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I ask my students: What would an essay be like if it were structured like a grid? What would it be like to structure it as a lopsided, organic shape?
I am teaching a class called “On Collage.” Every time I do, we make a new center of gravity for the course together. One or two students will explain collage each week, introducing a collage or an artist, but first I offer my own version: a slideshow I have no notes for. Depending on the way I’ve prepared for class that week, I’ll compose a narrative about the slides in a way that articulates what collage might offer us.
The slideshow begins with a black-and-white photograph of a man with light hair, a cap and glasses standing behind a tall rattan chair where an older woman is seated. She smiles broadly, her chest puffed out like a robin in early spring. His face is a bit more fluid, untraceable, tucked into itself, echoed by the arm he holds across his body, drawing his striped tie askew. His glasses hold a reflection that must include the photographer, but when I zoom in, the shadow and light become a bunch of shapes, and I get distracted by an unsettling look in the man’s eyes, which have an air of surprise or warning. His ears are quotation marks. His mouth is as close as a mouth can come to a sideways question mark, punctuated by a cautious smile line. I’ve watched enough documentaries to know that this is as likely a response to the photographer as it is to the woman whose shoulder he is grasping with his other hand. David Hockney and his mother.
In the 1980s, my father, Lester Sloan, was a photojournalist for Newsweek magazine assigned to photograph Hockney for a story about artists designing posters for the 1984 Olympics. Hockney made a poster of a swimmer underwater, captured through 12 Polaroid photographs arranged in a grid. Swimming figures ripple through Hockney’s early paintings as if swimming from one frame to another. When I read from an essay that I wrote on Hockney’s swimming pools once, two scholars wondered aloud about John Cheever’s “The Swimmer,” and I am often haunted by this moment, as if I should have known better than to write about swimming pools without reading more things great men had said about them. But what I notice now, looking literally over my shoulder as if I’ll see the memory, is that the essay as a genre favors the unique thread of one person’s associations. As Hockney puts it, “We always see with memory. Seeing each person’s memory is a bit different. We can’t be looking at the same things, can we?”
Art offers or asks us to sketch a thing that has moved through us too quickly to capture it completely. It should throw a shadow of chemical memory across our faces like the smell of chlorine.
On the day he took this photograph, my father went to Hockney’s California home, tucked into the Hollywood Hills. The artist wanted to show him the Polaroid collages — what he coined “joiners” — he had begun to make. My father has recalled Hockney’s sense of wonder at this new approach to artmaking so many times over the course of my life that I can see it — the sun-lit table on which Hockney laid those pieces. Hockney has said that he was so distracted by the joiners that he couldn’t sleep at night. “I used to get up in the middle of the night and sit and look at them to find out what I was doing,” he told Paul Joyce. He bought thousands of dollars’ worth of film and roamed his own house in search of compositions. “Time was appearing in the picture. And because of it, space, a bigger illusion of space.”
Some of the photographs are arranged in a grid, though the dissonance between them — one square depicting a table from inches away, another from across the room — creates an ethereality, a wind within the frame. Some of the photographs are arranged freely, as if to follow the line of sight as it traces figures in a space — wind-scattered. Overlapping, stuttering, arcing upward.
When I first asked my father about this day, he recalled the degree to which Hockney oriented toward his mother when he came to take this portrait. The painter was orbiting her, asking her thoughts on the conversation, nodding toward her with his body.
At this point in the slide show, I show some frames from the film “Blow-Up,” wherein a London photographer snaps some pictures of a couple kissing in the park. As he develops the film later, he tries to zoom in more and more on a particular frame. He realizes that there is a man with a gun in the bushes. There is, perhaps, at the heart of every composition, the door to a great mystery you might not even have realized you were bracketing.
The Hockney joiner that most haunts me is called “My Mother, Bolton Abbey.” This is not a grid but a scatter. The same woman my father met that afternoon is seated in a cemetery, and the Polaroids of her begin to spill downward, giving the whole frame a gravitational pull. Hockney’s sister describes their mother in the documentary “David Hockney: A Bigger Picture”: “She was a very great power. She had a very great emotional power that’s a bit hard to describe. That pulled you in.”
Now that we aren’t there anymore, some parts of us are still stranded in that apartment. Only in my dream life am I able to investigate.
When I recently ask my father about the portrait he shot of Hockney and his mother, he begins to reminisce about his own late mother sitting on the porch of the house where he grew up. He recalls a man who would visit: “I asked him once, ‘What’s the deal with you coming around here, hanging around my mother?’ He said, ‘You know, when I was in jail, my mother died, and they wouldn’t let me out to come and see her. So I picked somebody to be a mother to me, and it was your mother.’” The image he took of Hockney has become a hall of mirrors, an entrance into the very notion of what a mother means. What it means to lose her.
The next slide is a quotation by Roland Barthes about his own mother in “Camera Lucida”: “I dream about her, I do not dream her. And confronted with the photograph, as in the dream, it is the same effort, the same Sisyphean labor: to reascend, straining toward the essence, to climb back down without having seen it, and to begin all over again.” In the first essay I wrote about collage, I talked about how they have an air of mistake. Like spilling something. Capturing the weird way that one moment is every moment, which is also death. Or as Hockney puts it in the “The Bigger Picture,” “It’s now that’s eternal, actually.”
I am writing this while visiting Santa Monica, which exists through the collage of memory since I left years ago. The first thing I do when I get here is drive through my old neighborhood, hungry to see the way time and distance have warped the familiar contours of buildings and trees and streets that served as the entirety of my early childhood world. I enter into my old neighborhood with a fluttering in my periphery where new construction or paint camouflages lines and angles and patches of scenery until the unmistakability of my childhood street reveals itself. I look for the jade plant in front of our apartment building, whose leaves I would press with my thumbnail while waiting for my parents to come downstairs. I look for the grate that would make a cha-choonk sound as the car passed over it on the way into the garage, signaling home when I was a child asleep in the backseat. I weep my ugliest, snottiest cry at an awkward intersection, looking for the place where Blockbuster used to be, happy that the library is still there. Parsing which businesses remain. Which left turns are the way I left them, framed by the corner of a blue-gray building I can only see when I’m dreaming.
Even though many of Hockney’s joiners were taken in his own California home, they blur with our own family photographs. They are the slippage of places and people, the grief you can feel for the way someone’s face was held by a particular slant of light only moments ago. If you tear yourself away from a place too quickly, the maw of memory will ask you to re-leave it over years and years.
My students and I end the semester by reading a book where poems and essays and operas arrange themselves across the page like children on a preschool floor. Some cup, some rove, some cascade.
Aisha Sabatini Sloan is an essayist and the author of four books, including “Dreaming of Ramadi in Detroit” and “Captioning the Archives,” which she co-authored with her father, photographer Lester Sloan.
