Artist David Moore is a master of the photographic exposé: in the course of his career he has negotiated his way into such secretive environments as the House of Commons (in The Commons) and the Ministry of Defence (The Last Things), as well as crashing a range of private parties for his series The Velvet Arena. But Moore’s images aren’t meant to condemn or criticize—he is an artistic observer rather than a journalist hungry for a story. His unusual choice of subjects reflects his interest in turning the lens on institutions of power, often inscrutable and camera-shy subjects. As he prepares a project on the high-security Paddington Green police station, where terrorism suspects in the UK are brought for interrogation, we caught up with Moore to talk about money, power and the penetrating glare of the flashbulb.


How was shooting the Concorso d’Eleganza historic car show?

There is something extremely exotic about the manifestation of such wealth. I’ve been photographing social events, deconstructing power in a political/social institution—I think this job is very much in line with a lot of work I’ve done as an art photographer. Normally I do darkened rooms, but on this occasion I showed up to a beautiful location with a camera to watch the event. My job was to just mill around and photograph things that were gestural or overlooked, something that would pick up the undercurrent of what is going on. It was easy to do because everyone is taking photographs of the cars. But I was photographing people, so it is quite easy to blend in and work in a slightly subterfuge manner. But my intentions were not to ridicule or to be cruel.

How did you find this nexus of power in comparison with the others you have documented?

In the mid-90s I did a piece of work called The Velvet Arena, which was a small book published by Velvet Press, and it was again a kind of satirical series of observations of private views seen in London at that time. This relates in the sense that occasionally I will photograph in social settings, which can then be metaphorically applied to bigger, societal issues.
 
You seem to be drawn to the hidden—halls of power, underground bunkers. Is there something to that?

I think so. I see flash as a social searchlight to show the things that are unobserved. I’m photographing things that may or may not be worthy of that attention, but which have not been brought to our attention previously. All documentary photographers work this way—[though] I’m a documentary artist, I suppose: they go to a place, photograph it and then they give their audience their version of what they’ve seen. They’re not thinking about objectivity or anything like that—always a subject and response.

When in a place like the MoD for The Last Things, where you are, I imagine, constantly pushing how far you can go with a shoot, is there a daredevil joy in getting away with it?

Not really. I wouldn’t use the word “daredevil.” There is an excitement, a surreal excitement about being in that space.
 
Because of the revelation of an unseen place?

Because being there is unbelievable. That space particularly [a hidden bunker underneath London] is still not officially acknowledged. You’ll find it on Wikipedia but you won’t find any government or state acknowledgement, which makes for an odd situation [when] you’re standing in it, taking a photograph of it.

Is it a natural segue to your upcoming work at the Paddington Green police station?

Yes, because no one has photographed that either. What ties this all together is that documentary photography used to look at the dispossessed, the poor. My process is about turning the camera around 180 degrees and observing power.