a t l i n

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17 May 2013

On May 17th, I’ll be announcing a film project I’ve been working on the past 6 months across 4 different countries. This place has served as a valuable sketchbook for creating the films. Making art that is deeply personal takes time & patience, and more than often is a lonely endeavor. Seeing the work resonate with people here affirms for me that something meaningful rests on the horizon. So thank you, and check back here on Friday :)

~ Atlin

11 May 2013

“An Elegy for Korab”

I stepped into the darkness of the apartment. “Come into the living room, but be careful not to knock the lamp off the table.” Balthazar Korab—the old man—sat on the floor with his legs crossed. I used the faint illumination from my phone to guide me. “Turn off that light! You’re ruining the effect.” The windows were covered in a thick black plastic and sealed with tape along the edges; clothes placed under the doors and also taped along the sides. No light entered the room except through a small hole poked in the center window. Korab had constructed his apartment into a camera obscura.

Scenes of traffic, people walking along the sidewalks, the sun reflecting off the hospital windows — all were projected across the space. Merely an illusion, but undeniable in form. “Many ways to look at a name, many ways to look a name..” he exhaled. I stared a while at the river flowing above the sofa, lost focus and closed my eyes.

“The Flood, the Garden & the Rooftop”

Before we begin: my name. Written inversely: Barok Razatlab. Caesar recorded names with a shift of three in order to protect messages of military significance: Yziqzwzo Hlozy. A view from the side: |

In each of these three cases, we are examining the written name for mere visual effect and physical manipulation. I’ve always sought to avoid this trap in my work.

Who am I?

First, an architect. Second, a photographer. Survived WWII in Hungary. I was given a Leica camera by my father, purchased from a retreating German soldier. In Paris, I worked as a nightwatchman. The darkness informed my images. Eventually trained at the Ecole des Beaux Arts. Not everything happened in that particular order. But know the order of one thing: first I am an architect, second a photographer. Moving on…

Three stories from Italy.

The Flood. Arrived in Florence on a sabbatical in 1966. A week later, the largest flood since the 13th century swept through the city. This was November, the water was frigid. The ritual of the night involved soaking my legs in water heated up in the kitchen of the hotel. In the months that followed, the Italians began gathering up the flotsam of ancient statues strewn across the city. I followed them as a lost orphan (close, but always a distance) carrying with me my camera and the memories of destroyed buildings left behind in Hungary. They arranged the pieces of fragmented statues in catalogued order: all the broken marble hands here, and missing legs there. An order brought to the chaos of the city, if only to our hearts.

The Garden. When summer arrived, I left the city in search of open space and found myself in a small village in the countryside. Down the road was a large estate called the Villa Gambrai — owned by a family who amassed their riches from the exports/imports business. The gardens in the front were immaculate and I convinced the keeper to allow me in for photographs. After several visits, I gave a few prints to him as a gesture of my gratitude. On his own accord, he passed them along to the owner. The next time I arrived, I was invited in for dinner with the family in the grand hall. They were pleased and commissioned me to continue my work. I returned time and time again throughout the rest of my life in order to witness the full and contested life of this garden—one that was always dying, always living.

The Rooftop. I was intrigued by the rooftops of Rome, a city above the city. This was at a time when the bedouin artist community flourished. I was not seeking to capture the architecture in an idealized form, but rather set against the dynamics of the people. Personal dreams and identities embedded into the construction of this place, hidden secrets revealed to only those she loves. But this place doesn’t exist anymore, everything has been washed away by time. The rooftops are still there, but the people are gone. The rent was driven up by demand, and a new crowd arrived. And another, and another. Sometimes I forget her face. But these photographs are evidence that once a city flourished on the rooftops. “I need you to imagine us, for we don’t really exist if you don’t.”

Open your eyes now, but keep quiet. Korab has covered the pinhole. We sit in complete darkness now. A silence swallows everything.

Do you still see the image of the Villa Gambrai projected on the bookcase? A light winter snow collects on the immaculate hedges in the garden. A faint orange glow of a bedroom light shines upon the left side of a statue—a marble hand outstretched. A woman is waking inside. A dog barks.

Balthazar Korab. 1926–2013. Rest in peace maestro.

{The remarkable anecdotes & details of Korab’s life (at the least ones that are true) were picked up from John Comazzi. I was fortunate enough to attend his lecture at the University of Michigan Museum of Art in Ann Arbor on April 3rd, 2013. I owe this piece of writing to Comazzi—thank you for bringing Korab’s work to life for us.}