Ariane Bankes

The witching hour

Twilight, the witching hour — that tantalising moment on the cusp of day and night when everything seems strange, poignant and full of possibilities. It is a gift to the photographer, whose raw material is light: its shifting subtleties, its evanescence, its poetic potential. The V&A has collected in this exhibition the work of eight contemporary photographers from around the world who have made twilight their subject. Like all the best ideas it seems strikingly obvious, yet it has apparently not been done before.

Just off the bustle of the V&A’s entrance foyer, the exhibition offers a twilight zone, an area of stillness suffused with dim blue light. Each artist’s work is grouped in a separate chamber, so you wander between twilight worlds, some of the imagination, some of harsh reality. The American Gregory Crewdson has subverted the banality of suburbia, investing it with mystery, even with revelation — not qualities one normally associates with the nondescript streets and parking lots of the urban hinterland. His untitled ‘frozen moments’ hint at nameless crimes and misdemeanours — the semi-naked woman standing on a front lawn in the glare of a car’s headlights, the sedan halted under amber lights with open door and absent driver — or the curious (and faintly comic) man shinning up a beanstalk of coloured lights. Crewdson’s images are curiously seductive in their glossy, stage-managed precision, yet deeply unsettling: never again will I venture into suburbia with the same equanimity.

At the harsh-reality end of the spectrum is Boris Mikhailov’s collection of snapshots of Kharkov, his home town in Ukraine, following the collapse of the Soviet Union. You have to peer at these monochrome, grainy images, shot from the hip, to see the details of the desperate, almost Dostoevskian characters and their scrabble for life.

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