For her latest show, Deana Lawson made one simple request: no photography allowed. I watched as other gallery-goers entered and received the same mandate, while an attendant handed out Gagosian-branded stickers to cover phone cameras. I found myself watching the crowd, observing micro-expressions of discomfort and surprise.
I imagine the rule against photography in our highly visual, largely immediate world can be unsettling, but is our attachment really that strong? In a society where most of us carry the vehicle of modern technological warfare in our pockets, Lawson’s prohibition on photography is certainly a sensible request. As I looked at the sticker plastered over my own camera, I felt that perhaps that sense of unmooring is precisely Lawson’s point.
Because I couldn’t take photos, as I thought about how to compose my thoughts for this piece, I found myself questioning my sight. This led me to then question my memory, my ability to hold onto the details that my phone usually carries. By the time I left, I wondered: Would I be able to recall the faces, the snapshots on display? Should I? In deference to Lawson’s vision, would I have to relinquish any desire writhing within me for a sense of control through these photographic constraints?
In Edge Control, an ongoing series that began in 2023, Lawson turns her attention to the ubiquity of everyday monitoring as it appears in the genre of the beauty-supply surveillance photo. These photos are typically pinned behind counters to deter theft, a long-held ritual of humiliation. In a recent interview, Lawson said of this work, “If anything, I feel more identity with the people on the wall — like I’m stealing a picture of them stealing.”
Yet by restricting access to what has become, for many, our second set of eyes, Lawson’s newest series provokes a fraught ethical question: Who truly has the power to authorize or deny access?