Rory Hamovit

Hamovit’s work incorporates humour and tragedy, frustration and irony in a way that pushes and pulls the viewer into different mental spaces. Inspired by a broad mix of fiction, American documentary photography, conceptual video and performance art, his work gives us insight into the eclectic and frenetic mix of cultural references rattling around inside his head.

Using both still photography and film, and regularly appearing as the protagonist in his own work, Hamovit employs meandering, self-reflective narratives as a means to speak about the broader, overriding cultural and emotional artefacts of being. Working with linear storylines, internal monologues, surreal encounters and still images which suggest a before and after, his work often depicts an impasse. The characters appear to have encountered a revelation, or realisation, forcing them to contemplate their current circumstance, and the viewer is invited in to witness a search and a longing for answers or resolution.

Often challenging to decipher, made more difficult still by the artist’s reluctance to ‘stand still’ , Hamovit’s work tells broader stories about the act of simply being in tumultuous and unpredictable world. In this interview I talk to him about his process, the overriding themes in his work and about the recurring presence of both humour and frustration.

William Lakin: In your artist statement you suggest that your use of humour is a strategy to get people’s attention, to ‘keep you from walking past it’, how did humour become apart of your practice?

Rory Hamovit: There is a case for, that I know is true for many funny people, that I developed a comedic flare as a childhood defence mechanism but I believe there to be more to it than that. I’m drawn to the narrative capabilities of humor, as well as the liberated space absurdity provides. I cherish comedy because it requires sadness and joy, holding them in balance. It feels incredibly human. With my own practice, I fought funny intuitions for a long time believing good photos are solemn, steely, impenetrable reflections of a self-serious world, which is absurd. The more humorous and earnest I let my images be the wider the emotional gamut and greater the staying power the work had with the viewer. And it’s not like it’s easier making humorous work, it requires so much refinement, but I’ve leaned into laughter. The auditory response was a major shift.

WL: What do you mean by, 'the auditory response was a major shift'? Do you mean literally provoking audible laughter with your work?

RH: I do mean literally hearing laughter as a response to my work. It was that instant reflex reaction of laughter from a viewer that let me knew the work was working on an instinctual level.

In Light, 2019

WL: Your work is full of ambiguity; there are clear themes such as masculinity, sexuality and identity, plus a visual (self)awareness of filmmaking conventions, but what makes it all the more interesting for me is that I am always left with a sense that I haven’t quite grasped the full intention of the work, I am left second-guessing my self and this keeps the work rattling around my head for some time after I have seen it. Is there an underlying driving force in your work?

RH: I like hearing your response tot he ambiguity and the work rattling around your head. I have a strong intentionality to leave the viewer bewildered, to lead them as far as I can and then leave them in a place so as to allow their own, unfettered interpretations and attachment. That has always been what I personally crave from good art: a brief cohabitation of some higher, metaphysical plain followed by a return to your own corporeal existence. Like when you belt along to a song on the radio that conjures a certain place, time, feeling yet exists separate from the musician’s intentions. I’m fascinated by these parallel realities. I try and give the viewer enough to latch on to but am always wary of reliance on obvious symbolism. The last thing I ever want to do is hit you over the head with the proverbial “metaphor hammer” (as I call it). The openness is critical to the work and it’s maybe why I’m a bit averse to working in strict projects, concentrating instead more on individual works.

WL: Are your still image and moving image works are driven by the same intentions or is there a differentiation between what you are trying to communicate in either medium?

RH: I do think the still and moving works are driven by the same intentions and inhabit the same space but I will say working with video there is a lifting of constraints that is simultaneously liberating yet daunting. With still image so much has to be inscribed, mimed and signalled in the construction which can be fun to retreat into if I’m feeling something is a bit ineffable at the moment and needs more time to draw out. I find working with still image a lot of the effort is in the preparation while in video it’s letting the cameras roll and capturing how things plays out, the full cycle, the aftermath. But with the joy of incorporating performance, text and sound into my work also comes the responsibility of affording the videos the same standard of the still images: allowing accessibility to narrative and humor while leaving space for interpretation and big emotions.

I like moments of frustration, longing and denial in my video work because they emphasize the work moving beyond the individual. To me they are the breakdown: the scenes where the camera pulls back (often literally) and the viewers rectify scope and are provided a reprieve moment for empathy or relatability.

WL: In your work you often depict failure or frustration, or a grasping for connection with others, I am thinking about the long scenes in your video pieces where you are surrounded by dolls or trying to make a connection with a forever evasive anonymous hand through a car window, what is it about frustration and longing that you find so enduring?

RH: I like moments of frustration, longing and denial in my video work because they emphasize the work moving beyond the individual. To me they are the breakdown: the scenes where the camera pulls back (often literally) and the viewers rectify scope and are provided a reprieve moment for empathy or relatability. On the hero's journey it's the abyss moment, which welcomes in rebirth and revelation. Making character-based videos featuring myself I'm always anxious about having the work land with any shred of relatability so I rely on vulnerable, anguished bits to connect as well as brighten the highlights in contrast. I think feeling lost, trapped, or burdened with the ineffable are common currency these days, but so are practical escapism and reinvention as response.

WL: Where do the dolls come from? Do you make them yourself?

RH: All of the dolls and puppets (as well as much of the other props and scenery) are made by yours truly. The handmade-ness feels important in my work, for both craftsmanship and connectivity. It makes the work feel more like a unique object or a space carved out for the viewer and me. In terms of the puppets, I spent a lot of time constructing them but did not design them well for mobility, or anything really. They may look nice but limbs and heads start falling off left and right as soon as you try to move them about. A work in progress.

WL: The car and driving feature a lot in your work, why is this?

RH: I feel driving and car interiors are emblematic of the American space and concepts of privacy and property. It's the collision of dreams of mobility and access with the reality of isolation and private ownership. Maybe too obvious a metaphor, but the cultural lineage is undeniable. As a physical space there's nothing better, I love playing with the interior vs exterior, looking out while looking in, using it like a glass box or diorama-on-wheels. While driving we are exposed to the world yet feel comfortable enough to slip into private habits. I recently saw the new Ryusuke Hamaguchi film "Drive My Car" and I haven't stopped thinking about car interiors as a place of intimacy and personal history since.

Anthony, 2021

WL: Where are you currently living and working? And where are you from? (And is this relevant to your work?)

RH: I'm currently working at the University of New Mexico, living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It has been nice to be in the high desert and feeling more isolated to focus on studio work again, especially after finishing grad school and feeling so burnt out. Plus it's gorgeous and I feel like I'm reacting to the landscape more than ever in my work. I am originally from New England and grew up on boarding school campuses. Having that practically unhindered space to explore and utilize as a child has influenced how I approach any new project or location. Everything has potential.

WL: What are you working on at the moment? Where do you see your work going in the near, and long term?

RH: At the moment I've just begun production on a longer video piece. Somewhere between extended narrative video and feature film. Over the past 6 months or so I was getting back into the groove of making studio-based photographs and as rewarding as it was I was nervous of entering autopilot mode, my greatest fear. I want to always feel like my work is expanding. Video has been a great way to shake things up through forced incorporation. While working on shorter videos last year I started feeling the itch to push duration and story to see where things would go if parameters were loosened. So far It's a lot of writing and building a set out of 60 cinder blocks in my studio. I also have a 300 page graphic novel draft I started during quarantine that I want to finish someday soon. Long term I would just like to be in a place where all my projects can be regarded equally and in conversation. I love photography and foresee it always being an important part of my practice but I never want to settle. Life's too short.

Protege, 2019