Early in the novel, Miranda, an art student, makes an important distinction between painting and photography. For her, painting and drawing are living artforms that create something new rather than replicate that which already exists. She vastly prefers these artforms to photography, which she claims has a deadening effect on its subject. Notably, the novel associates Miranda primarily with drawing and Frederick Clegg, her captor, with photography. Miranda regularly attempts to draw Clegg but finds herself having a hard time. Her inability to do so suggests that there is something dead about Clegg himself which is keeping her from capturing his living essence. Meanwhile, Clegg regularly photographs Miranda, though Miranda insists that there is no artistry present in his photos. At first, Clegg’s photographs of Miranda are innocent and would only be considered suspect due to the broader circumstances. However, eventually they become more invasive, as Clegg takes nude pictures of Miranda after drugging her with chloroform. This portrayal of photography aligns with Miranda’s view that photography can have a deadening effect, as it reduces its subjects to static images, stripped of their dynamism and spirit. Indeed, by the end of the novel, Miranda is dead and all that remains of her in Clegg’s home are the pictures he keeps. The animosity the novel displays toward photography is in line with the thinking of European philosophers of the mid-20th century such as Roland Barthes, who were concerned about the role emerging technologies would play in the realms of life and art. In its association of photography with Clegg, the novel questions the long-term effects different modes of artistic representation can have on their subjects.
Painting vs. Photography ThemeTracker
Painting vs. Photography Quotes in The Collector
I took the photos that evening. Just ordinary, of her sitting reading. They came out quite well.
One day about then she did a picture of me, like returned the compliment. I had to sit in a chair and look at the corner of the room. After half an hour she tore up the drawing before I could stop her. (She often tore up. Artistic temperament, I suppose.)
I’d have liked it, I said. But she didn’t even reply to that, she just said, don’t move.
From time to time she talked. Mostly personal remarks.
“You’re very difficult to get. You’re so featureless. Everything’s nondescript. I’m thinking of you as an object, not as a person.”
No pity. No God. I shouted at him and he went mad. I was too weak to stop him. Bound and gagged me and took his beastly photographs. I don’t mind the pain. The humiliation. I did what he wanted. To get it over. I don’t mind for myself any more. But oh God the beastliness of it all. I’m crying I’m crying I can’t write.
I will not give in. I will not give in.