From punk portraiture to mobile publishing, the Brooklyn-based artist is reshaping how photography connects people—one zine, one workshop, one frame at a time.
Opening -----------------------------------------------------
A teenager stares into the lens—half-defiant, half-curious. The photo is grainy, tender, and unguarded. It might live in a gallery, or in a zine passed hand-to-hand. For Andreas Laszlo Konrath, that ambiguity is the point. The British-born, Brooklyn-based photographer and artist-educator has spent two decades building a practice that resists hierarchy and invites collaboration. Whether through film portraits, community workshops, or his mobile zine-making app SHRIMP ZINE, Konrath’s work asks: what happens when we make art without gatekeepers?
What you’re looking at ---------------------------------------
Konrath’s images are intimate without being invasive. Shot on film or digital, his portraits often feature friends, collaborators, or strangers encountered through shared scenes—punk shows, art schools, city streets. The compositions are direct, but never cold. There’s a softness to his framing, a sense of mutual permission. His long-running series TUPSU (2011–ongoing) and Anthony No Name At Gmail Dot Com (2008–) document identity as something in flux—shaped by memory, subculture, and time.
How it’s made -----------------------------------------------
Konrath’s toolkit spans analog and digital: 35mm cameras, Xerox machines, mobile apps, and risograph printers. He’s as likely to be found leading a zine workshop at Dia Art Foundation as he is publishing a new edition through SHRIMP ZINE, the mobile web app he created to democratize zine-making. His process is iterative and collaborative—rooted in punk’s DIY ethos but updated for a mobile-first generation.
What it’s doing ----------------------------------------------
Konrath’s work doesn’t just document—it distributes. His zines circulate through libraries (MoMA, the Met, Getty, Yale), classrooms, and Instagram feeds. They function as both art objects and social tools, collapsing the space between artist and audience. His portraits suggest that intimacy can be archival, and that memory can be a shared medium.
Context & stakes --------------------------------------------
Konrath sits in a lineage of artist-publishers like Ed Templeton, Ari Marcopoulos, and Nan Goldin—figures who’ve used photography to map subcultures from the inside. But his practice is distinctly 21st-century: mobile, modular, and community-forward. Through residencies at The Church Sag Harbor and participation in NEW INC (the New Museum’s cultural incubator), he’s helped bridge zine culture with institutional art spaces—without diluting its spirit.
Closing ------------------------------------------------------
In an art world still shaped by exclusivity, Konrath’s work offers a counter-model: one where publishing is participatory, education is peer-led, and photography is a tool for connection. His zines aren’t just artifacts—they’re invitations. And his workshops aren’t just skill-shares—they’re acts of cultural stewardship. Konrath’s portraits don’t shout—they listen. His zines don’t just archive—they activate. In a time of algorithmic feeds and institutional fatigue, his work reminds us that art can still be slow, tactile, and shared. Whether you’re flipping through a Xeroxed booklet or joining a workshop in Red Hook, you’re part of something bigger: a living archive of care, culture, and creative resistance.