Ivy-covered walls--Architecture 1941 - 1945

Editor: Here we have Robert Frank's gelatin silver print, "Ivy-covered walls - Architecture," from the early 1940s. I'm really struck by how dynamic and almost dizzying the upward perspective is; I feel like I'm craning my neck back to take it all in. What jumps out at you about this piece? Curator: The photograph pulls me right in. The severe angle almost hurts my neck as I look up, it’s disorienting. It makes me think about the weight of history, the way nature – that tenacious ivy – gradually reclaims even the most solid structures, obscuring the lines of our own creation, maybe even erasing them eventually. Look at the geometry; the sky barely contains it. Editor: That’s a beautiful interpretation. I hadn’t thought about it in terms of reclaiming space. Do you see Frank making a specific comment through that tension? Curator: Perhaps he is, but not in any overt, declarative way. I find his work asks more questions than it answers, questions about permanence, about the relationship between the human-made and the organic. This photograph, though seemingly straightforward, carries an echo of those timeless uncertainties, the way even strong foundations can succumb to the natural, given enough time. The almost clumsy borders enhance this; they look accidental, immediate, unstable, like memories fading on film. What do *you* feel, aside from that crick in the neck? Editor: It does feel… nostalgic. Not in a happy way. But it does show the passage of time. Now, thinking of it that way, maybe the awkward framing shows that no memory is perfect or complete. It kind of subverts the idea of a pristine architectural record. Thanks for that perspective! Curator: Absolutely, it is often those little imperfections, isn't it, those small reminders of mortality, that allow an image, or any work of art, to breathe.