Growing up in the 90s, transgression in art, as far as I understood, stemmed from the oppressive neoliberalist tendencies carried over from the 80s. Degrees of Thatcherism and Reaganism haunted the landscape of artistry, alongside many questions arising from social issues concerning the body. Gay rights and the grappling of feminism, and more essentially, its opposition from the ruling political class, created, along with Aids, and the uploading of moral values rhetoric, an environment where artists, musicians, and anybody living outside of the enforced bubble of consumer takeover and socio-political rightwing moralizing found kindred spirits in one another. The artists of the time advanced a call to rid the political body of its panics, othering, and religious overreach. We can thank the poets, musicians, and visual artists for rallying against the heinous commonplace they’re pushing against the moral panic of the day. It is due to their fight and others’ that we have the rich focus on diversity we have today. Their fight was transgressive, sometimes impulsive, but always sincere.
Much has changed in the intervening decades. Continual war has hollowed out much of the enthusiasm of the proverbial kicking against the pricks. The Internet has fostered a false sense that individuality is displayed rather than lived and that there is solidarity in our stake in political claims. No longer does the church issue its mandate with the same effect. Our chruches are now political theater and the belief system used to cudgel the experience to the brow is a new type of censorial predetermination on all sides of the political spectrum-a staked tribalism in which foundational roots are left behind as sarguments imprint our psyche, both individually and collectively, allowing us, at a distance, to take sides in a pitiable war of attrition with those whom we disagree with. Transgression: actual transgression has gone the way of the tweet, and we no longer experience a sustained commitment to the idea of counterculture. Instead, everything is manifest; no secret collectives are changing the shape of art, because it is ushered in so rapidly that our IG posts and TikTok uploads undermine the sustainability of such efforts. We casually pump and dump minute experience for the sake of capital, and refuse ourselves any permanence in doing so, yet we convince ourselves that we are connected.
What does this have to do with church architecture and vernacular photography? Not much, and yet, when I was leafing through Roman Kienjet & Willem Van Zoetendaal’s Pas de Culte (2025) this morning, it dawned on me, instead echoed a sentiment that I had shared earlier with my colleague Simon Bray’s excellent work Searching Beneath the Silence, a project about church interiors that also broadly discusses loss and personal rumination through English church interiors, beautifully subdued in melancholic light. Thinking about churches and transgression, I had remarked to Simon that the real subversive or transgressive practice of our times is more about continuity and community in the face of ever-increasing dislocation. Though I stake no claim to divinity myself, I catch myself wondering in 2025 whether it is not a dangerous concept to have a fundamental in-person community meeting point every week. One that does not live on TikTok and is, frankly, not overly sexy enough to photograph. Suppose I work from the premise that the times and their social and political morass create transgressive sentiment.
In that case, I believe the true mark of disobedience in the age of political rancor might be one of the sows, with all comers welcomed to a meeting of minds and bodies to discuss collective health or spiritual matters (of which I have none, yet I listen). We speak often about these ideas, or at least Americans are currently doing so, when it comes to political ideology and their innate fear that communism is on the way in as they slough through actual tyranny. The idea of anything collective is either Hitler or terrorism, with no discussion in between. Here are potential spaces for architecture and acceptance to be discussed, similar to a town hall, but ideally with manners and a broader focus on the ennui or existential qualifiers we are currently facing. Of course, this would also mean that the navigators of such spaces would have to meet people in 2025 halfway, stop it with the kid business and the homophobia, and work towards tending the garden equally. It’s a tall order, but not one we couldn’t make happen if there were countermeasures in place against the divisionism and individualism we believe we currently inhabit. You cannot have individualism and collectivism at the same time.
But let me return to Pas de Culte. Pas de Culte is slightly transgressive in the way it offers typological cues to the viewer. On its face, it is a study of church architecture. I refrain from using the sacred here for a multitude of reasons. It is a historical overview that presents as a project indebted to typology, or the systematic study of similar objects, in this case, architectural ones. These objects align to present an overview of architectural photography and an analysis of form, with images culled from various archives and the objects themselves from different predominantly Northern European geographies. What makes them interesting is the study of the underobserved in 2025. Though churches continue to be photographed, there is a distinct lack of photographing ALL churches. Those that are monumental or of touristic importance receive their due, while other smaller churches in more remote townships are not considered interesting. Until the 1990s, churches held a significant place in society. That sentiment has shifted dramatically over the last 4-5 decades, with a decline in interest in religion itself. In putting together this postcard case study, the authors are not equivocating on religion itself. Instead, they are drawing on a catalog of architectural objects that are functional but whose diminished sociological presence warrants note.
In this sense, looking at the underobserved and committing to them, as in Simon’s work, offers a potentially transgressive investigation of photographic display culture. I would go so far as to say it is almost hermetic in approach, and that if I know much about artists, it is not a volume that will be easy to be drawn to without prior associations lodged in complaint. This stated, it is precisely why I find it a fascinating book and one worth spending time with the same way one might spend time with Batia Suter’s work. The anecdotal essays within, some with a historical overview, help craft the book as something less indulgent toward religion than a question of what these objects represent to us in the present, and therefore offer several ways to understand the book’s aim. I very much enjoy it, and I have relatively minor skin in the surface-level theological game. Highly recommended
Pas de Culte
Roman Kienjet & Willem Van Zoetendaal
Van Zoetendaal Publishers
Original Press Release
‘Pas de culte’ presents hundreds of photographs of places of worship in the Netherlands and its former colonies, spanning over 185 years. The selection includes works by Pieter Oosterhuis, GH Breitner, Alfred Stieglitz, Adolph Mulder, and Ed van der Elsken, alongside many anonymous photographers, sourced from various Dutch collections and archives. Many images have rarely, if ever, been shown. They capture exteriors and interiors, people and surroundings, and states of ruin, demolition, or restoration. The visual rhythm of images is interspersed by thoughtful interviews with four contemporary artists: Marinus Boezem, Paul Kooiker, Marc Mulders, and Fiona Tan.