Like those iconic works, “New Paris” evokes a small society of its own. It is a world of mothers, sisters, grandmothers, cousins ​​and neighbors looking at us, away from us and through us, framed by the windows, doors, picture frames and computer screens that mediate everyday life. We watch Schell’s cast of characters burn their trash, carpet their rooms, clean their guns, watch televisions, walk their dogs, drive their horses, do their chores, and go about their busy days. Schell does not stage their portraits or paintings of engineers; he captures only the blur of motion as children play, the chaos of a chick flapping its wings, the amusing jumble as a seemingly headless man changes his shirt in front of two taxidermied bear heads, and – not unlike – the exact moment when a man appears prone on the floor, like a chimera, with a dog’s head transposed on his own.

Although Schell is a digital native, he now shoots almost entirely on 35mm. film, slowing down his practice. Instead of hundreds of tries and exits, he watches and waits, trying to “honor the moment at hand.” Sometimes this makes subjects appear as if they are actively, willingly posing for him; other times, they seem unaware of his camera. Often he uses a different kind of secrecy, photographing people who are hidden by smoke or blur or patches of snow, obscurities that remind us of photography’s own limitations and the impossibility of capturing, let alone conveying, the whole of any person . Another artist might feel compelled to render death, divorce and depression through pained or saccharine poses, but “New Paris,” like the work of Larry Fink or Nick Waplington, is full of visual wordplay and comic confusion. A look of agony might really be a roar of laughter; a man and his dog touch in profile, but cheeky when shot from below, the dog’s rear end parallel and wrinkled like the man’s beer belly.