Bill Parker 1975

Curator: Here we have Mike Mandel’s gelatin silver print, "Bill Parker", taken in 1975. My first impression is pure joy, it just feels liberating somehow. Editor: Liberating, eh? Interesting choice of words. To me, it’s charged with performativity, which stems, I think, from how portraits, and more specifically baseball cards, function as public images. The gesture, the name emblazoned—it’s all very declarative. Curator: Well, doesn’t that fit with liberation? The baseball pitch—I bet it feels incredibly declarative and confident! It's almost a primal scream on the pitcher's mound. There's this abandon. Editor: Perhaps. I still feel there’s more to the act here than meets the eye. In the seventies, images became vital tools in shaping identities. Think about it: A baseball card’s about stats and idealized projections; it's never truly raw. So Mandel's work here uses and tweaks this kind of constructed image, to expose how cultural identity gets built through baseball. Curator: Identity play is everywhere; the stance is ready, caught forever mid-throw and laughter in grainy black and white; it makes you wonder, "Who is Bill Parker, beyond this arrested moment?". This really captures the feeling of ephemeral moments—this sense of joy. It is very appealing to my romantic nature. Editor: I concede it has appeal, and the joy, I see that now too. It highlights how cultural narratives are curated and disseminated, especially when dealing with public figures or shared cultural experiences like baseball. The staged exuberance challenges the supposed transparency of photographic representation, revealing how art can mediate between an individual, like Bill Parker, and his constructed persona. Curator: Yeah. I leave with a smile and perhaps, that's the magic: in questioning, it delivers some playful, but piercing, perspective. Editor: Indeed, it reminds us of the layered reality behind any simple image—be it artistic, personal, or cultural. And how photos can freeze fleeting moments.