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The promise of Tillmans' photographs is that maybe we too are living lives worthy of documentation if only our own humdrum was given the micro-attention of such a lovely eye, then we too could be seen, could be seen as worthy, placed on walls, actually be seen. It's a base human impulse, the need to be seen, recognized. Tillmans' eye fills with the promise of this possibility, of someone loving you no matter how banal, even the lowly ogre's onion, which is why all Tillmans' photographs seem to come pulled from a drawer in your parent's house and seeing yourself 30 years younger: the photos aren't great but they come with hammering benevolence attended to creatures we care for, a walloping nostalgia that Tillmans has found as immediate packaging: that the inherently elegiac medium also promises preservation of someone's sight of you. Which is maybe why Tillman's always evokes comfortable denim, this base promise of finally of someone finally seeing you because your butt finally looks good packaged by the right hand and someone will love you.
Careworn: Susan Cianciolo at Modern Art