While not exactly a secret, the just-opened Diane Arbus exhibition is fantastic. I was absorbed by it while milling about the gallery this past Saturday afternoon. The photographs were beguiling, of course. But what really struck me were the “project rooms”–in particular, the room housing Arbus’ personal biography. Her childhood, her marriage, her motherhood, all are synopsized in a fairly impassive manner–personal letters notwithstanding. Then, all of a sudden, in 1971 she’s gone by her own hand. I found it curious that the didactics bore little hint of the fraying mental health that led to her suicide, other than a flip reference to her “starting to see” a certain therapist or that the arms of Marvin Israel, her lover, were wrapped around some mysterious other woman in a photo. (This photo capturing a party which celebrated Richard Avedon’s 1970 Minneapolis Institute of Arts solo exhibition. Local hob-nobbers will find it interesting because there are some familiar characters from our local art scene in it, too.)
While walking around, I felt it evident in the body of work, the fact that his woman was buried deep in ideas and images, and she was unable to burrow her way out in order to find satisfying human contact. It’s obviously a plague of artistic brilliance, even more so of artistic “observers” such as photographers, but I couldn’t help but wonder if this particularly afflicts artistic women. If they’re so absorbed by thought are they unable to meaningfully fulfill the selfless roles of wife, mother, caregiver, significant other, and friend. I won’t go on and on about my impression here, realizing how over-consumption of feminist literature might color my perspective. But if you get the chance, go see the show, and drop me a line to let me know whether you agree.
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