Dear Shaded Viewers and Diane,
Diane Arbus first French retrospective opened last night at Jeu de Paume, leading many to politely queue up before the entrance, in an oddly quiet, observing manner, as if trying already to see the world the beautiful way she did. Inside, strangers could be seen grouping together in front of certain portraits, forming here and there mismatched bouquets of waiting people, their pupils dancing all over the pictures as if expecting something to happen, the thin pale lips to reveal some very important truth. And they often did indeed. Diane Arbus photographs are just like narratives, and as any good ones, they reveal just as much to rouse curiosity and tease imagination. There were Santa Claus schools and Monster Fan Clubs, albino sword swallowers, bishops and muscles, and bare rooms, dressing rooms and benches, and deep painful eyes, somehow wise in the life they led. There is no denunciation, no blame or complaint in Diane Arbus' works. There is no ardor and no pity but a sincere, relentless search for a different point of view, a different experience of reality from very close, a lesson of force to be learned from those whose lacks made strong, almost without them to notice.
When you talk with someone with two heads, you know they know something you don't _ Diane Arbus
Woman carrying a child in Central Park, NYC, 1956
Two ladies at the automat, NYC, 1966
Girl sitting in bed with her boyfriend, 1966
Later,
Silvia
