To enter Kent Klich’s new photojournalism exhibition “Gaza Works,” one must descend from the light-filled lobby of the Royal Library into a windowless basement surrounded by grey walls. The immersion into something darker, underground, sets the tone for an exhibit that aims to expose a story of Palestinian existence often overlooked by mainstream media. Devastation of soul but not of body. Lack of material wealth but depth of human relationship. Through collections of text, image, and occasional video, Klich’s exhibit aims to reveal the nuance of living in occupied Gaza in the last two decades. He sets a high bar for himself, and misses it… barely. While the exhibit is arranged skillfully, the many photographs of objects or landscapes obscure the moments of human connection that most lend themselves to a story of resilience under repression.
Like much contemporary photojournalism, Klich’s work trades on the poignancy of the forgotten and the residual. A series of ruined homes haunts the viewer with cracked walls and roofs caved in. In one striking photograph, an empty, black office room is ravaged by white debris and white crevices. White sunlight casts a glow on the eroded wall. The use of contrasting color startles the viewer; the overlapping lights and darks aid the overall agenda of showing that light and dark can intermingle, that good and evil may coexist. This photo hangs beside that of another deserted home whose ceiling has been hollowed out, presumably by a bomb. The gaping hole allows for sunlight to pour in, filling an otherwise dark room with furniture intact. The symmetry of two couches frames the central damage and the light from above evokes religious imagery of divine intervention, probing religious dimensions of the conflict. The photo boasts of heavenly beauty, and yet the viewer is reminded that it could not exist without the destruction of religious animosity. In juxtaposing lights and darks, some with religious undertones, Klich brings into stark relief the complex reality of living under a brutal occupation with fraught socio-historical roots.
The photography series of an abandoned airport hints at a pandemic sadness but does not clarify an individual experience of lost hope. A chunk of text beside the photographs explains an airport that was crushed by Israeli forces soon after its construction, never put to use. A photo of a ruptured staircase that ends mid-sky is jarring because it is unfinished. A photo of a newly built airplane, too clean to be used, is arresting for its ability to suggest lost hope: bright reds and pinks invite company but there is no one to assume the role. An unusual video of a horse draws out the desolation of the post-hope landscape. In a series of nine panels, an Arabian horse––a staple of Bedouin transportation since the beginning of the occupation––gallops in and out of frames, moving closer and further from the viewer. The depiction of the horse powerfully appropriates a cultural symbol of mobility to show its elusiveness. To move is to exercise a most basic desire to exist in space, and yet Klich shows how politics renders physical freedom inconsistent.
Without foregrounding human figures in most of “Gaza Works,” Klich offers his viewers a general mood of sadness, invoking through compelling visuals an abstract sense of loss and grief. Two collections take us into a more personal space. A collage of family photos reveals moments of happiness and togetherness, corners of paper kissing, physically hinting at a collective intimacy and an overlap of lived experiences. A few meters away is another success of the exhibit: A video of a father and son chasing a chicken offers a glimpse of playfulness amid despair. More works such as these would aid the photojournalist’s goal of humanizing an intangible experience. I hope they are the Rubicon of a new, individuated narrative on Palestinian suffering.
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