1966 marked a distinctive point in photographer Walker Evans’ career. Staving off his classification as an FSA [Farm Security Administration] documentarian, Evans made a series of non-commissioned photographs of spaces in America. The result was a concise selection of twelve masterful photogravures, bound in a 14 x 14 inch hardcover book, titled Message from the Interior.‍

Published by Eakins Press in 1966, it was a feat of materiality. Championing product and presentation, his twelve works were not only monuments in material, scale, and pagination, but spoke of a larger re-characterization of his identity as an artist. 

In the book’s afterward, John Szarkowski remarks: “The photographs of Walker Evans pretend to reproduce—without interpretation, without feeling, almost without thoughts—the very bones and clay of the actual world.” 

Evans’ photos can be interpreted as a stark material study of the world around us, reproducing intimate spaces as if one were physically there. But was Evans conscious of what he would, or could, infuse into these photographs—a seemingly objective portrayal of interior spaces?

Evans’ images state: here is our material world, and here are its traces. The texture of decaying siding, chipped and broken, revealing charred wood paneling from the unrelenting torrents of fire. A shadow cast onto wood cladding in a subject’s kitchen or living room. But the shadow, transcendent in nature yet frozen in frame, becomes alive and fleeting. A soot stained fireplace suggests years of use, a photograph hanging above a shelf where a box, mirror and clock rest—all relics of an earlier place or time. In all twelve photographs, the presence of a distinguished spirit is undeniable, and consequently, unavoidable.

To presume that no interference is possible, that one could present a series of interiors through a purely objective, literal lens—one that omits its varied history and emotion—is unlikely. It is this very trick, this very “pretending” I would like to think Szarkowski speaks of. The pretending being not just Evans’ masterful ability to transmute the power of interiors, making the spaces come to life as if real—but rather Evans’ choice, conscious or not, to reject the notion that spaces can be reduced to a simple material understanding; one that is singular, fixed, or static. Is it really possible to reproduce the very bones and clay of the world “without interpretation,” “without feeling,” and “without thoughts”? We are almost fooled. 

What, then, is the “message from the interior”? Evans calls upon the history of a space. He calls upon a “message,” yet without imposing what precisely that message is. Does the “interior” signify literal spaces, or an inner realm? Traces appear in Evans’ photographs, reminding us of the ineffable—that which trails behind or lingers, pulling us towards some center of which we have no precise definition for. We see a room with an open door leading to another which looks to be an almost identical replication of itself. A passageway or portal? But to whom—or to what—remains a mystery. It is fitting, then, for Szarkowski to write that “nothing [is] hidden except their ultimate meaning.” 

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What is found in darkness?

Architect Sigurd Lewerentz constructed St. Peter’s Church in Klippan, Sweden, between 1962 and 1966, an intensive project spanning four years and resulting in a profound use of materials. Instead of a sequence of photographs, Lewerentz’s masterpiece lies in a sequence of brick, the echo of water droplets, and the prevailing presence of darkness.

During the church’s construction, Lewerentz gave specific instruction that each brick be hand laid, as was traditionally done prior to the Industrial Revolution. With not a single brick cut, a wall meeting an arch where the mass of half a brick might otherwise have been structurally necessary was instead filled with a thick section of mortar. Lewerentz even had mortar smeared across the brick faces themself, an act accentuating the labor of the craftsmen and consequently turning the building into a “living artifact.” (ArchEyes, 2023.) With the nuance of texture and form, Lewerentz imbues life into his structure. 

With just a few small sources of natural light, Lewerentz emphasizes subdued light and shadow, differing from other conventional spiritual structures which instead aim to highlight a strong, consistent source of light. With minute differences depending on season and time of day, Lewerentz’s square windows filter in an irreproducible intensity of light. In Sven Blume’s film Lewerentz Divine Darkness, Petra Gripp explains how Lewerentz uses light “as if it had mass... as if [it was] something physical ... being pushed into a room.” (Blume, 2024, 44:46) Beyond the church’s physical construction and use of brick, Lewerentz shapes light as a material in its own right—sometimes solid and steady, other times transient or fleeting.

It is here where one finds poetry infused within the darkened, brick walls of Lewerentz’s church. Replacing what would be a traditional baptismal font, droplets fall in succession from a faucet into the mouth of a gigantic seashell. Paced with the steadiness and precision of a metronome, their profound echo is both a site to ground to our material existence and remind us of the possibility of ascension beyond. 

The experience in St. Peter’s Church is one of deep connection to the material world. The bricks’ uniform quality could create the effect of a maze or labyrinth—something daunting and oppressive—but we are not trampled by Lewerentz’s use of materials, substantive or severe as they may be. Somehow, Lewerentz’s structure reaches far beyond the bounds of the material world, offering an invitation to those who listen closely.

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With St. Peter’s Church completed in 1966 and Message from the Interior published the same year, there’s a distinct lesson to learn from these two figures whose mystical works coincidentally align in time. Just as Evans never alluded to the exact meaning of the message, Lewerentz rarely gave interviews, leaving us with no predetermined characterization of his work to pull from. With their intentions buried behind their respective mediums, we are left with the sheer impact of their craft alone. 

Evans and Lewerentz show us the potential for interiors to transcend their literal makeup or function. The material world brings us into other realms, and if we’re lucky, transmutes meanings that are deeply affecting. There exists an invitation to see beyond the primary interpretation, to be ushered into those murky, undefined, and immaterial realms; to be moved.

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References: ‍

ArchEyes. (2023). The Church of St Peter in Klippan by Sigurd Lewerentz. ArchEyes.

Blume, S. (Director). (2024). Lewerentz Divine Darkness [Film]. William Johansson.

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