Diane Arbus
I was not a fan of Diane Arbus, from what little I knew of her work. I first became acquainted with her photographs in college, when I took Professor Weinberg’s fabulous 20th century American Art history class. He pointed out her preoccupation with freaks and weirdos, with slides of her photographs depicting twins, giants, circus performers, and transvestites. While I shared Arbus’ fascination with eccentrics and subcultures, I found her photographs bleak and devoid of empathy. She seemed to use her camera to examine people as curious objects, like an etymologist who catalogues different kinds of beetles and butterflies. She did not seem interested in exploring the humanity of those whom she photographed. While my favorite photographer, Nan Goldin, also took pictures of drag queens and eccentrics, she considered them to be her friends and family. Significantly, she often took pictures of herself amongst them. While Arbus took pictures of strange objects who happened to be people, Nan Goldin took pictures of life happening before her eyes. One key manifestation of this difference is in their respective use of color. Arbus’ photographs are black and white, static, preoccupied with the contrasts in light and texture. Her subjects almost seem coached to display a blank affect—to stare at the camera with empty eyes, or to look off into space with a disinterested expression. Their personalities do not distract from their appearance, whether mundane or bizarre. While Goldin also has formal concerns, her work bursts with garish color, and often the subjects are in movement, losing clarity of line and texture. Her subjects are conscious of the camera, but appear to present themselves as they wish—with a coy, seductive gaze, or a dismissive sideways glance. As you’ve probably guessed, I much prefer Goldin’s work.
I decided to go to the Met to check out the current Diane Arbus exhibit, even though I wasn’t a fan. I knew that she had committed suicide. I was curious to learn more about her life.
Surprise, surprise, I actually liked much of her early work. It reminded me of the current Marc Jacobs advertisements, which were probably somehow influenced by her photographs. The stark, elegiac compositions also reminded me a lot of the imagery of the television show Six Feet Under. There was an ethereal black-and-white photograph of a castle in Disneyworld, which nearly took my breath away. How embarrassing, to have such a reacting to a photograph of a Disney theme park creation! But that photograph was stunning. There were also some great ones of 1950’s kids, decked out all James Dean-style, with overly greased hair, defiant eyes, pouty lips recently bereft of cigarettes. One photograph of a kid in a pool hall, of course, reminded me of an ex who was an avid pool player. I think he would have gotten a kick out of that one. I had been so caught up in her subject matter, and her attitude towards it, that I failed to notice the formal artistry of her photographs. All in all, I was actually enjoying myself, while expanding my visual vocabulary.
I really appreciated the inclusion of personal artifacts. There were pages from notebooks, reproduced scribbles and lists, her cameras, postcards, letters, and even a model bookshelf. There were pangs of recognition when I read her thoughts about Plato, and descriptions of her dreams...for a second I thought, yes, I'm like her. An artist. But without a medium, and without discernibly outstanding talent.
The most difficult part of the exhibition was the last group of photographs, those taken from 1970-1971 before her suicide. Most of them depicted middle-aged and elderly adults in an insane asylum. They played on the grass, or walked in groups, clutching each other and laughing maniacally. They wore robes, and some of them wore sinister masks. Most of them had their faces stretched into wide, blank, mindless smiles. Both masked and unmasked, they were amongst the only smiling subjects seen in the entire collection. These images were like the dream projections of a profoundly tortured soul, and were almost unbearable for me to view.
Leaving the museum, and re-entering a world of color, I was struck by how beautiful the world was. A cheesy sentiment, I know, but true. Trees heavy with abundant pink and white blossoms. Graceful arches of green leafed branches overhead. None of this beauty was in Arbus' photographs...I wonder if she could see it, appreciate it? Or if her cloud of depression prevented her from seeing anything but outward reflections of her own misery?
I also wonder about whether Arbus wanted to be treated, or should have been treated...would she have lost her art if she also lost her depression? Would she have been willing to take that risk? Is sacrificing one's own mental health worth producing something extraordinary which will survive, which will seep into the souls of others, after your death? I worried about this when I was a freshman in college...I associated my depression with improved creative ability. And I'm not sure I was wrong...I read some of the stuff I wrote back then, and despite the lack of focus, it's wild and beautiful and crazy, almost brilliant. I can't even imagine creating anything like that right now. Although I ultimately chose my mental health over my creativity and artistry, sometimes I do wonder what I lost in the process.