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TIME: Almanac 1995
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TIME Almanac 1995.iso
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1994-03-25
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<text id=91TT2160>
<title>
Sep. 30, 1991: Shadows and Eye Candy
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1991
Sep. 30, 1991 Curing Infertility
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
PHOTOGRAPHY, Page 72
Shadows and Eye Candy
</hdr><body>
<p>Major new books from Annie Leibovitz and Irving Penn frame two
contrasting angles on the celebrity--and the mysterious Other
</p>
<p>By Richard Lacayo
</p>
<p> Virginia Woolf believed that human nature changed "in or
about December, 1910." Actually, it must have been sometime
between 1943, when Irving Penn became a photographer at Vogue,
and 1983, when Annie Leibovitz moved her camera from Rolling
Stone to Vanity Fair. That would explain why the human race that
appears in Penn's new book, a career summation called Passage
(Knopf-Callaway; $100), looks so different from the one that we
see in Photographs Annie Leibovitz 1970-1990 (HarperCollins;
$60).
</p>
<p> Or maybe it's just a small, exotic slice of humanity that
has changed, the subspecies called celebrities. The decorous
public figures in Penn's photographs have become Leibovitz's
feral children. Buck naked, streaked with paint or hanging from
trees, they sport through the pages of her book and across the
walls of the International Center of Photography in New York
City, where a retrospective of Leibovitz's work is on view
through Dec. 1, before traveling across the U.S. and Europe.
</p>
<p> In Penn's world, reputation counts for more than
celebrity, and fame is no laughing matter. Posed against bare
backgrounds and pressed by mortal shadows, his stalwart artists
and writers are icons of modernism at its most brave, clean and
reverent. Their solemnity may be a pose in itself, but it has
its metaphorical power. Penn's fashion shots take on greater
weight in the company of his portraits; the passage of time
seems to hang over them both. They in turn magnify the effect
of a third kind of picture that he started taking in 1967, when
he began to haul his neutral backdrops around the world and put
before them tribal warriors in New Guinea or the women of
Cameroon.
</p>
<p> At around the same time Penn was also photographing
hippies and Hell's Angels, so he would have known that it was
no longer necessary to travel very far to fall off the edges of
Western civilization: the tribal types were gathering at home.
One of their favorite spots was the backstage world of rock,
where Leibovitz started shooting for Rolling Stone in 1970. It
was a place where parents imagined that the wickedness of
paganism converged with the self-indulgence of childhood, as if
the Satyricon were being played out in the aisles of Toys "R"
Us. Judging from a few of Leibovitz's early pictures--like one
of rock drummer Keith Moon trysting with his groupies--those
parents had a point. Rock had become the gateway through which
the mysterious Other--dark, hedonistic, erotically charged--would find its way out into mass culture.
</p>
<p> What few suspected was how quickly all of that could be
put to the service of marketing, in rock videos and ad
campaigns. Leibovitz has been a crucial figure in this
transition. In her most talked-about portraits of the past
decade, she brought a pagan abandon to the authorized depiction
of celebrities, a bit of primeval fire for the image machine.
All those masks and naked flesh, all that mud and body paint:
what Penn found in West Africa, Leibovitz brings out in Keith
Haring, Lauren Hutton and Roseanne Barr. In the 1970s she
discovered that Mick Jagger looked like a wicked faun. A decade
later, she applied that look to Jeff Koons, '80s art buffoon and
husband of the Euro-porn star and Italian legislatrix
Cicciolina. Naked, painted gold, Koons is a naughty sprite who
darts a little pink tongue. By the time Leibovitz made her
famous cover shot of Demi Moore, pregnant and unclothed, it was
hard not to see the actress as the photographer's own version
of a fertility goddess.
</p>
<p> The paradox of Leibovitz's best-known work is that it
tries to twit propriety in the slickest possible style. Which
may be why so many of her subjects, no matter how manically
they act up for the camera, are prone to look shrink-wrapped in
their own renown. In these rich, sanitary frames, the antics can
fall flat, the Bette Midlers and Steve Martins can emanate
nothing so much as the fact of their famousness. In pictures
that are bright, clear and eye-catching, they become the
corporate logos of their own celebrity. This must be what a
primal impulse looks like after it has been fully digested by
the world of public relations, ad agencies and department
stores. We have met the Others. They "R" Us.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>