Vivian Maier, born in New York City in 1926, lived most of her life in everyday, normal-person obscurity. Her grandmother and mother were French immigrants, and both moved precariously through various odd jobs; Maier herself worked much of her life as a nanny for wealthy families in Chicago's suburbs.
But shortly before her death in 2009, it was discovered that Maier had taken thousands of photographs, squirreling away the images and negatives (some never developed) in storage lockers. When her payments on those lockers lapsed, the contents were purchased by bidders, and Maier's photographs made their way, by chance and happenstance, from thrift store to art world notice.
Today, Maier is celebrated as an artistic genius. Her photos, as The Vivian Maier Mystery, a BBC documentary released to VOD this week, is careful to tell us, sell for thousands of dollars.
And what do purchasers get for those thousands of dollars? The film argues, firmly and consistently, that what they get is great art; various photographers and curators talk about Maier's compositional skill, her artistic vision, her technical abilities. But while they're never entirely articulated, there are other possible sources of value lurking in the narrative.
"People identify with her; they love the story, and then they love the work," gallery owner Steven Kasher says in The Vivian Maier Mystery, and Kasher's formulation— "they love the story, and then they love the work"—can mean that buyers love both story and work. But it might also mean that they love the story first, and then love the work because of the story. If that's the case, people may be paying thousands of dollars not for a particularly striking composition, but for a chance to be part of Maier's odd narrative—to participate in the story of the secret, humble genius, now revealed.
This sort of question about the intent of both viewer and artist often comes up with "outsider artists" like Maier. If a creator lived and worked outside the institutional art context, what is the incentive, and what exactly are the politics, of bringing them inside? Is putting them in the gallery an honor? And if so, for whom?
The film does not use the term "outsider artist," but Maier does not appear to have had any formal training and didn't show in galleries during her lifetime. In part this may have reflected her own individual preferences or difficulties; she was by many accounts a temperamental, private person, and seems to have struggled with mental illness late in life. In part, her distance from the high art world was probably because she was working-class. Many of her pictures are of the children who were in her care; they show kids at the beach climbing over rocks, children happy, children sad.
If those sound like your typical family photos, well, they are. Several interviewees in the documentary argue that Maier was both inside and outside the suburban milieu she photographed, and suggest that that distance elevated (or "transcended," as one talking head says) the snapshot. But if you didn't know that she was both inside and outside, it's not entirely clear that the photos would transcend anything in particular. When the film goes to France, where Maier spent some of her childhood, one of her school friends looks at a picture of her mother which Maier took, and says, Hey, I'd like to keep this, it's a nice picture of my mother. The school friend reacts with recognition and nostalgia—in other words, the way you would to a family photo album. She likes it because it shows her mother, not because it's formally beautiful, or insightful. She's looking at it as a personal memento, not as art.