Para leer este artículo en español, por favor vaya aquí. To read this article in Spanish, please go here.
The massive, wall-sized photo is a sort of visual portal. In it, a scummy puddle contains the reflection of a man’s head and hands. Holding a camera up to his eye, the photographer and the blue sky behind him are the only things in the picture that are in focus. It’s as if he belongs more to the bright and open world above him than to the blurry, muddy ground below. The camera transports and transforms the man; with a simple snapshot, he redefines his reality in an instant.
In fact, the photo was taken inside of a penitentiary. Its creator, Luis Villamizar, was one of more than 300 incarcerated people who participated in voluntary vocational photography workshops led by the artist Violette Bule between 2010 and 2012. Neither sanctioned nor supported by any governmental or institutional authority, Bule organized these week-long courses in five men’s and women’s prisons in her home country of Venezuela. The project, which included instruction in photographic history and technique followed by practical sessions in which participants photographed their environment using disposable cameras, generated an archive of more than 3,000 photos. Since then, Bule and her collaborator, the art historian and curator Michel Otayek, have served as stewards and advocates for these images and their creators.
Luis Villamizar, “untitled,” 2012, from the series “Una Luz: Photography Under
Confinement in Venezuela, 2010–2012.” Archival inkjet print
A photo book based on the archive, de la LLECA al COHUE, was published in 2023. Now, another iteration of the project has taken shape: Una Luz: Photography Under Confinement in Venezuela at the Visual Arts Center at the University of Texas at Austin. Though it has come more than ten years since Bule’s initial workshops, the exhibition is extraordinarily timely, both in relation to current events in the United States and Venezuela. And its images offer a rare view of a compelling but little-seen world, shedding light on the complexity and vibrancy of prison life.
The exhibition is spread across two rooms. A series of intimate black and white photos by Bule preserve moments from the classes in the smaller area, while color photos by workshop participants fill the larger space. Some pictures focus on the oppressive architecture of the prisons, but many if not most capture people. These pictures seem to reveal as much about who is behind the camera as those who are portrayed. In them, individuals and groups present themselves with tenderness and toughness at turns, embracing, posing, and — more than one might expect — smiling for the camera. The overall effect is a sense of solidarity between the people photographing and being photographed. In this setting, the camera seems to inspire a feeling of pride and even joy.
Joan Monzón, “untitled,” 2012, from the series “Una Luz: Photography Under
Confinement in Venezuela, 2010–2012,” archival inkjet print
That pervasive sense of positivity connects to Otayek’s essay in the book, where he writes about “the transformative power of creativity” and photography’s potential “as a tool to re-image one’s circumstances through visual expression.” Regardless of their content, though, the photos in Una Luz have a humanizing effect. Bule’s workshops empowered participants to see and show their surroundings. Not only do we see people and things that so often remain invisible: in these pictures, we see through someone else’s eyes. Their agency matters, and the images they produce complicate our commonly-held narratives and prejudices about incarcerated people. At a time when a US presidential candidate frequently invokes the threat of a supposed mass migration from Latin American prisons, the show feels especially pertinent.
Maritza Navas, “untitled,” 2012, from the series “Una Luz: Photography Under
Confinement in Venezuela, 2010–2012,” archival inkjet print
Of course, context is crucial. Each of Bule’s workshops in Venezuela ended with a display within prison walls of the photos made. Here, the images are exhibited in an academic, artistic, and institutional setting, far away from their creators and for another audience. At such a distance in place and time, meaning is both liberated and at risk of being distorted or even lost. In the book, Bule and Otayek make clear that this is not a documentary project. The reality that the archive captures has changed. Since 2012, devastating political, economic, and social strife has rocked Venezuela and its people. A small hand-written text by the artist on the gallery wall says that over 16,000 people have been detained in these same prisons since July of this year for purely political reasons. These places, and the country itself, have changed radically. It is unclear whether Bule could do such workshops today.
Luis Villamizar, “untitled,” 2012, from the series “Una Luz: Photography Under Confinement in Venezuela, 2010–2012,” archival inkjet print
On a tour of the show, the artist told me that the project will not be complete until it is shown in Venezuela. In the meantime, viewers in Austin have that privilege.
Una Luz: Photography Under Confinement in Venezuela is on view at the Visual Arts Center at the University of Texas at Austin through December 7, 2024.
