Peabody Rediscovers Images of New Guinea

In 1961, less than a year after graduating from Harvard College, Michael C. Rockefeller ’60 joined the Peabody Museum’s 1961 New Guinea Expedition as a sound recordist and photographer. Shortly after the expedition, Rockefeller disappeared in New Guinea while on a personal trip to photograph and collect Asmat art.

Forty-two photographs from the more than 4000 negatives he left behind are currently showing at the Peabody. Though Rockefeller left few notes to guide the selection of his photographs—rendering the transformation from archive to exhibition largely interpretive—this lucid and organized show betrays little of that difficulty.

The exhibition brings together a combination of vintage prints developed in the 1960s and several images—selected from Rockefeller’s archives—that curator Kevin Bubriski printed himself. The photographs are respectfully left untitled and arranged in a narrative fashion similar to that of “Gardens of War,” the book compiled in 1968 by Robert G. Gardner ’48, who led the 1961 expedition.

The exhibition follows inhabitants of the Grand Valley Dani through the cycles of daily life as shaped by war and its repercussions. While the structure of the show may be didactic, Rockefeller’s images are so compelling that it’s hard to resist comparing this self-proclaimed amateur to photographic greats. Bubriski himself does so in the exhibition catalogue, naming Josef Koudelka or Robert Frank.

In Rockefeller’s most striking photographs, his male Dani subjects seem at ease with his presence. This comfort is mutual, and is revealed in the calm yet bold compositions of these images. In one print, a man perches in the window of a wooden structure, working on a long reed, absorbed in his activity.

Likewise, it appears that Rockefeller became absorbed in his art, and the resulting photograph is captivating. Strong, thick lines of wood run up and across the photograph, stopping only to frame against the sky this man, who, in contrast to the rugged forms, works with an arresting fluidity.

A photograph of four boys playing in long, dry grasses is even more striking. This photograph—characteristic of Rockefeller’s best images—combines compositional creativity and an emotional congruence with the subject, while forgoing the pretensions of photojournalism. The grass becomes an abstract background on which the boys float, frolicking with a disarming intensity.

There is very little visual context in the photograph, but it is this abandonment of documentary principles that makes it so appealing. The spatter and strew of the grasses is absorbing and positively disorienting, a visual compliment to the boys’ joyful ecstasy and a testament to Rockefeller’s artistic acuity.

Sadly, the exhibit fizzles before its narrative climax. Here, at the beginning of the war scenes, Rockefeller distances himself physically and psychologically from his subjects, and the resulting photographs suffer.

Rockefeller’s photography becomes more obvious, less idiosyncratic, and less captivating overall. Whereas Rockefeller appeared comfortable with the daily life of the Dani, his images of war and the ensuing celebrations and mourning lack the compassion of these others.

The difference is most pronounced in a photograph of a group of women mourning a fallen Dani warrior. From a short distance, the photograph appears to be quite energetic, if not original; the women’s heads fill the frame and seem to push towards the right side of the photograph.

Yet, upon closer examination, it becomes apparent that several of the women leer wearily at the camera. Unlike the playful gazes of the children in other photographs, these women are much less at ease with Rockefeller’s presence at such an emotionally charged event. It becomes clear that Rockefeller is an outsider, intruding and unwanted, over-ambitious to a fault, and insensitive to the calamity.

There are exceptions, of course, but they serve to prove the rule. Among the few memorable wartime photographs is one not of the war, but of three young warriors observing a battle occurring below their hillside post.

Two of the onlookers, each carrying bows and arrows, wrap their arms around themselves, so that a hand rests on each shoulder. Their backs are turned away from the camera, but to a surprisingly evocative effect.

The warriors’ morale, expressed by their clenched fists, is ambiguous: is it fear? Excitement? Anxiety? Anticipation? The exercise is unresolvable, yet gratifyingly engrossing.

Admirably, Bubriski and the Peabody staff have refrained from exoticizing either the Dani or Rockefeller’s disappearance. Though this restraint should now be expected of any similar project, it is a remarkable improvement over earlier representations of the New Guinea expedition, such as the cover headline of LIFE magazine’s 1962 feature, “Survivors from the Stone Age: a Savage People That Love War.”

The considerate presentation of the subject is enhanced by an equally tasteful gallery design that highlights the photography in simple, restrained elegance. This moderation is especially commendable in light of the Peabody’s previous photography exhibit, “Reconfiguring Korea,” which turned the museum gallery into a lime-green pagoda for seven months earlier this year. Instead, Exhibit Designer Sam Tager and Bubriski provide informative placards and Gardner quotations without cluttering the gallery or distracting from the photographs.

Rockefeller’s photographs provide a refreshing antidote to the walls of the Fogg Museum, which are sadly bare of photography.

Along with the landscape photography at the Museum of Natural History, “New Guinea Photographs,” on view until February, rewards the short trek past Quincy Street to Divinity Avenue with exceptional interdisciplinary photographs at institutions not commonly seen as destinations for the art-seeking crowd. And, being insulated from this ‘crowd,’ these shows reward doubly. With none of the presumptuousness of art museums, they are a fortunate surprise.

—Staff writer Jeremy S. Singer-Vine can be reached at jsvine@fas.harvard.edu.