical shapes and geometry gives the photographs an aesthetic appeal, it can be argued that symmetry imposes both authority and even isolation. In this case, the photograph of the sterile and empty US Customs and Border Protection Isolation Room, or “Rubber Room”, so to speak, conveys the idea that symmetrical and frontal composition of spaces actually amplifies the lack of humanity. We can feel the void and it is terrifying.

The photograph of the Isolation Room is indeed authoritative; readers can see four trapezoids, that are not actually trapezoids, but because of the severely straightforward perspective and the angle that sets the tension within the composition, it looks like the originally rectangular side walls are literally holding the back wall in place. The stark blank-point perspective then adds pressure on the back wall, and as it is juxtaposed with the really small opening on the floor, readers can feel all the more isolated and trapped, even when they find a logical Tom Cruise escape route. In addition, the presence of the CCTV in the top right corner of the room further alienates the idea of freedom and any signs of hope, which is powerful enough to make readers question how the different authority is exercised in each of the institutions or buildings in the photobook. Therefore, it would be hard to perceive these photographs as simply beautiful and well-composed works of art. Its content speaks louder than its aesthetics, as it successfully critiques the growing authority in our society and our unfortunate submission to it.

Chalk Farm Tube Station, Northern Line | Chalk Farm, London 2006

In addition to composition and pacing, one of the greatest things of the book is the juxtaposition of its images; a school corridor is contrasted with a line of prison cells, fancy phone booth in a hotel is juxtaposed with a rather dilapidated-looking confessional booth. Some of these juxtapositions can be read as analogies of the excesses of authority within our society, and they are explicitly highlighted by the placement of the photographs. However, it can be argued that they are all implicit in Ross’ choice of images. Is a high school corridor really the same as a detention camp? Is religious authority as severe as the penal system?

The juxtapositions of these images are powerful enough for us to contemplate on how a more authoritative building relates to a lesser one. Some of the most strikingly powerful photographs are of the places that expresses the most authority, those places built to restrain, or isolate humanity through a stark and sterile depiction of architectural space, again, like the shot of the Isolation Room with a drain on the floor. It is as if any signs of human existence have been sucked down into the plumbing.

Second-Floor Corridor, Santa Barbara High School | Santa Barbara,  2006

On the other hand, juxtaposed against the more blatant and severe sense of authority are photographs of more mundane spaces, such as the schools and waiting rooms. The photograph of the shabby Montessori Pre-School classroom and its dilapidated chairs, or the DMV office with a long row of gray chairs lined up perfectly below a clock captures places we might encounter in our everyday lives. Looking at these images we are forced to ask if they look that way for economical reasons of efficiency, or are they fulfilling some real, unspoken authority that exercises psychological control over everyone who interacts in them.

That being said, when considering the title of the book Architecture of Authority we are lead to think that these places are built to influence our behavior. Even less obvious things like traffic markings, the placement of the CCTV, and “No Photography” signs exert their authority over how we think and live in the world. As disturbing as it may sound, we are made to realize that we are indeed living under Jeremy Bentham’s “Panopticon.” Just like the French philosopher of power Michel Foucault claimed, we are always being watched and we never know who is watching.

Seventieth Precinct house, New York Police Department | Brooklyn, New York 2006

In conclusion, given the political issues we have encountered these past few years and the advent of social media and technology, the book is prescient and necessary. The photographs get into our psyche, but in a good way. They act as a warning of what might happen in the future or is even happening right now. It questions our personal sense of responsibility and privacy both online in the virtual world, as well as offline in the real world—the more we strive for transparency, ironically, the more we are vulnerable to surveillance. After all, Architecture of Authority reveals how morally depraved our society has become. It transcends traditional photographic conventions as it dispels the notion of art merely for art’s sake. Ultimately, it forces us to not be oblivious of what is happening within our society, and challenges how we perceive power and authority.

©Janice Salikan and the CCA Arts Review