You can purchase Elif Shafak’s book here.

Note: All quotes are from There Are Rivers in the Sky unless stated otherwise.

The Flood

In her 2024 novel, There Are Rivers in the Sky, Turkish-British author Elif Shafak recounts the discovery of a civilization hidden beneath piles of Mesopotamian silt until the 19th century. The Ancient Assyrian Empire, the world’s first superpower, controlled territory from Eastern Mesopotamia to the Nile Delta, exerting its will over a diverse, multiethnic population. Since the 1840s, archaeologists have unearthed remnants of Assyrian culture featured in biblical narratives.

The most significant discovery in Mesopotamia’s stratigraphic layers was not the imposing carved statues of Lamassu—human-headed protective deities, part bull, part bird—but broken clay tablets that allow scholars to learn about the ancient civilization from the perspective of the Assyrians themselves. Over the past 175 years, archaeologists have worked to uncover fragments of the world’s oldest surviving story, The Epic of Gilgamesh, which recounts the life of Gilgamesh, a demigod and mythologized king of Uruk notorious for his cruelty. In cuneiform script deciphered by Assyriologists, the Babylonian epic that this imperial culture preserved grapples with immortality, the nature of civilization, friendship, and other questions still relevant to the modern reader.

Among the fragments that remain of the epic is the Flood Tablet, unearthed by Hormuzd Rassam in the 1850s and translated by George Smith in 1872; the tablet contains a story eerily similar to the biblical account of Noah’s Ark. Utnapishtim, a Noah-like figure, survives a divine deluge by constructing an ark that he fills with animals.

Shafak pairs the dramatized 19th-century events with the 21st-century lives of a young Yazidi girl—Narin—living in Southeastern Anatolia and a scientist—Zaleekhah—working on “water memory” in London.

Arthur Smyth, a character based on the prodigious George Smith, the Flood Tablet’s translator, anchors the novel. Like his real-life counterpart, Arthur undertakes an expedition to Nineveh in search of the remaining fragments of Gilgamesh and falls in love with a Yazidi woman whose community is being targeted by the local Ottoman governor. Narin’s story, woven around Arthur’s adventures, recounts the crimes that continue to be committed against the Yazidis, including the 2014 genocide perpetrated by ISIS in northern Iraq.

Across all three narratives, Shafak explores the preservation of history: an individual’s and a culture’s relationship with its ancestors, the ethics of archaeology, and water’s role as the custodian of the past.

Lost Limbs

Narin’s grandmother criticizes Western archaeologists who pillaged her homeland in search of “Oriental finds” to display in museums for mesmerized crowds. Museums claim to grant universal access to the artifacts, but most members of the communities to whom the artifacts belong “cannot travel.” “It’s like,” Narin’s grandmother articulates, “they’ve severed our body into pieces, and they say, ‘Whenever you want you can visit your limbs.’” Artifacts, essential to a culture’s understanding of itself, as integral as a leg to the functioning of the individual, were steadily sent abroad and put on display. Items offer connections to the past, to what ancestors constructed, believed, suffered, and fought for. The gypsum alabaster used in the Lamassu is of limited value compared to the stories the statue can tell. The reign of King Ashurbanipal in the 7th century BC, whose palace the Lamassu protected, and his insatiable search for knowledge; the daily processions of tributes from conquered lands; and the Babylonian and Median siege of Nineveh that saw the palace set ablaze in its entirety all remain part of the Lamassu that now languish in the airless galleries of the British Museum. To steal a people’s ruins, to parade their priceless artifacts as curiosities, Shafak appears to imply, is a metaphorical dismembering of the individuals themselves.

The British Empire, to which Arthur belonged, partially justified its subjugation of millions of peoples in lands as diverse as South Africa and India, by appealing to the “civilizing mission.” Its proponents believed colonialism was a divine duty, meant to educate “barbarous” non-Western peoples in the precepts of civilized life. Colonial elites suppressed local cultures and emphasized or adopted “Western values.” Mesopotamia was not yet under British control, but with permission from Ottoman bureaucrats, British, German, and French archaeologists were granted almost total independence in how they conducted their operations and in deciding which finds they took back to Europe. These archaeologists maintained that the native inhabitants, whom they sought to “civilize,” were in no way suited to care for the past.

There is no better illustration of the ethos of the “civilizing mission” than Napoleon’s military expedition into Egypt in 1798. The invasion, which marked the beginning of modern Near Eastern archaeology, sought to “liberate the people of the region from their destiny and restore them to the grandeur of their ancestors.” Paradoxically, the relics that connected the modern inhabitants to those very ancestors would need to be taken under French stewardship to ensure their protection. The French general’s L’ Orient flagship contained a library specializing in the region he sought to dominate. 150 scholars, from across disciplines—“art historians, geographers, zoologists, geologists, engineers, botanists…”—accompanied cavalry and gunmen into the throes of battle, attempting to assert “the superiority of the West…not only via warfare but via science, art, and literature.” The infusion of Western culture and the practice of archaeology in the Ottoman and Egyptian lands during the 19th century was less an “exchange” than an imposition and theft at the cost of local tradition. For “just as a flame requires darkness to exist and expand,” European empires “needed [their] Orient imbued with deprivation and despair.” Shafak’s description of Napoleon’s warship, as Arthur travels toward Nineveh, invites the reader to consider the history and ethical questions tied to his profession.

As he journeys along the Tigris, ill and near the end of his life, Arthur considers the destruction that civilizations, or more accurately, empires, have wrought. Arthur “used to think of civilization as a solid edifice, elegantly expressed in marble, wood, glass, and metal…The Triumph of man over nature.” After having spent time in the “depraved Orient” thousands of miles away from London, “it seems to him that what they call civilization is, in truth, a storm in waiting. Powerful, protean, and perfectly destructive, sooner or later it will burst free of its barriers and engulf everything in its insatiable past.” Arthur sees civilization not as a noble mission that ought to be praised but as an indiscriminate force that, once loosed, destroys everything before it. The rapaciousness at the core of Western imperialism, of which historical looting is only a small part, becomes apparent to the dying archaeologist.

Westerners alone are not responsible for the removal and destruction of regional cultural heritage. Hormuzd Rassam, who led excavations for the British Museum and removed items from Nineveh and Nimrud, was himself an ethnic Assyrian. ISIS, a terrorist group led by native Iraqis, destroyed the Lamassu that remained in Nineveh in 2015 and spread videos of their defacement. Shafak highlights this complexity: ISIS leaders are depicted examining clay tablets, choosing which would fetch a higher price from wealthy Western collectors. Locals willingly take part in dismembering Mesopotamian culture through the shipment of antiquities abroad or by destroying the sites themselves. One could object that shipping artifacts abroad is an act of preservation wholly distinct from intentional defacement; the Lamassu in London remain intact, while those that were left in Iraq are not. But “limbs” kept safe in England and France are still severed from the descendants of their creators, no more accessible to most locals than what has been turned to dust.

Fluid Bridges

Shafak’s portrayal of water as a medium for interconnection, for “communication between separate worlds,” ties the novel’s three narratives separated by centuries into a cohesive whole. Rivers, “fluid bridges,” winding bodies of water that flow over and through, are part of Shafak’s examination of history: “They carry the spirits of the departed into the netherworld, and occasionally bring them back. In the sweeping currents and tidal pools shelter the secrets of forgone ages.” Towering Lamassu and hundreds of crates of bas-reliefs were lost to the Tigris as French excavators tried to ship them back to the Louvre; the wreckage of Napoleon’s rotting fleet lies hidden beneath “the ripples on the surface” in Aboukir Bay, near the Nile’s mouth. But in Zaleekhah’s telling, the water molecules themselves may also carry memory, a recollection of the kings they have alighted upon and the irrigation canals that transformed the arid Mesopotamian landscape into a prosperous paradise.

The culture of the ancient and modern Near East, from the Sumerians to Northern Iraqi Yazidis, is constructed on water, “the defining force of life,” along the banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates. But the same water in these two Mesopotamian rivers circulates through atmospheric passages and ends up in our glasses. The novel’s title, There Are Rivers in the Sky, draws attention to these invisible systems that shuttle water from one part of the world to another. A single raindrop begins by falling on Ashurbanipal’s hair and recurs in all three narratives, traveling as part of a cloud and falling as a teardrop. Shafak’s novel suggests rivers are better custodians than museums of a people’s past: Even if the heritage they contain remains physically inaccessible, each antiquity becomes part of the river, of the shared global water supply. Floods like the divine deluge from the Flood Tablet, or the Dam that drowned Kastrum Kefa, submerge but also preserve. As droplets from floods and rivers circulate, we share in the “memory” Zaleekah hopes they contain simply by existing.

Image credit: The Washington Post

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”
― Robert Frost

“I am not a teacher, but an awakener.”
― Robert Frost

Crumbling stones, yelping dogs, apple orchards—in “Mending Wall,” Robert Frost captures New England’s essence. But what more did the poet intend? Perhaps, to investigate the purpose of the fences constructed by man. When read in the context of the 20th century’s political pandemonium, the poem is a reflection on far more than the ritual repair of an ordinary wall. And yet despite the analytical effort spent deciphering Frost’s objective, a broadly accepted, definitive interpretation has proven elusive. Published in 1914, the poem was warped and wielded by ideologues—reactionaries and liberals, isolationists and universalists—to persuade the public of their wisdom. Its threaded iambs and message, understood however contradictorily, inspired millions.

“Mending Wall” opens with an oblique reference to “something that doesn’t love a wall,” that industriously “spills its upper boulders,” and creates cracks in its facades. The poem’s early-spring setting suggests the force is frost, a layer of ice pushing the wall’s component stones apart. The allusion to his own name would not have escaped the poet. But the poem’s puzzle is not yet complete. The narrator himself questions the “something’s” identity. Contemplating how he should describe it to his neighbor while performing repairs, he considers whether “Elves” would be accurate. “But it’s not elves exactly,” he concludes. His reference to the mystical creatures implies that the energy—intrinsic to the plentiful pines and fallen apples—is ineffable. The natural world is silently breaking the barrier imposed upon its pasture, symbolically rejecting the unnatural tribalism and avarice that walls enable.

Paradoxically, mending the wall offers the neighbors an opportunity to connect and converse. A ritual meant to fortify a structure that keeps their plots apart brings the pair of farmers together. Frost seems to suggest that separation requires mutual effort: both sides must agree to be kept apart, as the repeated use of “we” indicates. Even so, the maintenance of fences allows for harmonious consensual connection. Its maintenance is just “another kind of outdoor game,” worthless, perhaps, but harmless. “Good fences,” after all, “make good neighbors,” not sworn enemies. The form of separation the poem endorses is one sustained through peaceful collaboration, like the borders between E.U. members, rather than violently imposed segregation.

Frost himself appears uncertain of the poem’s message. While the poem begins with “Something…that doesn’t love a wall,” it ends with a repetition of the neighbor’s saying: “Good fences make good neighbors.” The reader is left with a defense of walls rather than a compelling iconoclastic thesis. “Mending Wall,” however, does inspire questions… without catalyzing revolution. Thoughtful queries are how change begins, and harmful practices are discarded. Frost illustrates how traditions can be examined to inspire broader, society-wide investigation.

That ambiguity proved useful. In Ronald Reagan’s 1987 address, imploring his soviet counterpart, General Secretary Gorbachev, to “tear down” the Berlin Wall, the American president echoes Frost’s language. To President Reagan and fellow cold warriors, Mending Wall could have read as a denunciation of Eastern isolationism and an endorsement of Western liberalism. The “savage” neighbor repeating his father’s phrase “Good fences make good neighbors” is both an unenlightened conservative and a misguided radical. “Mov[ing] in darkness,” he mends an outdated barrier that scars the pristine New England landscape without considering its purpose.

The narrator, on the other hand, is a thoughtful liberal who carefully considers their springtime ritual: “Why do they make good neighbors?” Despite his reflection, the narrator remains involved in the wall’s reconstruction, wearing his “fingers rough with handling” fallen stones. Moreover, our narrator is the one to let “his neighbor know” when the time has come to “set the wall between them once again.” The laudable “progressive” not only participates in a practice he questions but also initiates the mending process. He is ambivalent but remains complicit.

If the breaking of walls defined the late 80s and 90s, the 2020s have, thus far, been characterized by their construction. Political polarization, trenches across the front lines of armed conflicts, and hurdles, both physical and legal, to immigration have divided us. Reading Frost’s piece is an opportunity for collective reflection on what we are “walling in or walling out.”

“The Jungle is dark but full of diamonds.” — Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman

What is a Tragedy?

Praised by Aristotle as the most refined of the ancient theatrical forms, Greek tragedy aroused pity and fear in its spectators only to purge those very passions. At their best, tragedies were and continue to be careful examinations of societal structures, limiting customs, and the flawed, degraded self.

As American playwright Arthur Miller articulates, tragedy “is the consequence of a man’s total compulsion to evaluate himself justly,” and to lay his inquisitive eyes on the “seemingly stable cosmos.” Miller’s use of “justly” implies that the protagonist must conduct their examination with unflinching honesty and a willingness to sacrifice their lives. A character’s insistence on challenging depravity is responsible for their ultimate demise.

Traditionally, tragic productions have featured fallen monarchs and noble warriors rather than relatable neighbors. Indeed, in his Poetics, Aristotle maintains that a tragedy must center on a character of greater renown than the ordinary person, so that their fall into misfortune carries greater weight in contrast to their former standing.

Arthur Miller disagrees. Tragedies, after all, continue to resonate with modern audiences because they fixate on the individual’s disempowerment and alienation from purpose. And it’s no longer, and perhaps never was, the king who understood these emotions best, but rather the “common man,” kneeling at the monarch’s feet, who has grown intimate with the anguish of marginalization.

Death of a Salesman

In his 1949 play, Death of a Salesman, Miller highlights the commoner’s plight. Set in post-war Brooklyn, Salesman replaces tyrannical sovereigns and warring houses with the modern villain: soulless capitalism. The play begins with Willy Loman, an aging traveling salesman suffering from depression and disastrous delusions, returning home. Over the course of three hours, the production chronicles Loman’s last day alive, as he argues with his two sons and searches for ways to stabilize his family’s finances.

But the repose Loman seeks, following decades of tireless service, evades him. Fired from his job and unable to pay off his crippling insurance premium, the salesman is forced to rely on handouts from his friend Charley to survive. Each dollar Willy begrudgingly takes from Charley’s outstretched palm robs the already suffering man of his meager dignity.

Interspersed throughout are reenactments of poignant memories. Ben, Willy’s older brother, floats in and out of the set whispering of Alaskan opportunities. Jungles full of diamonds, forests hiding endless profits, lie just across the continent, over the horizon, just out of reach. Having won his fortune through luck and ingenuity, Ben embodies the American dream. "...That man was a genius, that man was success incarnate!” Willy laments, “There was a man who started with the clothes on his back and ended up with diamond mines!"

As new buildings begin to surround the Loman household, blocking the afternoon rays that once promised a prosperous future, Willy grapples with justified disenchantment. Living through a period of unparalleled growth, Willy Loman, like millions of blue-collar American workers, struggles to survive.

Miller, a proponent of left-wing ideology, presents the misery at the core of the booming American economy. The author examines the ills of the pursuit of material wealth, but his focus is squarely on the American worker’s loss of dignity. Loman's affliction, though partly psychiatric, is ultimately a condition for which society bears responsibility.

That he even contemplates taking his own life to leave his sons an insurance payout exposes how the ordinary American has been ruthlessly dehumanized by enterprise. Every man’s worth is carefully tallied in dollars. Exploitative insurance companies and greedy executives strip Willy of his humanity, of his ability to care for his family.

Now on Broadway

On Broadway through August 9th, Joe Mantello’s rendition of Arthur Miller’s classic tragedy asks viewers to reflect on the parallels between Willy’s desolation and the disillusionment in our modern America. Mantello’s set forgoes a conventional domestic setting for a decrepit industrial warehouse, flanked by columns of crumbling tile. The set evokes memories of the strength of American manufacturing, while illustrating the era’s rampant moral and political corruption. Mist consumes the stage, providing a melancholic, dreamlike space where the play’s quarrels and ruminations transpire.

Nathan Lane plays Willy Loman and is joined onstage by Laurie Metcalf as Linda Loman. Metcalf’s extraordinary performance benefits from her ability to hide layers of anger and despair behind an eager smile, layers that slowly reveal themselves as Willy descends further and further into madness. As Linda’s excitement at her husband’s arrival fades and gives way to frustration, her demeanor transforms. Metcalf quickly substitutes her bright eyes and open arms for drooping shoulders and hysterical appeals.

Christopher Abbot as Biff and Ben Ahlers as Happy also shine with their witty deliveries and heart-wrenching soliloquies. Abbot’s descriptions of life out west, delivered while looking out over the heads of the audience, allow us to feel the difficulty Biff has had with self-discovery. Another man lost in the great American century.

Conclusion

By showcasing Willy’s condition, Miller allows us, the American public, to identify the ills of our contemporary society and consider the root causes of inequality. We do not have to subscribe to Miller’s full-throated critique of capitalism to appreciate the validity of the problems he identifies. As AI threatens to eliminate millions of jobs and atomize our already isolated communities, preserving dignity must remain one of our top priorities.

No American should have to consider suicide as a means of jumpstarting their children’s lives. Miller claims tragedy does not have to “preach revolution.” But it must catalyze the audience to act, to rectify wrongs and mend wounds. It is when Americans lose their dignity that populism thrives, replacing the liberal institutions that could actually improve their lives. “The possibility of victory must be there in tragedy,” Miller writes in 1949, “in them and in them alone, lies the belief-optimistic…in the perfectibility of man.”

References

All quotations are taken from Arthur Miller’s 1949 piece, Tragedy and the Common Man, published in the NYT: https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/00/11/12/specials/miller-common.html

“My role is not to posess, it is to conserve.” — Leonard A. Lauder

The Connoisseur: Leonard A. Lauder

It has been just under a month since the hammer fell in Sotheby’s Breuer headquarters, marking the sale of Klimt’s Portrait of Elisabeth Lederer (1914-16) for $234 million.1 The piece belonging to Leonard A. Lauder, a cosmetics tycoon and former chief executive of Estee Lauder, broke the record for the most expensive work of modern art ever sold. Alongside the Portrait of Elisabeth Lederer, (pictured) one of the Viennese artist’s full-length portrait commissions depicting the daughter of his most influential patron, 24 additional works by Matisse, Munch, and others were put up for sale. The auction came six months after the collector’s death in June.

While Lauder is best known for his work transforming his mother’s company into the multinational behemoth it is today, his real passion lay not in selling lipstick but in collecting Picassos and other masterpieces. Centered in New York City, Lauder’s collection traces the evolution of modern art, from Monet’s Impressionist landscapes to abstract expressionist works by Agnes Martin. However, rather than seeking to acquire them solely for ownership, Lauder made it his mission to develop his collection for the sake of curation and, most importantly, preservation.

During his time as the chairman of the Whitney Museum’s board of trustees, Lauder personally worked on the acquisition of over a thousand individual works out of a collection of just over twenty thousand.2 He put a special emphasis on caring for American artists and supporting their work. His commitment to the art industry began when he was only a child. Born and raised in NYC, visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the myriad of other world-class institutions the city has on offer, Lauder was made keenly aware of the value of having the world’s crown jewels on public display. He later demonstrated his gratitude with donations worth hundreds of millions of dollars and by gifting his entire Cubist collection, valued at over a billion dollars, to the MET upon his death. It is his devotion to serving the public through art that made him who he was: one of the foremost collectors, connoisseurs, and devoted philanthropists of his generation.

The Serious Collector

I had the opportunity to visit Lauder’s Cubist collection at the MET earlier this month. The collection, now housed in the museum’s Modern and Contemporary Art department, includes over eighty paintings and spans multiple galleries. Moving from Léger’s perplexing still lifes and landscapes to Delaunay’s “La Tour Simultanée” and Braque’s “Mandolin and Fruit dish,” I considered and explored the role of the collector. Here were dozens of museum-grade paintings, cumulatively worth the equivalent of a mid-sized corporation that had belonged to one man alone. Rather than being kept in museum spaces where the public could appreciate their undeniable beauty, they were hung in living rooms, except when on loan.

And yet, the public owes Lauder for his incessant search. Without his commitment to searching for the best, or in his own words, the works that merit an “oh my god” exclamation, they may not have remained in their pristine conditions or have been conserved for posterity.3 The collector is ultimately the guardian of the pieces he chooses to acquire. In the words of Amor Towles in his short story, The Didomenico Fragment, “the essential role of the serious collector [is] the preservation of cultural heritage.”4 Thus, the true collector must be a knowledgeable curator, attuned to the complexities of art history, to be a capable steward of the treasures within their care.

But we must not neglect the personal utility of collecting. At its core, for those in the industry who collect out of genuine interest rather than greed, the process is one of self-discovery and expression. For connoisseurs like Lauder, each acquisition is made out of love for the artist and the distinct perspective that manifests in their creations.5 By spending hours every day lounging beside what they deem to be masterpieces, strokes of genius, collectors nourishe their souls. Ownership is a means of protecting the perspective, the unique means of seeing and understanding the world, present in each work, from fate’s injustices.

Conclusion

While marvelling at the exorbitant prices of the pieces from Lauder’s collection sold at auction may be understood by many as a testament to his success as a collector, his donation to the MET is far more representative of what he stood for. Lauder understood, as Robert Lehman before him, that collecting and an appreciation for the arts must be joined by philanthropy. For while “the serious collector dedicates his life to the hunt for works of beauty, especially those that have been forgotten or forsaken,…[after his passing]…he donates the paintings to a museum where…[they] will hang in a carefully controlled environment so that…[they] can be appreciated by lovers of art for generations to come!”6

Image Credit: New York Times

Beginning in the 19th century, African Americans began looking to the Ancient Egyptian civilization for inspiration and as evidence for rich African cultural identity. The movement began an effort to reclaim an identity stripped from the community through years of oppression in the West. Pictured below is Fred Wilson’s Grey Area (Brown version), where the artist places racial complexion front and center through a series of busts of Nefertiti, an Egyptian queen of the 18th dynasty.

The queen consort appears repeatedly throughout the exhibition, “royalty [of course] connotes power and cultural value after all.” Most astonishingly, curators display a disco ball made in Nefertiti's likeness from Beyonce’s private collection, highlighting a continued appetite from African American pop stars for work inspired by Ancient Egyptians. Pictured below is Meta Vaux Warrick Fuller’s Ethiopian Awakening. The plaster sculpture personifies the term “Ethiopia,” used to refer to the African continent in the early nineteenth century. The sculpture represents the global African diaspora adorned with a pharaonic nemes headdress. Art historians regard Ethiopian Awakening, a symbol of self-knowledge, as the first Afrocentric work of art.

Does the racial classification of Ancient Egyptians as "Black" or "Caucasian" hold significance? Even with uncertainty from the global community, the legacy has promoted a tremendous African cultural identity. Culture holds the power to unify a population. This capability is exemplified most vividly in the role of Ancient Egypt and its pivotal role in uniting the African diaspora to confront injustice.

The war in Kosovo that began in 1997 loomed large in Halilaj’s upbringing, where drawing served as an outlet for the fear he felt and the trauma he endured. His time in a refugee camp in Albania is especially salient. While there, the camp psychologist, Giacomo Poli, “gifted [him] white papers, A4 and simple pens.” Reflecting on his experience, Halilaj says the ability to express himself artistically saved his life. He described his experience of being homosexual within Kosovo-Albanian culture as closely aligned with the struggle of the Kosovan State to be recognized.

The installation features graffiti art, including birds atop ledges symbolizing freedom and dreams of a better future. The main attraction, however, is a massive spider wrapping its arms around the New York City skyline. What I found to be most unique is the inclusion of sculptures representing global icons like Lionel Messi and their juxtaposition with the brutal realities of war exemplified through the NATO symbol seen in the first image. The veneer of naivete present within the sketches hides generational trauma. The use of art to bring attention to historical and contemporary conflicts brings new understanding, especially when displayed at an institution like The Met. Abetare, named after the book Halilaj used to learn the alphabet, is certainly a must-see.

Throughout his work in “Introspection,” now on display at the Museum Fotografiska through the ninth of March, one can see how Frank Ockenfels 3 utilizes everything from the distortion of a human figure to the use of vivid red paint to make his vision a reality. The work of the American photographer is often praised for its novel use of light and found elements.

Ockenfels constantly pushes the boundaries of what’s possible by using a wide array of cameras, lenses and lighting instruments. Every one of his portraits is an experiment. Much like a scientist, Ockenfels records his findings in journals he keeps in stacks around his Los Angeles studio. What began as a physical record of the camera and technology he had used to capture his subjects became a way for Ockenfels to document his mental state during his many hours of shooting. In “Introspection,” many of his journals are presented alongside his more “traditional” works. (Pictured on the left-hand side are a few dozen of Ockenfels’ journals on display as part of the exhibition.) What was made clear during my visit to the exhibition is Ockenfels’ lack of “style” in the traditional sense.  

“That’s why my style is all over the place because I like that it mixes up.” 

Ockenfels is keen on allowing each of his portraits to stand out, attracting the onlooker with their unique elements and composition. Rather than stick to his medium, he regularly brings in elements of collage and illustration. In some of his works, Ockenfels frames his portraits using thick packing tape, a first in the world of photography. His work, however, isn’t limited to bold portraits. His most recent exhibition includes illustrations resembling those of the late cultural icon Jean-Michel Basquiat. The exhibition includes original works on everything from newspaper clippings to skateboards. As the Pennsylvania-born portrait photography icon nears his 65th birthday, I am eager to see in what other ways he will challenge the definition of traditional photography.