Photography
reviewed in Culture Wars, 5 November
2007
“Ocultos” Fundación Canal Madrid : ended January 2008.
Dr Johnson
would have loved it, and so would my eleven-year-old son. The Great Cham had
Boswell & co. rolling on the floor when he absently-mindedly remarked of a
certain lady that she ‘had a bottom of good sense.’ Before the laughter had a
chance to die down, Johnson showed he was as deft as any talk show host at the
art of split-second recovery: ‘Where’s the merriment? I say the woman was fundamentally sensible.’
It is in
that frame of mind that one should visit the show at the former Madrid Water
Works. ‘Ocultos’ (a pun, yes, though a strained one, culo being Spanish for
bottom) brings together a cull (so much for self-restraint) of photographs in
which prominent practitioners of the art depict or evoke the posterior parts of
human anatomy. You should not expect anything so obvious as just having the
photographer shoot a picture while the subject is shooting the moon, though.
Well, all right, just one, then, by Jeanloup Sieff.
Painting,
to be sure, has not exactly neglected the nether regions, as we are reminded in
a text quoting Titian to his patron, Spain’s King Philip II, in which the
painter slyly anticipates that his fleshy rear view of ‘Venus and Adonis’ will
be ‘even more agreeable to His Majesty’. Personally, I’m a big fan of Burne-Jones’ nude
cutie Andromeda, but for some reason, hers have always struck me as being unremittingly
British buttocks. Flabby but unyielding, like Churchill. More in my line is
the reddish-brown peach sported by the Polynesian girl in Gauguin’s ‘Spirit of
the Dead Watching’.
The Madrid
photos eschew the selectively idiosyncratic for the sake of wideness of range
and loose entry requirements. Representations are allowed, as well as the real
thing, which means we get to revisit a 1961 classic by the grand old man of
Spanish photographers, Ramón Masats, of Prado museum-goers contemplating
Rubens' 'Three Graces'. The tell-tale tricorne hat on one viewer (then, as now,
standard issue Civil Guard gear) and
tilted head of the lady sitting next to him make it clear that scandal and stupefaction
are in the air. In more modern reading of the same image might have them
commiserating with the three ladies’ serious cellulitis issues.
My favorite
depiction of depiction is Robert Doisneau’s 'Regard oblique', in which a
middle-aged couple oozing bourgeois respectability is seen through the art
dealer’s front window into which they are peering, the woman intently talking
up one of the pieces while the husband’s beady eyes are riveted on the buns of
a Renoir-like bathing beauty over on the opposite side of the frame.
Though the
contents are fundamentally sensible, I’ll admit I don’t think much of the
packaging. In accordance with somebody’s idea of mock titillation, the walls
have been papered with New Orleans bordello plush and doors fitted with peep
holes through which can be seen a slide show of the 67 photographs hung
throughout the underground galleries that used to be the distribution hub for
Madrid’s incoming fresh water supply. Do they really think the lechers of
yesteryear didn’t insist on full frontal? That’s what the nightclub patrons in
Burt Glinn’s ‘A Stripper at the Club Samoa on 52nd Street’ from 1949 would have
liked, though it’s clear the nudies are wearing body stockings.
Though humor
and pornography rely equally on exaggeration, none of the pieces here strike me
as terribly erotic. Herb Ritts is up to his usual, although for once
Mapplethorpe is restrained in his Ken Moody gatefold of the month. Susan
Meiselas gives us a rent-by-the-hour dominatrix and the red welts she has
inflicted on some character’s pathetic behind, while Man Ray captures Paul
Eluard’s muse, Nusch, in silhouette (but a butt with only two dimensions is not
that interesting). Marilyn Monroe (with her trademark ‘Oops, excuse me!’ glance
over the shoulder) appears half-draped in Eve Arnold’s photo, her emergent
behind illustrating Plato’s paradigm of the whole that acquires a nominative
identity in a manner ontologically distinct from its parts.
It may seem
surprising that the proportion of bare to clothed (or semi-covered) is pretty
close to even, but photographically it makes all kinds of sense. The same rough
parity exists between male and female, depending on how you count the toddler
in Robert Capa’s scene from an Israeli kibbutz. Best in show as far as I am
concerned is Willy Ronis’ view from 1949 of his wife getting up after a late
afternoon nap, classical in its interplay of Provençal sunlight, shadow, form
and texture, the textbook definition of photographic intimism. Why isn’t there
more of this man’s work on display in places where I am likely to see it?
I was also
drawn to a distant nymph on a seacliff prominence by Fernando Manso, with its
Maxfield Parrish overtones, and Harry Callahan’s ‘Eleanor by the Radiator’,
Eleanor supplying the curves and the radiator the straight lines. Surprisingly
good, though derivative, was a photo by Josep Renau, the one-time Commissar of
Fine Arts for the Spanish Republic who persuaded Picasso to paint 'Guernica'. Renau spent most of his life in East Berlin,
his photography underwritten by Stalinist sinecures, where he died in 1982
after deciding he didn’t much care for what democracy was doing for Spain.
In the
covered culo category, kudos go to Isabel Muñoz, by far the most interesting Spanish photographer on the scene, absolutely the best. Her close-up of a Cuban
dancer in a tight, tight dress evokes a spinner’s spindle and a child’s wooden
top, but one that is unquestionably made out of living flesh. As usual, Muñoz‘s
work has been expertly printed by the photographer herself. Nobody comes anywhere near to her when it
comes to getting gelatin silver or platinum to sing.
Some (Joan
Fontcuberta, Claude Fauville) highlight the plastic properties of the human
rump as it is squeezed, kneaded, displaced or otherwise deformed either by
human agency (hands) or by the camera (Bill Brandt, Andre Kermes, Manuel Seneca).
Others, like Rafael Navarro, take us up close and personal to highlight the
surface area exposed by the outward thrust of the gluteus Maximus, with all its
pores, moles and cellulite dimples.
Predictably,
a fair number zero in on extra-large tonnage type posteriors, starting with
William Klein, who, being William Klein, makes a beeline for the obvious, in
this case a crouching sumo wrestler approached from low and behind. At the
opposite end is Eikoh Hosoe, who extracts essence of Brancusi from a pair of
tightly compressed legs and unobtrusive hemispheric crack.
Never will
there be a better chance to put to the test Kenneth Tynan’s claim that ‘the
buttocks are the most aesthetically pleasing part of the body because they are
non-functional. Although they conceal an essential orifice, these pointless
globes are as near as the human form can ever come to abstract art’. He forgot
to add that what makes it even more fascinating is that it is the major part of
our bodies we never get to see, but others certainly do.
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