Uninspired? Try looking to left field
Ben Clement on finding great stories, beating boredom, and movement as an addictive creative force
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I know Ben Clement’s work when I see it. Happened just the other day. A photo flashed on my phone screen. It was of a woman running, cropped down to her torso, and in front of her, centre frame, there was the unfocused blur of a pigeon. I didn’t catch who uploaded it before my feed refreshed and the photo was gone. But I knew.
Ben is in the rare echelon of visual storytellers who have achieved what is called a style. His work, he has said, aims to document what is often felt but not seen. It’s like he waits for the pinnacle of a moment to pass and captures what lies in its wake—runners collapsed at the finish line, a streak of blood down the shin, assorted debris. A part of his gaze is always off to the side, scanning for details. It did not escape him that many of the runners at a prestigious track race had mullets.
I met Ben the same way most people meet these days, namely online and transactionally. He was looking for a writer for his magazine, Good Sport. A mutual friend connected us and a few months later my first story under Ben’s editorship went to print. It was about a German non-profit using street football to help culturally diverse youth, including many newly arrived refugees, find their footing in life. My second story for the magazine, Ben’s suggestion, nearly broke me. It examined sport through the lens of simulacra, a path that, once taken, would consign any writer to a profound and recurring loss of contact with reality.
In addition to taking photos and running the magazine, Ben makes films, publishes books, produces events, and works as an art director. He is often commissioned for his skill in artfully visualizing client interests. When Fire & Emergency New Zealand wanted to raise awareness about deadly house fires caused by substance use, the creative studio Motion Sickness asked Ben to illustrate a cookbook of recipes drunk or high people can make without burning down their homes. Seeing the photos made me feel 19 again.
The red thread in most of Ben’s work is movement. There are people doing sports, of course, but also people feeling them. His portrayals of athletes vibrate with motion: gasping, grimacing, tensing, releasing. Even his still lifes, like an empty plate adorned with crumpled napkins and dirtied utensils, evoke frenzy.
And yet I never get the impression he’s clamouring to get the shot. He knows the action is everywhere all at once. For Ben, a selfie-taker in a stadium crowd assumes narrative importance on par with the on-field events. The story always depends on how you look at it. “Whether I'm photographing sports, running, or any other form of activity, I seek to let it reveal itself in its purest form before my eyes, never pausing to find a better angle, never dwelling on what was missed,” Ben has written on his aptly titled newsletter, Process Movement.
This summer, I met Ben, who is from New Zealand, in Amsterdam, where he was visiting and had briefly lived (he currently resides in Melbourne). We talked for an hour; it was lovely. I should have recorded the conversation. Here’s an interview instead.
Your origin story, as a photographer, started at a punk show. What happened there that continues to move you?
BEN: After many years, I’ve gained enough time and space to look back and make sense of parts of my own journey. There is an energy in movement that I’m really attracted to. I am drawn to scenarios where a lot is going on, and it feels like time is moving at a faster pace. Punk shows were that energy for me. They are engulfing, and it’s very hard to repeat the same image. I would put myself as close to the band as possible, close to the crowd. The feeling of being right amongst everything happening is like a drug, and to have a camera there is a strange thing. When you wake up the next day, you can look at the images and piece together a distorted and fragmented version of what happened.
I’ve always got a lot of joy from being an observer. I would sooner put my skateboard down to watch friends. Same with video games and music. Watching but being right there in the moment really gave me a lot. Once the camera appeared, it all started to make sense.
As a photographer, how do you capture movement in a static medium?
I’ve only been able to verbalize this in the last four or so years. For the most part, it was instinctual—simply the way I made images. Maybe this is due to my technical ability, being able to use my camera to articulate what I see in my mind’s eye. It wasn’t until someone told me there is always movement in my work, even in a static image like a portrait or a still life. A lot clicked for me when I heard that. It gave me a much clearer understanding of my work. It was interesting to be made aware of what came naturally to me but what I might have otherwise overlooked. This new framing gave me a direction to pursue and embrace.
There’s also a conflict I have with the camera, which might explain why a lot of photographers turn to filmmaking. They want to see their images move. The question I asked myself was, how do I make a photograph move, especially when movement composes so much of what I see and experience in the world.
Has documenting movement influenced how you participate in it?
Without a doubt, but more so the other way around. Through movement, I see and understand more about what I want to document. Years ago, my physiotherapist told me I had a strong awareness of my body—proprioception, kinaesthesia, etc. I feel every sensation in my body. I also observe in detail how other people move. It helps me think about what I aim to find and make an image from.
How do your work intersect with your personal life?
For many many years, my being a photographer was pure embodiment. More recently, however, I’ve gained a clearer perspective of what my personal life looks and feels like without work. Especially the commercial side. I need to shut this out completely as I find aspects of my commercial practice like pitching, writing treatments, and talking the talk with clients exhausting. It uses more energy than when I’m on set.
My personal life can sometimes involve a camera, but it is so rich with other things that I simply don’t need what my relationship with photography provides. I also believe that separating myself from things allows me to better engage with them when I step back into that mode.
How has your relationship to movement changed over time?
My relationship with movement has two prongs. One is public-facing and community-driven, being surrounded by friends near and far. I run, ride, hike, and put on and attend events with people I like. It’s a huge part of my social life, and it’s interesting to have friendships oriented around movement. Crew running is a perfect example of that. In the earlier days, it was something you rocked up to on a Tuesday and then went home. Now, it's a special bond with close-knit group that does everything together.
Then there is my internal relationship with movement. This year, in particular, was about just enjoying movement. Last year, I experienced an injury because I put a lot of pressure on myself, had a highly competitive mindset, and was very rigid in my decision-making. It left me exhausted and, frankly, I was over it. But the result was a sort of ego death. I feel this needs to be repeated continually; letting go of a lot of unnecessary learnings, keeping it simple, and allowing intuition to guide decisions.
Have you entertained the reality that one day movement will be taken away from you? What if it were tomorrow?
Experiencing an injury severe enough to prevent even walking or hobbling put me in a dark place mentally, especially since I gain a lot of energy from the way I currently move, not to mention the social benefits. When I see people from older generations jogging or exercising, I hope that’s me when I’m 70. We often imagine a more utopian vision of what life would be like. To think about the thing you love being gone is an unbearable feeling.
You’ve told me you’re interested in spaces where people are so themselves…
Yes! I love democratic spaces—airports, beaches, parks, gyms. You are completely on show to anyone who is there, but often doing something quite intimate and personal. I love going to the gym for this reason. People are sweating, making noises, and performing, and they are surrounded by people doing the same thing. And it only makes sense in the context of being in a gym. I just love that people bring all their habits and personalities to these spaces. They are, for the most part, places for everyone.
Good Sport describes itself as “a magazine out of left field.” Why are you drawn to exploring sports from unexpected or unusual angles?
Ultimately, it’s about being bored with what I traditionally or generally see. I like to see hidden things, uncommon or unconventional things. It’s what I find interesting and would want to read or hear about. Sport is a very strange spectacle that the entire world loves. It is so massive, constantly evolving, and there are so many intriguing stories that surround it. Why not explore them? Sport leaves room for everything and everyone.
One thing you’re currently exploring is the idea of sport as a “prop.” Can you elaborate on that a little?
Yes, “the prop” is the central theme for the next edition of Good Sport. As a team, we were exhausted from the deep dives we did for the last issue. Our relationship with sport felt somewhat flat, a bit disconnected. After some discussion, we decided to work on something more playful. The idea is that sport is often used to prop up ideals, values, movements, politics, or other interests, playing a supporting role in a greater narrative. Sometimes to the extent that sport itself is a fake, replica, or deception. We’re working on it. Slowly.