"I wish to record and interpret the presence of human absence": an interview with Michael Kenna

Would you say that your work is mainly about the representation of the impact of human activity on the environment?

If I look back at over fifty years of photographic work, I often state that the general theme has been about the relationship, juxtaposition, even confrontation between the organic and the “natural” universe we live in, and the structures that we humans place and leave in and on the landscape. Of course, this is a massive generalisation and I have wandered off on many a detour and diversion along the way, including landscapes and seascapes with little or no trace of the human presence. However, looking critically at my images, I would say that overall, the impact of human activity in the environment has played quite a central focus in my work.

Are you paying more and more attention to your own possible impact as a photographer, or even as a person? Has it had any influence on your practice or technical choices?

I think that the earth would not only survive, but would readily flourish without the presence of humans. I consider us humans to be parasites in a long food chain. Just as living is ultimately detrimental to health - we are after all born to die - I suspect that humans are fundamentally detrimental to the health of the planet. Aside from that consideration, we must also simultaneously acknowledge that all life is an incredible miracle, a majestic phenomenon that cannot be ignored or denied. What humans have achieved and created is extraordinary, fantastic, barely believable, indescribable. We have also acted in abhorrent, heinous, and unbelievably disgusting ways at times. So, it is not a simple equation. We are here as part of the universe and it is evident that we need to live side by side, together, caring for each other, something that seems from our illustrious history to be practically impossible. I believe that humans are a tiny part of the great mysterious puzzle of life. Whatever we do to planet earth, has direct consequences on our allotted time here. What seems highly predictable is that the universe will still be here for a long, long, long time after we have disappeared from here.

To more specifically answer your question, I am conscious at all times that I have a negative impact on the environment. I drive a car, fly in planes, use chemicals in a traditional darkroom, live in a house, in a city, etc. An activist environmentalist could take me to the cleaners. I try to balance this in my head by producing and sharing creative works that attempt to reflect the mystery and beauty of the world we inhabit. Perhaps, if I lived in a cave, surviving on berries and the fruits of the land, I might have a clear conscience that I was not negatively affecting the environment. Perhaps also, I might not be positively enriching our world either. We each have to examine our own consciences and balance our environmental footprints to the best of our ability. I believe our remit here on earth is to live our lives to the highest possible potential, which includes helping our fellow human beings rather than hurting them.  

How can you explain the two antithetic directions that can be found in your work: either the representation of pristine landscapes untouched by humans or, on the contrary, architectural landscapes and unpeopled natural landscapes in which, nonetheless, the trace of human activity is still visible? 

I don’t see these directions as being antithetical, rather they are points along a spectrum. In fact, I find there are far more similarities than differences. Everything in the universe is part of the universe, and alive. I can as easily talk to or photograph a tree, ocean or mountain, as a steel factory, nuclear power station or Nazi concentration camp. We are all here having an ongoing conversation, existing side by side. I photograph everything that I meet in a similar manner, with respect, reverence and astonishment at the mystery of our universe.

Do you intend to show that humans and nature can or should be reconciled in a harmonious relationship? Or is there an unbridgeable or growing gap for you?

I regard humans and nature to be one and the same, parts of a living and breathing organism we call the universe. Humans can choose to be as harmonious as possible with nature, or not. Nature will surely do the same, and often acts in what we consider erratic ways in the form of earthquakes, blizzards, floods and all sorts of what we call “natural” disasters. The bottom line is that humans live on and with the earth - we are stuck with each other! I remember the Rodney King slightly misquoted line - “Why can’t we all just get along?” He was referring to humans and humans, but it equally applies to humans and the environment.

Would you say that this possible tension between humankind and nature is also marked by a geographical one in your work: does Asia, and more particularly Japan, embody the last refuge of unspoilt nature in your eyes? 

I am sure there are many places on earth where nature appears unspoilt. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet had the opportunity to visit them all, and time is most certainly of the essence. I just happen to love almost everything about Japan and am very happy to photograph there whenever possible. Each visit deepens my relationship with the country. And, with all due respect, it should be noted that I photograph tsunami barriers, Shinto torii gates, Buddhist temples, boardwalks, sticks and poles, and all sorts of human made structures - as well as unspoilt nature. I have further explored in Asia and hugely appreciate what I have experienced. I hope to continue for as long as possible.

Would the other photos of landscapes in the Western world tend to unveil humans’ constant intervention on their environment, for example with gardens created by people or planted trees? 

I have always been attracted to the “domestic” landscape of parks and gardens, probably because of my environment, growing up in Widnes, Lancashire, England. I spent a great deal of my boyhood exploring the local environment which happily included a large park. Influenced by the work of Eugene Atget, I spent many years photographing the Le Nôtre Gardens in and around Paris. When humans interact with nature, change is inevitable. It is the very nature of all relationships - an exchange of energy. I am sure this has been going on since humans first appeared on the earth. Humans crave shelter, warmth, food, protection, nurture, etc., so we predictably build, construct, plant, change, both as a necessity of survival and as a means of self-identity.

What is characteristic in your photographs is the absence of human presence, in spite of a few exceptions with Japanese nudes, for instance. To you, are human beings all the more present by their absence in your photographs?

I have photographed minimalistic frozen landscapes, parks and gardens, empty seafronts, abandoned urban neighbourhoods, old industrial sites, power stations, and Nazi concentration and deportation camps. I have photographed outside in nature, in the elements, day and night. I have also photographed inside in schools, factories, churches, temples, monasteries and museums, where one would expect to see people. But, in my work, we don’t see them, for I try to attain what is perhaps unattainable – I wish to record and interpret the presence of human absence. I search for the memories, traces and evidence of residual atmospheres left behind after human activities. 

I have often used the analogy of the theatre stage because I search for the atmosphere before the performance, when the orchestra is warming up and anticipation is high, when we use our imagination to create stories. I look for memories after events, with their shifting subjective interpretations and fleeting mind’s eye recall. Whether or not these proclivities have been conscious choices from the start is difficult for me to ascertain, but I suspect so. I have just followed the muse and this is where I have landed.

In your latest monograph, Venice. Memories and Traces, human presence is suggested by a ghostly trace as in “Tables and Chairs in Acqua Alta” or “Punta della Dogana”. What does the intrusion of this ghostly presence mean for you? Does it reveal a will to give more visibility to the author of the traces you have been photographing for so many decades?

Having visited and photographed in Venice since the late seventies, I have had many assorted experiences, often long forgotten, which are sometimes brought back to my consciousness and memory as I walk by certain places. Venice, it seems to me, is a city filled with memories and traces from the past. In some of my extended time exposures, people have stood still for some seconds and appear in a print almost as ghosts. In another photographic environment or project, I might pass by these particular negatives, preferring instead to print those with no figures included. In Venice, they seem somehow appropriate - catalysts for our imagination and recollection, echoes from the past and references to both present and future. So, I keep them.

The representation of industrial sites is a recurrent motif in your art starting with your work in England in 1984 with the photos of mills, then with The Rouge, Ratcliffe power station and more recently with pictures of an old glass factory in Murano or the industrial complex of Marghera. Why such a return of this visual motif in your art? Is it linked to your childhood memories? Or to Bill Brandt’s lingering inspiration in your art?

I was born and brought up in a working-class family, in a small town, best known for its chemical factories and industry. I worked in a chemical factory when I was fifteen, and even received a broken jaw in an industrial accident. I have worked in and experienced many other industrial situations, particularly when I was paying my way as a student. It may sound strange, but industry seems normal, almost comforting to me, it reminds me of home!

As a photographer I have therefore, quite predictably I think, been drawn to photograph industry, including all the series you mention. I could also add the lace factories in France, the shipbuilding and auto works in South Korea, the Stephen Schmidt mines in Germany and the Sapir Docks in Italy. Industry remains a most worthy subject matter, even if in these later years of my career I have swung more to the quiet beauty of minimalist landscape and seascapes, and even still life studies. 

How do you choose the different industrial sites you want to photograph? What aesthetic or technical criteria led you to photograph The Rouge or Marghera, for example?

Perhaps there is an easily discovered rhyme and reason for making predictable decisions regarding choice of subject matter, but I haven’t ever been able to accurately define the magic equation. I mentioned the important aspect of childhood influences earlier. I often refer to the ongoing photographic process as being akin to having conversations with others. We never quite know how long those conversations will continue for, how deep and interesting they might become, how personally challenging and insightful, how enjoyable and entertaining, or how informative. It is not so different with photographic subject matter. Perhaps we happen onto a scene, perhaps we are introduced to a location, perhaps we are commissioned to photograph some place. Sometimes, I also search for places where others have worked and created. You mentioned Bill Brandt, for example. I wanted to learn from his vision, so I went to Halifax to follow in his footsteps. I deliberately set out to see where and how he had photographed there. The same is true for Charles Scheeler - it is why I first went to The Rouge Factory in Dearborn, Michigan. These are just a few of the catalysts involved in the initial choices, but I think it is also informative to consider how the conversations deepen. 

On my first visit to The Rouge plant in Dearborn, Michigan, I walked and photographed for a matter of hours. Honestly, I was unimpressed and not inspired. It was only when I processed the film and made contact sheets several months later that I realised what enormous potential there was. Evidently, I had missed an important “exchange of energy” the first time around. The first conversation had not convinced me. Perhaps I had been distracted, or was just not sensitive enough, I don’t exactly know why I didn’t recognise such interesting subject matter on that first visit. Looking at the images later, I immediately sought a revisit and would continue to photograph at The Rouge until I no longer had permission to be there. It taught me a lesson, which I already knew, which is not to fully trust myself, ever!

With these industrial photos, do you intend to represent a form of industrial sublime? In other words, is there both pleasure and terror when you are in front of these industrial sites?

Standing in front of industry, or being in the middle of it, can be an exciting and profound experience, like being in a beautiful cathedral or a pulsating city. Industrial constructions are the works of humans, to be simultaneously admired and sometimes feared. I find that attraction and repulsion often go hand in hand. I wrote a small introduction to my Ratcliffe Power Station portfolio in 1986 which mentions those same paradoxical feelings: “I first saw the Ratcliffe Power Station in 1983 as I was driving up the M1 motorway to photograph in the industrial Northwest of England. Clouds of steam could be seen from a distance, and then the power station itself emerged, with its eight massive cooling towers arranged in two rows. I remember feeling a curious mixture of interest, excitement and unease - emotions remarkably akin to those on my first viewing of Stonehenge. On subsequent visits to the station, and when photographing inside, I was awed by the sheer magnitude of the place, and its ferocity during the night. Ratcliffe seems like an immense monument to 20th century technology, a giant stage set with radical changes in mood and atmosphere, a Metropolis in its own right”.

Do you experience more terror or more aesthetic pleasure? Has there been a form of evolution of your feelings in front of them through the years and through the growing manifestation of human impact on the environment? 

As one learns and understands the direct repercussions and long-term consequences of various industries, it is normal to be swayed by any distressing imbalance between advantage and disadvantage, loss and gain. There is a vast archive of literature based on extensive ongoing research available these days. Yet, profiteering, irresponsibility, abuse, destruction and devastation of the earth continues. The bottom line, as discussed earlier, is that basic human activities will have an overall detrimental impact on the environment. I don’t want to be pessimistic, or a hypocrite, by criticising and blaming industry for all the world’s problems. The fact is that I have enjoyed the fruits of industry my whole life, and continue to do so. Ultimately, we must each look to our own moral compass. We must each do what we can to live within our own environmental footprint. Will we save the planet? I suspect the planet knows how to save itself - it is us humans who should be more worried.

Pour citer cette ressource :

Michael Kenna, Virginie Thomas, "I wish to record and interpret the presence of human absence": an interview with Michael Kenna, La Clé des Langues [en ligne], Lyon, ENS de LYON/DGESCO (ISSN 2107-7029), avril 2025. Consulté le 13/04/2025. URL: https://cle.ens-lyon.fr/anglais/arts/photographie/michael-kenna-i-wish-to-record-and-interpret-the-presence-of-human-absence