Diane Arbus. Female Impersonator Holding Long Gloves, Hempstead, L.I., 1959. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. © The Estate of Diane Arbus, LLC.

Diane Arbus: In the Beginning is a meandering, somewhat maudlin journey through the subterranean layers of “unusual” midcentury American society. An endearing lack of mastery over the medium is apparent in the quality of the photographs, and it is important to note that the work constituting the majority of the exhibition (with the exception of a few canonical medium-format prints) is on display for the first time.[1]

Every canonical artist carries critical baggage. Arbus’ ethical intentions have been critically deemed exploitative[2], and the exhibition does very little to suggest an alternative perspective, as it does not reevaluate or grow the artist’s repertoire and only adds to its mass. With that in mind, the work that stood out to me is a scattered series of drive-in movie and movie-theater screens, taken mid-film, capturing an often-blurred moment of the cinematic narrative. While static portraits of circus clowns and peculiarly marked headstones strike a dissonant chord (curiously juxtaposed with numerous photographs of “female impersonators,” suggesting that these gender-queer individuals are to be considered among the grotesque), the frozen film stills speak much more evocatively to depiction and viewership as a dynamic relation. Many of the stills contain a horrific quality, such as a man being strangled, or a woman bleeding from her eyes. Arbus explores the representation of the macabre (as opposed to her greater body of work, which appears to be largely concerned with naming it as such). This work feels like the seed of Arbus’ inquiry into the representation of the surreal.

Several short quotes by Arbus herself are peppered throughout the exhibition in the form of wall text, the most striking of which was: “My favorite thing is to go where I’ve never been.” This quote is meant to illustrate an adventurous and free-spirited character, which perhaps Arbus was, in her own way. Leaving the exhibition and stepping into the streets of the Tenderloin, I am struck by the realization that to go where one has never been is a great privilege—which entails leaving behind where one has been. Arbus photographed those who inhabited the places she had “never been,” taking a memento of them away with her (one which eventually became commodified), while those same individuals did not share the same privilege of mobility, whether trapped in poverty, in a body they didn’t identify with, or on the silver screen.

Diane Arbus: In the Beginning is on view at SFMOMA through April 30, 2017.

Max Blue is in his third year at the San Francisco Art Institute, working toward a BA in the History & Theory of Contemporary Art, with a minor in Photography. He is a poet and critical-theory enthusiast.

[1] “Diane Arbus: In the Beginning” (exhibition summary), San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, accessed March 4, 2017, https://www.sfmoma.org/exhibition/diane-arbus-beginning/.

[2] Susan Sontag, “Freak Show,” New York Review of Books, November 15, 1973.

Diane Arbus. Lady on a Bus, N.Y.C., 1957; gelatin silver print; 14 x 11 in. Courtesy of the Met Breuer. © The Estate of Diane Arbus, LLC.

I was not even a full sentence into reading the online description for Diane Arbus: In the Beginning at the Met Breuer, an exhibition dedicated to the artist’s earliest works, before I had doubts. It was this tidbit that gave me pause: “Featuring more than 100 photographs that together will redefine one of the most influential and provocative artists of the 20th century.” I’m not above hyperbole, but come on. The beginning of any photographer’s career might show development as an artist, but would this phase redefine a photographer’s image? I doubted that seeing her path to finding her voice would redefine how I perceived Arbus in any significant way.

The setup is perhaps the most sublime part of the exhibition. Each photograph is hung on its own two-foot-wide panel, with a three-foot gap between panels arranged in rows. The physical setup of the exhibition forces viewers to stop and contemplate each photograph on its own terms. The panels and the space in between create a rhythm: look, think, rest, restart. Arranged as such, the gallery becomes a room-size contact sheet of Arbus’ work. Much like on an actual contact sheet, a number of the photographs don’t feel worthy of display, much less in a major art museum. For instance, the exhibit had numerous pictures Arbus took of movie screens. Seeing one such image is informative; seeing three, some of which are blurry or out of focus, is two too many. However, the setup forces viewers to stop and contemplate the lesser works anyway.

And don’t get me wrong, there are still great works in this show. There’s Arbus’ famous Child with Toy Hand Grenade in Central Park (1962), and a number of other photographs exemplify Arbus at her wonky best. In these works that most clearly anticipate her later work, viewers can see what caught Arbus’ eye early on—a weird look from a passerby or a wax statue, stuck in the uncanny valley. The exhibition’s greatest virtue is placing her truly amazing works in better context. Arbus was a committed practitioner; one realizes the practice, time, and effort that Arbus went through to make her more iconic works. But if you go to the exhibition, don’t expect to be radically changed by it, as claimed by its promotional materials. Photographs are not allowed in the galleries, which is a pity. Because really, what’s more Arbusian than taking pictures of people blankly staring at photographs, trying to find a deep meaning where there may be none?

Diane Arbus: In the Beginning will be on view through November 27, 2016.

Henry Rittenberg is a recent graduate of Hamilton College, where he studied art history. He is now studying photography in New York.

I.

© Stacy Elaine Dacheux

In the 1980s, Nan Goldin used photography to document her life and empower her own history.

In 2012, I resisted purchasing an iPhone for fear of having too much access to the world at all times. I did not want to think about sharing and likes in relation to worth. I did not want to worry about friends, following and being followed, and I definitely did not want to grow an extra limb in order to show the world I existed.

However, I did not want to be left out of the world either, so, last week, I broke down and bought one, an iPhone, and now I am stuck, specifically, on Instagram.

“It’s as if my hand were a camera. If it were possible, I’d want no mechanism between me and the moment of photographing. The camera is as much a part of my everyday life as talking or eating or sex. The instant of photographing, instead of creating distance, is a moment of clarity and emotional connection for me. There is a popular notion that the photographer is by nature a voyeur, the last one invited to the party. But I’m not crashing; this is my party.”—Nan Goldin, 1986

Dear Nan, FYI, it’s not always fun to throw your own party.

Sometimes, it can make you feel pretty shitty.

Sincerely, Stacy.

II.

© Stacy Elaine Dacheux

“The world can only be grasped by action, not by contemplation. The hand is the cutting edge of the mind.”—Diane Arbus

At 21, in the darkroom, I dipped my fingers in the fixer to pull out a print.

“Don’t do that.” A classmate reprimanded. “Your hands are like sponges.”

At 28, outside The Good Luck Bar, I tried to remember my father’s hands. They were thick, dry and chalky—he bit his nails to the bone, sometimes they bled. I was drunk, and unlocking my bike from the stop sign. A hipster kid with a camera took my picture. I told him not to do that. So, he took another one.

“Why are you doing this?” I wanted to know.

“Hey, why not?” He was flirting.

“I always thought of photography as a naughty thing to do—that was one of my favorite things about it, and when I first did it, I felt very perverse.”—Diane Arbus

I shoved the camera into his stomach, pushing him out of my way. My father was dead and I was depressed. I wanted that night and that horrible feeling to be mine, only mine. He got caught stealing and I needed him to know that acting cutesy and suggestive about it all was not cool.

III.

© Stacy Elaine Dacheux

Tonight, I am performing my “future portraits” piece at Concord Space.

I am performing this particular piece because I am scared of and interested in confrontation—how we talk to each other non-verbally and where our minds go based on first impressions and certain visceral judgments. I am especially scared/interested in the documentation process. How will my muse feel about my power to document him or her? How long will I allow them to sit before I feel uneasy about my power to document?

Portraiture is as much about control and systems as anything else.

Portraiture has its own emotional frequency or government.

I hope to remember that it is my responsibility to be fair when designing future portraits, to look at my own preconceptions and push past these into the future.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux performing at Concord Space. Photo by Jason Gutierrez, 2012.

This is not just about the subject, but myself as well, trying to move past my preconceptions. What does the subject bring up in me? Where does my mind go, and how do I fantasize about the subject? What makes me feel uncertain about him or her? What do I admire? How can I push past these personal biases and try to get to the heart or dream of the subject? Can our imaginations be objective? If so, how?

No matter where my subjects go, I will go too. This is a promise: not to judge or capture, but to hold hands. It is my world they will inhabit and I need to remember this in terms of building another space for us. I want to be a pleasant host in the dream.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux’s "Future Portrait" desk. Photo by Jason Gutierrez, 2012.

My little portrait studio is situated in a cozy corner of the art space and consists of a backdrop, stool, “future portrait” signage, lighting, and desk. I use the following materials to create each portrait: typewriter, personalized stamp, blue twine, archival ink, newsprint, 4″ x 4″ paper with matching envelopes, pen, pencil, glue stick, scissors, square stencil, ruler, thesaurus. The rotary phone is present for mere aesthetics.

Once the event begins, I sit at my desk and wait. When a possible participant approaches, I welcome them into my space, ushering them to sit on the stool in front of the backdrop for me. I tell them they can leave at any time and that this might be a while.

If they agree, then we start the session.

I place a small square of paper into the typewriter and wait for inspiration.

Sometimes the subjects speak to me and sometimes they do not. I always try to meet them where they are at—to give them what they need to feel safe and secure—so, if they speak, then I speak back. If they are quiet, then I am too.

The typewriter is always lingering between us, governing us. At times, when the subject and I connect on a personal level, I feel guilty about how the typewriter confuses our relationship, or I don’t want to capture the subject. I don’t want to document, or have that control. I just want us to sit with one another and be here: honestly communing. Then, I remember that the portrait is the reason for the relationship—that we wouldn’t be here otherwise. So, I suck it up and take responsibility for the space that we share. I embrace this idea of hosting an experience.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux typing a Future Portrait. Photo by Jason Gtierrez, 2012.

I start by questioning my own intention: Who do they want to be for me? Who are they to me? Can I please them? Is this about pleasing them or seeing them? Who owns the daydream of a portrait? Is the portrait for me or for them?

Then, with my fingers perched above the keys, our eyes meet one another, and slowly these questions soften into playful daydreams. I imagine that I am their mother, new lover, or sister. It’s no longer academic; I just want to take care of them. I pass by judgment, looking for a loving place for us no matter how different we think we are from one another. No matter if the initial meeting feels dark or troubled. No matter what our differences are on the outside, in the moment, together, I want to make a warm bed for us to share. When the subject’s body shifts into a posture that reflects this feeling of warmth or comfort, I know it’s time to type. Portraiture, as I’m discovering, is not just about identity, but where our ephemeral projections collide and collaborate.

Everyone who sits for me is memorable—lovely—and I am humbled.

A "Future Portrait" session. Photo by Jason Gutierrez, 2012.

After I have typed the subject’s future in the small square of paper, I paste it on a larger one. I outline another square around the paper, to give the appearance of a matted frame, then I seal it in an envelope and wrap twine around it like a gift. I present the portrait to the subject, hug him or her, and say thank you.

No actual cameras are used to take future portraits, although subjects can photograph me if they desire to do so. It’s only fair. Photographer Jason Gutierrez sat for me and took photos before and during our session. These photos posted here are his documents of the experience.

At the end of the night, after three hours of taking future portraits, here are my findings:

Portraiture is not about manipulation. It’s about letting go.
When we let go, our faces tend to crack in the most beautiful way.
A subject’s face will not crack unless your face cracks. So, the letting go must be mutual in order for this to occur.
A dual cracking is simultaneously intimate—you will both feel it. It’s heavy and soft. You will want to sleep in it.
As a designer of possible futures, it is your responsibility to not just witness the crack, but to catch the crack, to nurture it, to love it.
The crack is the core. Never exploit it. You are not great because you found it.
I have experienced this feeling on only two other occasions—both of which involved caring for a terminally ill person.
Portraiture is not just about confrontation, as I had thought previously—it’s not aggressive—it’s more about being a caregiver of imagery, ideas, and embracing a dualistic sense of self (what is reflected/where we meet). It is also about being awake and attentive to collaboration and being a sensitive steward of emotion.
The future is bright.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux’s work has most recently been shown at Flying Object and performed at ENTER>text. She looks for art every day at www.revisingloneliness.com

Diane Arbus, "Woman with Veil on Fifth Avenue, N.Y.C," 1968. © The Estate of Diane Arbus.

“Giving a camera to Diane Arbus is like putting a live grenade in the hands of a child,” Norman Mailer infamously remarked in 1971, less than one year before Arbus died and over nine years after she snapped a photo of a scrawny blond boy who actually did have grenade in hand. Whether Mailer, cavalier to a fault, meant to or not, his quip infantilized Arbus’ savvy, as has much of the opining and homage surrounding her photographic oeuvre in year past. On the cover of the catalogue for her recent retrospective, titled Revelations, you see her face, a hazy and grainy dark-eyed phantom, lurking behind two of her more stoic photographs. In Fur, the “imaginary” movie portrait by Steven Shainberg, you see Arbus, played by Nicole Kidman, as a weak-willed dreamy creative easily seduced by the world’s eccentrics.

Over the three decades since her painstaking suicide (barbiturates and wrist slitting), too much mystique has grown up around the obsessive strangeness of Arbus’s work and she has become, in some ways, as a dark an artist-figure as Sylvia Plath—a tortured soul, claimed Patricia Bosworth’s unauthorized 1984 biography. But  unlike Plath, who wrote of feeling terrified of herself and “incapable of more knowledge,” Arbus would throw herself fully into what scared her. “What’s important to know is that you never know; you’re always sort of feeling your way,” she said, and felt her way deftly.

"Diane Arbus: People and Other Singularities," 2011, Installation View, Gagosian Gallery, Beverly Hills. Photograph: the Douglas M. Parker Studio.

You won’t find much that’s new or unexpected in People and Other Singularities, the current exhibition of Arbus’ work on view at Gagosian’s Beverly Hills gallery. The show more or less functions like a retrospective, featuring the iconic photos of aging divas, eccentrics and freaks of nature, among them the famous image of the Jewish giant or the nudist colonies. But from the moment you walk in, you’ll be on an adventure that has less to do with soul-probing and more to do with pushing open the bubble of person-hood. “Do other people exist in the same way I do?” Arbus seems to ask over and over again. “It’s so hard to believe that’s true.”1

The first image you see when you enter the gallery—that mawkishly endearing shot of a grinning,, double-chinned lady in tulle hat and black netted veil—confronts you, aggressively, with its bodiliness. Yet it also has an infectious, quixotic tenderness. Often, that’s what Arbus provides: a body with physical quirks and features so overt they can’t be overlooked, yet a quiet relatability courses through underneath. It’s there in her portrait of the Roselle twins, the debutante Brenda Diana Duff Frazier, or the not quite Barbie-like women trying for the title of Miss Venice Beach. Arbus could climb into a community completely without faking belonging; always, she was looking in on something that wasn’t her.

Diane Arbus, "A young man and his pregnant wife in Washington Square Park, NY," 1965. © The Estate of Diane Arbus.

One summer, she spent her time working in Washington Square Park:

And there were these territories staked out. There were young hippie junkies down one row, lesbians down another—really tough, amazingly hardcore lesbians—and in the middle were winos. They were like the first echelon, and the girls who came from the Bronx to become hippies would have to sleep with the winos to get to sit on the other part with the junkie hippies. It was really remarkable and I found it very scary. I mean, I could become a million things, but I could never become that.

“[When I see] great art,” said novelist Zadie Smith, “when I read a great piece of fiction, what I’m being confronted with is exactly what is radically not me, a consciousness of the world that is so far from my own, it’s a shock.” Arbus shocked in that way, and, right now, in an era where obsession with identity politics, self-discovery and radical self-assertion (Cosey Fanni Tutti’s vagina photographs or Vito Acconci’s masturbation under the stairs play up the “I” of experience in a way that seems far less potent right now, in the era of youtube, file-sharing and self-exposure opportunities galore) has begun to seem stale, her work feels more poignantly, exquisitely relevant than ever. Whatever her personal demons, Arbus understood that other people were the whole point.

1. The above quote–“Do other people exist the way I do?”–also comes from Zadie Smith’s 2006 interview with Michael Silverblatt.