Neocolonialism in Photography
By Kalila Dahm
Historical scholars have increasingly critiqued the role of photographs in propagating colonial messaging. Researchers are beginning to ask questions about the power relations implicitly captured within the photograph itself: If there is a subject, did the subject consent to be photographed? Was consent even possible to provide? To what end was this photograph used for? These questions demand to know what transgressions occurred in order to capture this moment. While the era of overt colonization ended after World War I – paving the way for liberation movements around the world – it would be remiss to suggest that colonial discourse simply disappeared with the fall of empires. Colonial discourse continues to exist today in which the dominant, or “developed,” state exercises control and power over the subaltern, or “developing,” world. This is not done overtly; instead, this colonial rhetoric is so infused into the dominant nation’s discourse that it occurs at the level of the individual.
An under-examined though freely available platform that allows individuals to engage with this discourse is Instagram. Instagram’s visual nature, accompanied by text-based captions, has been harnessed by travel influencers to create a carefully curated discourse about the faraway place that they have traveled to.
One of the most accessible and logical ways of entering this discussion on the role of photography in colonial histories is to interrogate the way language is used to describe photography. For instance, a common photographic cliché is the notion of “capturing a moment”, as though we may physicalize this memory and possess this moment, frozen in time, forever. Sean P. Smith articulates this notion of photographic possession in a 2018 article in which he examines postcolonial discourse playing out on Instagram. Smith argues that contemporary tourism engages with Instagram in such a way that renders the photographed tourist destination “available for possession and consumption, effacing local place and identity” [1]. Smith identifies three recurring aspects of his thesis – the exotic place, “the promontory gaze”, and “fantasised assimilation” [2]. The concept of a “promontory” gaze – or what can be understood as a surveilling gaze from a position of superiority –brought by the photographer is an idea that resurfaces in mainstream discourse. This “othering” of spaces by tourists makes the space in question available for the taking by the tourist because it presents the tourist as the “rightful occupants and users of local spaces” [3]. This is propagated, in part, by the strategic use of locals in photographs. On the one hand, Smith argues that locals who appear in photos serve as markers of authenticity; they imbue a local flavor. On the other hand, photographs on popular travel accounts are often devoid of people, save for the account’s user in question, and perhaps their travel companion. Figure 1 is a screenshot of a sampling of @gypsea_lust’s photographs on Instagram. @gypsea_lust is likely one of the most popular travel accounts on Instagram with over 2 million followers. From this screenshot, we can see that all photographs contain the user in question in different places around the world. In one, she is pictured with her partner. The strategic use of her partner – @doyoutravel with almost 3 million followers – in gratuitously romantic photos that clearly attempt to create an ideal heterosexual romantic partnership to their followers. Photographs devoid of people, taken by travellers from wealthier nations, eventually begs the question: does a 21st century iteration of terra nullius – Latin for “empty land” and the legal and religious argument that justified colonialism in North America -- evoke imagery that is meant to inspire #wanderlust?
As it goes, developments in academic discourse have equally begun to permeate mainstream media; on 06 February 2019, NYTimes Magazine photography critic Teju Cole published an article entitled “When the Camera was a Weapon of Imperialism. (And When It Still Is.)” [4]. Cole uses a photograph taken in 1899, in what is now referred to as Nigeria, as a means to situate the use of the camera and photography as expressions of control within colonial projects. Cole argues that colonial photography was used not only to create an idea or narrative of a place and its peoples, but also as a tool for surveillance for the dominant power. In fact, Cole states that even the everyday language we use to “talk photography” is masked in violence: “When we speak of ‘shooting’ with a camera, we are acknowledging the kinship of photography and violence.” In his conclusion, Cole writes that photography will continue to be used in the present and the future, in the same way that it was used in the past: “It will largely continue to illustrate, without condemning, how the powerful dominate the less powerful” [5].
As a semi-avid user of Instagram, and a person with the desire to travel, I enthusiastically and unquestioningly engaged with the corners of the internet dedicated to travel, often as a form of escapism. Once I began reading about the role of images in diffusing ideas and norms, I started to reflect on my own favorite accounts and what they had in common. @theblondeabroad was originally one of my favorites to follow: She posted beautiful photographs of herself and the countries she visited, as well as budget-friendly travel tips. Granted, her advice largely included traveling to countries deemed poor or unsafe because they cost less. Part of her brand included the idea that “anybody can travel”: She quit her high-power, high-paid job and decided to travel. Another inspiration for me was @nomadicmatt whose resources I liked for their exact same appeal. Interestingly, he had a similar story: Having experienced a similar career-related existential crisis, he too opted to quit his job and travel. The point of these anecdotes, and another oft-neglected aspect of travel to a foreign land, is the privilege it requires, and the ensuing social responsibility of Instagram users who make their living off of pretty pictures. In light of these reflections, perhaps what is missing in how we discuss travel is this need to perform for others across social platforms. While it is not that photography for one’s self is necessarily evil, photographs arguably take on an evil or sinister connotation once they have engaged with an institution or platform like Instagram. Perhaps, then, the actionable step is a demand to reflect deeply on the performative nature of social media platforms, and to consider taking photographs for one’s self instead of others.
References
[1] https://doi.org/10.1080/13688790.2018.1461173 -- 173
[2] Ibid, 173
[3] Ibid, 173
[4] https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/06/magazine/when-the-camera-was-a-weapon-of-imperialism-and-when-it-still-is.html
[5] https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/06/magazine/when-the-camera-was-a-weapon-of-imperialism-and-when-it-still-is.html
Historical scholars have increasingly critiqued the role of photographs in propagating colonial messaging. Researchers are beginning to ask questions about the power relations implicitly captured within the photograph itself: If there is a subject, did the subject consent to be photographed? Was consent even possible to provide? To what end was this photograph used for? These questions demand to know what transgressions occurred in order to capture this moment. While the era of overt colonization ended after World War I – paving the way for liberation movements around the world – it would be remiss to suggest that colonial discourse simply disappeared with the fall of empires. Colonial discourse continues to exist today in which the dominant, or “developed,” state exercises control and power over the subaltern, or “developing,” world. This is not done overtly; instead, this colonial rhetoric is so infused into the dominant nation’s discourse that it occurs at the level of the individual.
An under-examined though freely available platform that allows individuals to engage with this discourse is Instagram. Instagram’s visual nature, accompanied by text-based captions, has been harnessed by travel influencers to create a carefully curated discourse about the faraway place that they have traveled to.
One of the most accessible and logical ways of entering this discussion on the role of photography in colonial histories is to interrogate the way language is used to describe photography. For instance, a common photographic cliché is the notion of “capturing a moment”, as though we may physicalize this memory and possess this moment, frozen in time, forever. Sean P. Smith articulates this notion of photographic possession in a 2018 article in which he examines postcolonial discourse playing out on Instagram. Smith argues that contemporary tourism engages with Instagram in such a way that renders the photographed tourist destination “available for possession and consumption, effacing local place and identity” [1]. Smith identifies three recurring aspects of his thesis – the exotic place, “the promontory gaze”, and “fantasised assimilation” [2]. The concept of a “promontory” gaze – or what can be understood as a surveilling gaze from a position of superiority –brought by the photographer is an idea that resurfaces in mainstream discourse. This “othering” of spaces by tourists makes the space in question available for the taking by the tourist because it presents the tourist as the “rightful occupants and users of local spaces” [3]. This is propagated, in part, by the strategic use of locals in photographs. On the one hand, Smith argues that locals who appear in photos serve as markers of authenticity; they imbue a local flavor. On the other hand, photographs on popular travel accounts are often devoid of people, save for the account’s user in question, and perhaps their travel companion. Figure 1 is a screenshot of a sampling of @gypsea_lust’s photographs on Instagram. @gypsea_lust is likely one of the most popular travel accounts on Instagram with over 2 million followers. From this screenshot, we can see that all photographs contain the user in question in different places around the world. In one, she is pictured with her partner. The strategic use of her partner – @doyoutravel with almost 3 million followers – in gratuitously romantic photos that clearly attempt to create an ideal heterosexual romantic partnership to their followers. Photographs devoid of people, taken by travellers from wealthier nations, eventually begs the question: does a 21st century iteration of terra nullius – Latin for “empty land” and the legal and religious argument that justified colonialism in North America -- evoke imagery that is meant to inspire #wanderlust?
As it goes, developments in academic discourse have equally begun to permeate mainstream media; on 06 February 2019, NYTimes Magazine photography critic Teju Cole published an article entitled “When the Camera was a Weapon of Imperialism. (And When It Still Is.)” [4]. Cole uses a photograph taken in 1899, in what is now referred to as Nigeria, as a means to situate the use of the camera and photography as expressions of control within colonial projects. Cole argues that colonial photography was used not only to create an idea or narrative of a place and its peoples, but also as a tool for surveillance for the dominant power. In fact, Cole states that even the everyday language we use to “talk photography” is masked in violence: “When we speak of ‘shooting’ with a camera, we are acknowledging the kinship of photography and violence.” In his conclusion, Cole writes that photography will continue to be used in the present and the future, in the same way that it was used in the past: “It will largely continue to illustrate, without condemning, how the powerful dominate the less powerful” [5].
As a semi-avid user of Instagram, and a person with the desire to travel, I enthusiastically and unquestioningly engaged with the corners of the internet dedicated to travel, often as a form of escapism. Once I began reading about the role of images in diffusing ideas and norms, I started to reflect on my own favorite accounts and what they had in common. @theblondeabroad was originally one of my favorites to follow: She posted beautiful photographs of herself and the countries she visited, as well as budget-friendly travel tips. Granted, her advice largely included traveling to countries deemed poor or unsafe because they cost less. Part of her brand included the idea that “anybody can travel”: She quit her high-power, high-paid job and decided to travel. Another inspiration for me was @nomadicmatt whose resources I liked for their exact same appeal. Interestingly, he had a similar story: Having experienced a similar career-related existential crisis, he too opted to quit his job and travel. The point of these anecdotes, and another oft-neglected aspect of travel to a foreign land, is the privilege it requires, and the ensuing social responsibility of Instagram users who make their living off of pretty pictures. In light of these reflections, perhaps what is missing in how we discuss travel is this need to perform for others across social platforms. While it is not that photography for one’s self is necessarily evil, photographs arguably take on an evil or sinister connotation once they have engaged with an institution or platform like Instagram. Perhaps, then, the actionable step is a demand to reflect deeply on the performative nature of social media platforms, and to consider taking photographs for one’s self instead of others.
References
[1] https://doi.org/10.1080/13688790.2018.1461173 -- 173
[2] Ibid, 173
[3] Ibid, 173
[4] https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/06/magazine/when-the-camera-was-a-weapon-of-imperialism-and-when-it-still-is.html
[5] https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/06/magazine/when-the-camera-was-a-weapon-of-imperialism-and-when-it-still-is.html
Figure 1. Screenshot of @gypsea’s Instagram feed.
