When it became rapidly apparent that I needed a plan B this afternoon, I landed in a wonderful archive of kink, humanity, and psychological insight.
Operated in conjunction with the Helmut Newton foundation for the last decade, the museum makes an effort to surpass the “isn’t it a pretty picture” gambit to strike a blow for humanity. I don’t mean something as trite as Bono’s sophomoric efforts to feed the world — I mean using photography to build bridges between ourselves and those we may never meet.
Exhibits like “photos rarely come alone” build bridges by offering thematic series that strengthen empathy through portraiture, abstractions, humor and absurdity. By showing us the decay of the Soviet Union (Boris Mikhailovich) or the simple adoration of a spouse (Louis Stettner), this exhibit asks us to embrace those who seem alone and alienated (Francesca Woodman) and join those who already enjoy a sense of community (Helga Paris). So many of these series made me smile to look at them, though some are nothingness shy of bleak. I think that’s because I saw ever shutter click as a light in the darkness.
Elsewhere, darkness doesn’t contrast so much with light as accent it. A collection of Helmut Newton’s experiments in sly manipulation of words, layout, and ambiguous, but garish, poised imagery put in focus just how much we take for granted what is news, as opposed to what is theater. As another exhibit in the collection, entitled Helmut Bewton’s Private Property” makes clear, Newton saw theater everywhere and embraced it.
Looking at his models’ faces in candid shots between poses, one could believe that his campy, kinky, and even exploitative brand of theater put them at ease because he was just so in love with life that he doesn’t seem predatory. By the time one has read all the letters, captions, and even some obituaries following his death, one really missed him. It doesn’t seem fair that he’ll never shoot another spread ever again.
The crowning glory of this museum for me, though, has to be the Alice Springs MEP show. Newton’s widow June, working as “Alice Springs,” mirrors the souls of punks, of celebrities, even if her husband with a luminous honesty that is neither cynical nor naively idealistic.
Some of the kids you see smiling in her pictures probably haven’t smiled for a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. She, like Annie Leibovitz, seems to brush aside the dead wood and show the fundamental people in front of her. That’s rare talent.
So why’d I never heard of her?
It’s a mystery, but you can bet I’ll search out more of her work. I liked her husband’s stuff too — not done looking for his life’s work, now that I got a concentrated taste of it (rather than bits and pieces over the years).
I’d be remiss if I ceased writing about this museum without alluding to Mart Engelen’s work in the cozy room at the back of the first floor, titled “June’s Room.” Featuring various people of varying fame and consequence, Engelen’s portraits leave the viewer feeling the photographer caught something in conversation that the rest of us missed, and the expressions on the subjects’ faces would make more sense to us if we were privy to that missed comment.
The perfect example of this bemusing lot of prints appears in the portrait of John Waters. He has long been the Cheshire Cat of film, but this ups the ante. I loved Engelen’s work, but I felt left out. Perhaps because I felt he leaves us outside looking in so thoroughly.
Downstream on the Clyde 