from the past. He has ended, as I continue. Death is a reminder. To some it calls up life, while to others it calls up fears.
Adál Alberto Maldonado (November 1, 1948 – December 9, 2020), styled as ADÁL, was a photographer who lived and worked in New York City and Puerto Rico. (wikipedia)
Seems so brief. Just a ripple.
“Draw from your personal experience. Whether it’s a search for an identity, the celebration of beauty, a concern with correcting chaos in the world, or the simple entertainment of a thought experiment, what will set you apart and original will be how you see the world filtered through your personal experience.” Adal
Adal, dropped his last name and his darkroom manipulations after Lisette Modal’s visit to SFAI.
We were, for a few years, known to each other; grad students at San Francisco Art Institute (SFAI). After leaving the art institute I went to Syracuse, to EXS as a teacher. Light Work/ Community Darkroom was still installing equipment; still generating self-awareness; coming to define a role. I brought a mailing list of several hundred names and addresses of mostly West Coast, young unknowns.
I gave the entire list to Tom and Phil. And, the list of my “must show these people” … fewer than ten people. Adal was number three on that list.
Jerry Burchard. Linda Connor. Henry Wessel. John Collier. Margery Mann. Fred Martin (his class was one of the few required courses; grad students across all programs attended.)
Some Fellow Students:
Ingeborg Gerdes. Bill Arnold. Harry Bowers. Mike Mandel. Larry Sultan.
- Workshop, 1976
- Lecturer, 1976
- Artist-in-Residence, 1986
- LIGHT WORK PUBLICATIONSContact Sheet 52
- Contact Sheet 75/76
- Contact Sheet 97
From my 1971 notebook:
the only thing left to photograph is air. smell. ==== misprints are the key. as key to time -- fade -- light (adal) wessel (difference is time, or space place light) motion --- light dark outlier -- misprint.
It has taken me too many delays, too many re-writes to get this posted. While that doesn’t (shouldn’t) matter to you, it does bother me. When good artists die, we miss more than anther life.
Remembering isn’t rebirth. Not even for an optimist like Adal.