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February
2002
Thirty years ago, on Sunday, January 30, 1972, the N.I.C.R.A
(Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association) organized a peaceful
march in Derry to protest the recently passed Internment Law,
permitting imprisonment without charges being filed of anyone
suspected to be a supporter of Irish independence. Twenty thousand
marchers gathered on a sports field; they were dressed in their
Sunday best. Many had come right out of church with their children.
Within moments the British Police attacked the marchers with
tear gas and purple dye and, according to many eyewitnesses,
progressed to bullets without any provocation. Thirteen were
killed (one more died in the hospital), and sixty were wounded.
Some were grandparents, some no more than seventeen years old.
But the Widgery Inquiry, set up to investigate the killings,
acquitted the soldiers. Among both Irish and outside observers
there is a consensus that the British whitewash marked the end
of the non-violent civil rights movement in Ireland and the
escalation of armed resistance. Preceding him, of course, there
are many others: Eugene Smith, perhaps the most romantic of
them all, whose pioneering environmental portrait of mercury
poisoning in Minamata, Japan, during which he insisted on eating
the poisoned fish like everyone else also led to his own brutal
beating. Or the hundreds of journalists who recently flocked
to Afghanistan, where eight of them were killed, some executed.
This exhibition proposes to examine the triple role of photography
in shaping consciousness: as a witness and possible revealer
of truths; as a community icon; and as a testimonial and tool
for memory. But this is not your usual museum exhibit with artful
frames and vintage prints. The "quality" of the image is not
a concern. In many cases there are no negatives so digital prints,
pinned to the walls, have been used and freely mix with newspapers
enlargements, commemorative posters, banners and memorabilia.
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The sources of the images are, in part, professional: The march
had been very well attended by the international press (Fulvio
Grimaldi, Gilles Peress, Robert White and many
others were there), and the relentless juxtaposition of the
same scenes with small differences in timing and points of view
reads like a movie. But many pictures were also authored by
amateurs, including marchers and residents of the area. Several
walls are dedicated to the coverage by European and American
newspapers. The Derry Journal, for example, ran identity
pictures of the thirteen dead ( "A Butcher's Dozen" in the famous
words of poet Thomas Kinsella), which were later used in numerous
posters and several murals.
An important feature of the exhibition is the "Bloody Sunday
Virtual Assistant," which represents a pioneering use of virtual
reality in a courtroom, enabling witnesses, aided by maps and
panoramas of Derry, to describe their movements and what they
had seen.
But in their modesty the memorabilia are perhaps the most
heart-wrenching: the contents of a dead man's pocket, a letter
from a child about his grandfather, a rosary, the boxing trophy
of 17-year-old Jack Duddy, a watch with a broken band, a Mars
candy bar. These objects make us feel these deaths in ways
that perhaps no image of a pool of blood can. Photographs of
Michael Kelly's bloody, gunshot undershirt, and of Patrick
Doherty's scuffed boots have replaced the originals that were
removed by the Saville inquiry.
But history has taken a new turn: In 1998, under pressure from the
International League for Human Rights, the British Parliament and
Tony Blair finally agreed to reopen the case under Lord Saville.
For thirty years the Bloody Sunday's victims have remained "living dead."
Their families and much of the Irish community could never move past the
1972 trauma. In their hearts and minds, as in this exhibition's photographs,
time is still frozen.
-Carole Naggar
The exhibition is on view at the International Center of Photography,
New York, until March 17. An accompanying volume is available from
Smart Art Press (310) 264-4678 or www.track16.com. |
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