Images of post-conflict Belfast
In Catharsis, I explore to what degree the language of the snapshot contributes to or obscures our understanding of time and place, since the idea of knowing someone through their personal images is open to question. Bringing together three elements; family album snaps made in Belfast by my father in the 50’s and 60’s, new documentary images of post-conflict sites which are presently tourist sites made by me and GPS coordinates which serve as a reminder of Belfast’s military history, I situate each image in relation to an unspoken memory.
The stark contrast in scale and genre, between the personal snapshots and the conceptually driven documentary images, helps shape an understanding of the gap between the personal and the conceptual, mapping out ritual, marking territory and retracing history. While the family album references a site of personal and social identity, the documentary genre can only point to but never reveal the subtle and often absent history embedded within it.
By engaging the viewer in a dialogue between the familial and the documentary against the fixity of the GPS coordinates, I open up a space to examine the multiple ways photography informs identity, personal memory and social history
For more than a decade the Good Friday Peace Agreement, brokered by US president Bill Clinton, has served as a road map for social justice and facilitated peaceful negotiations between Belfast, N. Ireland’s Protestant majority and its Catholic minority communities. A city torn by a 30-plus year war and divided by sectarian violence, it has entered a new optimistic phase as an international tourist destination. “New Belfast” is bent on both remembering and forgetting its troubled past. Ironically, tourists come to Belfast to see former “Troubles” sites, providing income for the local community tour guides. Officially, this is frowned upon as the city looks towards renewing this once thriving industrial center of commerce towards new capital ventures, safely hidden away from the memory of former sites of conflict.
For much of my adult life, Belfast was a psychological and physical war zone. Wracked by a long history of discrimination against the Catholic minority in the North of Ireland, N. Ireland and its capital city, Belfast, erupted in the mid-1960s into the war known as “The Troubles”. (The Protestant majority or “Loyalists,” socalled because of their loyalty to the English crown, were rewarded with political and social advantages, such as better access to jobs and public housing.) Initially, the 1960s civil rights movement spurred the Catholic community into action in response to these discriminatory practices. With its coalition of students, independents and left-leaning Irish Republicans who favored the Nationalist agenda of reuniting N. Ireland with the Republic of Ireland in the south, the status quo of discrimination was challenged through a bloody and prolonged war. Peaceful negotiations forged in 1998 through the Good Friday Peace Agreement led to the formation of a N. Ireland coalition government. Since the Agreement, Belfast has struggled to reinvent itself.
Meditation: Belfast album
I drifted off to live my life elsewhere, eventually settling in the US as an Irish immigrant. So it was with some trepidation that I returned to photograph Belfast exactly one decade after the Peace Agreement, to witness its transformation from a site of conflict to a site of both official tourism and unofficial war tourism. The starting point for negotiating my own complex relationship to my birthplace began with an examination of my childhood album from Belfast. The resulting work, “Catharsis: Images of Post-Conflict Belfast,” provides an opportunity to examine my family album within the context of a “New Belfast,” a city on the road to recovery through commerce and tourism, despite its lingering history as a war zone. In previous works, I combined text, family album images and mapping elements in overlapping layers to suggest the interplay of identity and place. I continue to photograph the urban and rural landscapes of Ireland to connect to their particular histories. In “Catharsis,” I appropriate the source material of the familial from the family album to map out new sites of negotiation; thus suspended in a new relationship, the photographs undermine any assumption of historical fixity in favor of contingency. Through this work, I explore the concept of absence in a photograph, what is left unsaid, as much as an interpretation of its reality effect. Each family album photograph made by father is paired within a single frame with my recent documentary photographs of the city. Photography serves to record the past within the present. But what is it a record, or evidence, of? Perhaps photographs are less a record of what is, than what is not. Photographs exist as fragments and figments, occupying an in-between space, neither entirely real nor fictive, yet both visual and narrative. In this work, within the cartography of the frame, I add a GPS notation to indicate Belfast’s divided history, militaristic past and its present current preoccupation with inventing itself as a tourist destination.
Climbing to the top of the Divis and Black Mountain range, a favorite haunt of my childhood, West Belfast and beyond lies beneath in miniature. Up here, I can imagine the world differently. The tarnished city with all its woes seems insignificant from the “god-like” viewfinder of my camera. Here I can survey a trace of past history and its legacy; for there it is, one of the many peace walls,1 cutting a sorry ribbon through the manicured toy-town view that lies peacefully below. I can almost hear the whirring of army helicopters — though long gone, they hover still in the imagination. And in a different time and place, three of the Somerville sisters, Rita, Kathleen and Mary my mother, pose coyly for a handsome sailor on leave, my father Patrick Joseph Kelly.
Mediation: on returning
The idea of returning to Belfast, N. Ireland to photograph fills me with mixed emotions. While I imagine my identity as an immigrant might provide a unique sense of clarity and distance, I long for intimacy in a place that is increasing unfamiliar. As a native daughter, I travel to Ireland, more frequently to its southern Republic, moving back and forth across the border to my northern Irish home of Belfast, drawn to photograph aspects of its subtle and not so subtle history. In earlier work, I addressed issues of identity coupled with issues of memory and personal loss. But more so in the current work, I look to the rhetorical function of photography itself as a starting point for a newly invented frame of reference.
Strolling with the detachment of a modern day flâneur, I bear witness as an insider/outsider to a reinterpreted past and to the flow of the ever-changing present, such is the fluid shape of identity itself. Like a tourist after the fact, I wander along the Belfast peace walls crossing the sectarian divide from Catholic West Belfast to the Protestant side of the wall, aiming my camera at the residue or trace of an absent war. Each new site I encounter is an encounter with photography and its documentary legacy,
recalling Martha’s Rosler’s complex argument in her photographic essay “The Bowery in Two Inadequate Descriptive Systems.” Like Rosler, I negotiate the insider/outsider role of the documentarian with the knowledge that any notion of objectivity in documentary photography is problematic if not suspect. The idea of representing adequately any complex social structure is a major challenge for a photographer, as Rosler points out. But unlike Rosler, I see the limitations of language and photography less as a drawback than fertile material for asking new questions through a re-invention of documentary itself. Employing ideas of intimacy and distance, “Catharsis” frames its argument in part through the cinematic tropes of the long, medium and close-up shot and through contrast in scale of two different modes of photography; the vernacular album image and the conceptually driven contemporary documentary photograph. Interspersed throughout the piece, formal documentary compositions are infused with elements of modernist aesthetics while exacting details mirror the supposed objectivity of the technical photograph. The result is a conceptual work, a non-linear narrative and a hybrid of fragments and figments, and in turn a hybrid of the visual language of photography itself. The work further investigates the role of the family album as a repository of memory and historical contingency.2 For it is not only how we represent ourselves in family pictures that’s of interest, but also how those photographs might read us. As Victor Burgin states, “As much as we speak language, so language ‘speaks’ us”. (Burgin 1996, p. 10). He argues that photographs both “exist within a field of representations” and “as a constellation of fragments.” (Burgin 1984, p. 188). This concept of “a constellation of fragments within a field of representations” underpins the visual strategy employed throughout this work. Further, through the juxtaposition of my father’s album photographs with my urban street photographs, I reverse the conventional male/female roles of the private/public sphere. The analog-turned-digital family album made by my father echoes the gendered space of the domestic realm while the images of the streets echo a world outside the domestic. The father/daughter duality proliferates throughout the work, defying any obvious expectation of the role of the photograph or of the photographer. Juxtaposing small family album images with my larger documentary images, I evoke a trace of a post- conflict city caught on the brink between an old war and the new economic prosperity that evaporated overnight. The convergence of the snapshot album photograph with the critical documentary images of place allows the viewer to imagine how uses of photography contribute to the myth of identity and in turn our sense of “place.” I am exploring to what degree the album photographs obscure their fidelity to a time and place using the visual language of the snapshot, since the idea of knowing someone through their personal images is open to question. The stark contrast between the diminished scale of the tiny original contact prints found in the album and of the sharply delineated urban photographs, helps shape an understanding of the gap between the personal and the documentary, mapping out ritual, marking territory and retracing history. Each family photograph brings with it the patina of its history; through torn edges, scratched surfaces and a slightly larger than contact print format. Presented on an almost one-to-one scale with their larger companion pieces, this work is made in dialog with and opposition to the slick emerging imagery and hype that proliferates throughout N. Ireland’s newly proscribed post-conflict era, where multinationals target “New Belfast” as the destination city for the international business cognoscenti — the next frontier.
Within my work, the photographic genres, the vernacular album image and the documentary operate as stages upon which to explore and project a narrative and through which I can read a fragment of self “within a constellation of fragments,” to borrow Burgin’s phrase again. The objective is to create a complex visual sequence of photographs that opens up a space between the use of the photograph as a personal trigger for memory and as a witness to a larger history. Beyond the play of colliding photographic rhetoric, I assert a place for the viewer to stand in the form of a GPS notation, to give the viewer a sense of being there. As a reminder of its military origin, the GPS notation within the context of “New Belfast” speaks to an absent military presence. In this work, photography and text both mediate and reiterate a fragmented historical reality. Traces of peripheral information visible though uneventful permeate my family album, tinged with a relentless certainty of place. The hills, the boundary lines, the streets, the barriers within and adjacent to the suburban and urban spaces of my childhood relinquish their secondary
roles as backdrop, to star in my companion photographs as signifiers within a larger history of place. Each trace of information is like a memory that reappears within its respective time/space continuum, rather than simply within the space of the photographs. David Bate speaks of the reality effect of photographs within the context of semiotics:
What a photograph has done, for example is not to show us reality but to position the camera so as to organize elements — things in the world — into a rhetorical argument, even our sense of being there (Bate, p. 38),
Beyond the frame of the images there is a revelation that photographs are not simple essences, their meaning solely accessible through the spectacle of the image. Each image hides as much as it reveals. Whose version of history is pictured here? How might the photograph narrate itself back to us? After the fact, each genre collides and colludes within the same space time/continuum, opening up a space for a new non-linear narrative.
Sarah Somerville left Belfast once in her life. Having never ventured further than the city center, and west Belfast, beyond making a rare pilgrimage to the republic of Ireland to visit holy sites, she boarded the Queen Mary and sailed to New York and then on to Chicago to attend her daughter Rita’s wedding, after which she got back on the boat to settle back into the familiarity of her beloved Albert Street home of the Falls Road in west Belfast.
Growing up in Belfast, issues of power and control were visceral undercurrents long before the visible strains of a prolonged sectarian war changed the shape of the landscape. The problem of negotiating identity was paramount. As early as the late 1970s I researched the idea of a family album both as site of contested struggle and as a place for transformation. For an Irish immigrant living in the US, to return “home” to the mother country forces romantic fantasies of belonging to surface. The state of “in between- ness” is multiplied for those who leave “home” behind. For, as northern Irish Catholic emigrants, we are neither American nor British identified. We are adrift from the Republic of Ireland, bereft of language, culture and geography. In reference to place, I often look to Irish poets and writers to help me understand how I have internalized this state of “in-between-ness” or embody this social and historical condition. I am further interested in the politics of location, how we position ourselves, claim a voice, or speak of self and other. The idea of place itself is understood within historical and psychological boundaries. What boundary traces exist within and beyond the frame?
Belfast author Ciaran Carson expresses in his poem “Turn Again” the layered history of place:
There is a map which shows the bridge that collapse; the streets that never existed. Ireland’s Entry, Elbow Lane, Weigh — House Lane, Back Lane, Stone Cutter’s Entry — Today’s plan is already yesterday’s — the streets that were there are gone. And the shape of the jails cannot be shown for security reasons. Retrieved from: http://digitalcollections.qub.ac.uk/ The Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, Queen’s University, Belfast.
As a child, I spent idle hours poring over an atlas of the world, tracing my merchant marine father’s voyages across the oceans while sectarian boundaries at home made travel even a few streets away a
difficult negotiation. Before 1968, residents from both the Nationalist (Catholic) and Loyalist (Protestant) communities traveled to each other’s neighborhoods frequently. After military occupation became a more than 30-year reality, both communities retreated to the safety of their own political and psychological boundaries. Official corrugated iron and brick wall, razor wire and surveillance cameras ultimately replaced barriers of burned out cars and buses.
We lived in Andersonstown, a fleet of brand new 1950s middle class housing estates at the foot of the ever-present Black and Divis mountains, which frame the city from the northwest. It seemed a longer way off than the ten-minute bus-ride back to my grandmother’s home on Albert Street, facing the daunting twin spires of St. Peter’s cathedral. Irish writer Jack Holland references his evident love of “the Falls” in his book, Too Long a Sacrifice: Life and Death in Northern Ireland Since 1969, Dodd (Dodd, Mead and Company, USA). Like Jack, I too fell in love with the Falls Road. Here whistling boy figurines and porcelain girl statues clasping shiny fish posed jauntily in front parlor windows. When she married my father, my mother “moved up in the world,” out of the lower Falls to the fresh air of the new suburb of Andersonstown. Early in my childhood, we would travel almost every day from the middle class back to t5he working class of the lower Falls of my grandmother’s, such was the draw of the of this imaginary boundary. Walter Benjamin speaks of his childhood around the turn of the century: “Not to find one’s way about a city is of little interest. But to lose ones way in a forest requires practice” (Berlin Childhood around 1900, p. 53).
Growing up in the bosom of the Somervilles, my formative years were spent earnestly exploring those labyrinths, rambling those back streets that Van Morrison sings of so plaintively. As a small child, I observed able-bodied (unemployed) young men playing handball in the middle of the day against a mural at the top of Cinnamon Street, its 1920s green shamrock a symbol from a past era, faded from glory, as if to signal the Nationalist struggle was all in the past, oblivious of how history was about to repeat itself in the 1960s with a vengeance. Countless contemporary wall murals conflate myth and revisionist history and now proliferate on both sides of the peace walls, though the local official tourist industry wishes they would disappear along with the home-grown industry of black taxis that roam the former trouble sites; now war tourism sites. A connection to narrative drives much of my interest in this work. I am compelled to unravel its underpinnings, its cartographic evidence not attainable through visual metaphor, visual spectacle or document alone. So it is a with a shift in strategy from previous family album work utilizing collage, that I return to the haunts not of my childhood labyrinths, but to the other side of the sectarian divide, to sites once too troubling to contemplate, occupied by the other half of the community. Crossing the boundary into the Protestant/Loyalist side of the peace wall echoes of a 1977, Sex Pistols, lyrics come to mind: “God save the Queen, it’s a fascist regime — there is no future in England’s dream” reverberates.
Catharsis creates a new visual stage between the album images of the past with my encounter with the present. It links my father’s snapshots from my childhood album to my present-day conceptual work in which I document former Loyalist trouble sites which have evolved into war tourism sites. The viewer is invited to enter the space between the genre of the album snapshot and the contemporary documentary image. Each piece in this body of work situates the snapshot within a new discourse by coercing it into a complex relationship with its companion image. The significance of the coercion is open to multiple interpretations. Formal compositional strategies and anecdotal personal narrative bring the work into coherence. While the viewer can barely begin to enter my personal narrative in its entirety, they can
reconcile the nature and scale of social space with personal space.3 In what sense might these narratives collude or collide, one might ask? Removed from the album, the personal snapshots diminished in relative size invite the viewer to move in, to establish an intimate reading at a close distance, on a scale of one to one with the originals, while the exacting larger documentary photographs demand a distancing, a stepping away. This push and pull of engagement is underscored by the suggestion of the fixity of GPS positioning. I am reading my personal snapshots for both what is after the fact and unspoken as much for the moment of origin. As Marianne Hirsch claims in The Familial Gaze, Photographs are as opaque as they are transparent (p. 2).
Growing up in a city under severe disciplinary conditions of surveillance, my girlhood gaze was mute. Army barricades and patrolling paratroopers searching shoppers at the butcher shop was a common place sight as was the demand — “Name–Date of Birth–Address–Occupation.” “Now how’s [sic] about a nice piece of liver or flank steak today, Mrs. Kelly,” chimed the ever-optimistic Mr. Lavery the butcher. We grimaced at the thought of liver but not of fresh-faced Brits with high velocity rifles pointed at our shopping bags. Whirring helicopters, army watchtowers with nicknames like Fort Knox and Fort Apache have been replaced by newer and subtler technology — the policing of public space through a dearth of security cameras and listening devices. Belfast’s neighborhoods along the peace lines are now under the heaviest surveillance of any country in Western Europe.
My work resides within a space between the personal and the historical, the aesthetic and the vernacular, a site of negotiation. Its “truth-value” is contingent, like the photograph itself. Each image can be read within and out of context and across the field of representations where visual space is re-invented and the indexical subservient to the metaphorical or vice versa. If a photograph is as much as a fiction as a trace, my instinct is to see it as both and neither. Can fiction reveal truth? What role does personal narrative play with memories that are neither fixed or certain? When three members of my family died tragically in an accidental fire in Belfast, I photographed the funeral. “Ach, sure you’re a typical yank now,” remarked the Irish priest between prayers for the dead, nodding at my camera.
In her book, Scissors, Paper, Stone, noted historian Martha Langford references Donna Haraway’s thoughts on technology as a way to explore a maze of dualisms. Such duality is illustrated in the album photograph of two small children (myself and my brother) posing for the camera in juxtaposition to a very public memory of a photographic event told through the form of a painted mural. Dualisms echo throughout the work to foreground a space to re-articulate the documentary mode. In concert with moments in time that represent different genres such as the vernacular and the documentary, there exists yet another thread running throughout the work; by traversing space and time, the literal and visual condense as unrelated memories multiply and fade like silent photographs buried in an old album.
Catharsis subverts the narrative of public space as singularly coherent, holding personal and collective memory in suspension. The documentary images are forever altered by proximity to the small indeterminate snapshots; each creates a moment of co-existence that did not happen in actuality. Further, the GPS position given are for the documentary images only; viewers are invited to interject themselves into the space of the larger image to position themselves as if they were there all along, even after the fact in relation to the photographs. Within their new context, the small images no longer seem mine alone; they exist in a public dialog against which they will be interpreted and narrated. Not unlike a re-photographic
project, these album images reference a past history, though their counterpoints were not made in the same location; the two sets of images do not exist in the same temporal or physical space. The new connection from the metaphorical to the psychological to the geographic is open to interpretation, not least of which is my own small memory as a girl. Having set sights on the claim for an authentic historical truth within Andersonstown, a republican leaning Catholic neighborhood, I was oddly moved by the discovery of a particular Loyalist mural commemorating Protestants paramilitaries interned in the H blocks at the Maze from their community. (Many of these paramilitaries had intimidated Catholics from my neighborhood.) Such is the slippery terrain upon which we all stand when it comes to accepting the truth. Both communities suffered terribly; though our righteous sacrifice was arduous, blinding us to each other’s regrets of pain and loss. I find my father’s interest in family photography poignantly touching. The act of photography was the ritual through which we connected after his long absences at sea. These small images gathered into the family album also graced the small cabins of the major tankers and passenger liners he sailed in across the world, far from home. Throughout this work, I reference the duality of the personal family album and its documentary counterpoint. Rather than viewing photography as a conveyor of some universal truth or the results of a solely subjective revelation, I consciously employ the “reality effect” of photography to direct the viewer towards new questions. Conflating the iconic with the indexical, the viewer is invited to stand in my shoes as if they were there with the knowledge that they are not. Like tourists on a black taxi tour, after the fact, the viewer witnesses a historical non-event. However, it is debatable whether tourists unlike viewers of my work expect to actively engage in questioning what they see; rather they expect to consume what they already know. The discordance between the two images in one format further fragments the viewing spectators’ passive consumption of the image; a cathartic experience evolves out of this gap of re-telling history, transforming the viewer into an active participant. Any conflation between the picture and reality is short-circuited in the gap between genres, time and space. Rather than privileging photography in relation to my documentary images only, my inclusion of the vernacular album images brings the viewer to a realization of how subjectivity itself plays a role in contributing to the overall construction of meaning. In addition, its documentary value is understood in critical relationship to the utopian vision of the promotional literature common to the “New Belfast” theme, where the past effects of a troubled inequitable society is all but erased in concert with its official future vision as a tourist mecca. In contrast to images of growth and prosperity circulated by local authorities, my images depict 30ft. high peace walls, surveillance towers, planned housing tracts featuring tidy lawns set neatly on streets wide enough to accommodate Saracen tanks, should they return. Gone are the labyrinths of my childhood. Gone are the Somerville sisters. Gone are the whistling boys in front parlor windows. Gone are the discriminatory housing battles. Yet the joy of playing in those tidy streets, scrubbed daily by proud Irish women like my Aunt Annie will remain forever fixed in my memory.
Before each twelfth of July, Protestant youth in Loyalist neighborhoods camp out overnight on empty lots to watch over enormously impressive if not ominous bonfires. Their purpose is to commemorate the 17th century historical defeat of the Catholic Pretender to the English crown, James of Scotland by the Protestant “King Billy,” or William of Orange, who for this community is still a hero. For Catholic neighbors across the peace walls, these hellish rituals represent oppression and act as a reminder of years of religious and political discrimination. During the Loyalist’s summer marching season, Catholic west Belfast empties out; we escaped to the relative calm of the Irish countryside.
Another feature of my childhood was the Docks. Home to the infamous Thompson graving dock which launched the Titanic, this once great industrial force launched mighty ocean ships. Luxury flats now tower close to the near empty docks. Now on the cusp of emerging as a site of privilege, it has also been reinvented as a major tourist site. The docks now specialize in dismantling not building ships. There is a
rare image in my album of day laborers at the docks. It provides a trigger to a memory I do not have. William John Somerville is seen kneeling in the middle of the front road. My grandfather endured daily humiliation as a day laborer. Each dockworker was issued with a red or blue ticket. “Raise your arms lads,” the foreman would cry. After he picked all the Protestants who held up blue cards, he would call upon the Catholics to show their red cards. My grandfather, though a Catholic, was of Protestant descent and with a name like Somerville was “lucky” on occasion to find a day’s work. There is a melancholy side to Belfast’s history. It permeates its poetry and underpins this work. On days, when no work was available, my grandfather would cross the street to avoid eye contact with his children coming out of school.
Other images in the series also speak to the post-industrial in contrast to the misguided global vision of wealth and prosperity that echo like the wind through the now halfempty luxury high-rise apartments that fringe the Titanic basin, teetering around the landscape. The occasional visit from a Tall ship provides local entertainment and a distraction from the continuing high employment in the working class neighborhood of west Belfast. Through my images, I offer not a record of what is but proximity to a trace of memory and history. The disciplinary nature of the camera remains in force like an ominous absent presence. One counterpoint is the potential of the personal family album. In the work “Catharsis,” the vernacular album image is conjoined with the documentary photograph, creating a narrative at the intersection of history and memory. All of the documentary photographs in this series were made on the Protestant side of the peace walls, with one exception. I include only one photograph made on the Catholic side, where I grew up. It was my attempt to breach the divide. Note the tiny emblem of a nationalist flag strategically hanging on a live wire framed by the Black mountain. As a small child, I recall a man selling newspapers from across the world. To illustrate his inventory, he displayed what seemed like a hundred small flags of different nations. Only one flag was missing; the Irish Tricolor since this was the only flag “banned” from public display by the 1956 N. Irish Flag law. In the Belfast of my youth and of my ancestors, “No Irish need apply”; the legacy of which has yet to be fully reconciled. And in another time and space, two ordinary boys, my brothers, Patrick and Tony battle over another ordinary moment in their younger lives against a backdrop of poetry, vision and desire in a still troubled land.
“Catharsis: Images of Post-Conflict Belfast” is dedicated to my sister, the actor Kate Somerville Kelly, whose creativity is a continual source of inspiration.
1 Post-conflict Belfast has a fragile government structure that is in frequent danger of collapse. According to a 2008 Guardian report, since the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, some 80 or so peace walls have been erected; before the Agreement, there were 26; most of these in Belfast.
2 I further discuss family photography in relation to memory in “Book, Exhibition, Lecture, Website.”
3 In “Book, Exhibition, Lecture, Website,” I consider how multiple viewing contexts expands the interpretation of this work.
Bate, David. The Key Concepts. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2009. Print.
Benjamin, Walter. Berlin Childhood around 1900. Ed. Howard Eiland. Belknap, Harvard,
Cambridge, P. 52, 2006. Print.
Burgin, Victor. In/Different Spaces: Place and Memory in Visual Culture. U of California Berkeley,
Los Angeles, London. P. 10, 1996. Print. Burgin, Victor. Photography Phantasy, Function, “Thinking Photography,” London, P. 188, MacMillan, 1984.
Carson, Ciaran. “Turn Again,” Winston-Salem, NL, U.S. Retrieved from: http://digital
collections.qub.ac.uk/ The Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, Queen’s University, Belfast. Hirsch, Marianne, Family Frames: Photography, Narrative, and Postmemory, Harvard University Press,
Cambridge MA., and London, England P. 2, 1997, 2012. Print.
Kelly, Angela. “Book, Exhibition, Lecture, Website: Revisiting Catharsis Images of PostConflict Belfast.”
Photography and the Artist’s Book. Museum ETC, Edinburgh and Boston 2012. Print. Langford, Martha. Scissors, Paper, Stone: Expressions of Memory in Contemporary Photographic Art.
McGill Queen’s UP, 2007. Print.
Rosler, Martha. The Bowery in Two Inadequate Descriptive Systems and In and Around and Afterthoughts
on Documentary. Halifax: U of Nova Scotia Press, 2006. Print.
Angela Kelly is an artist, educator and an active member of the international arts community. Currently she is a tenured Associate Professor at RIT, Rochester, NY. Her photographs are included in international collections worldwide, including: The Center for Creative Photography, Tucson, The Art Institute of Chicago, The Mac Arthur Foundation, The Museum of Contemporary Photography, Chicago, The Historical Society, Chicago, the Rockford Art Museum, Illinois, Kansas Art Institute, The High Museum Atlanta, and the Arts Council of England, London.