FRAMED
As we stepped inside the Diane Arbus show Constellations at the Park Avenue Armory, a friend blurted, "I don't like this!" The installation, 454 photographs hung randomly on a maze of open panels, overwhelms. The area is cordoned with a mylar partition and the frames backed with polished metal, confusing the already-dense optics, offering unflattering self-portraits one slips by. The panels, built from heavy black tubing, graphically overwhelm the prints, set in small black frames. And many prints are hung too high and low to view properly.
The display concept, to foster organic connections as viewers wander through, is admirable. It freshens Arbus' ouevre, with lesser- and never-before seen prints mixed in with iconic images like Identical Twins and Child with a Toy Hand Grenade. But no strong concept emerges. I left because I was tired of pinballing around, not because I'd seen every photograph and reached a conclusion. The display ensnared me; It felt impossible to step back far enough -- both physically and emotionally -- to get a good perspective.
Arbus' biography and death by suicide confirm her sensitivity and outsider status, quieting claims that she exploited subjects. She's considered an empath who approached marginalized people as equals. They are all here: dwarfs, albinos, immigrants, Black Americans, the mentally ill, adolescent girls at summer camp, nudists, circus performers, elderly couples. Today some of the titles, in their unblinking objectification, chill: Russian Midget Friends in a Living Room on 100th Street, and Cha Cha the Mexican Dwarf in a Clown Costume at the Circus. Taken together, the photographs make a mesmerizing catalogue of cultural outsiders in mid-century America. Arbus was genuinely interested in all these people, and may even have cared about them, but remained safely ensconced in her own privileged, upper middle-class milieu.
Arbus spoke to subjects before photographing them. But did those who were disturbed, desperately poor, very young, and ignorant about the art market, really give true permission? An artist is obliged to reveal the truth, to put forth their vision. But what is the obligation of the photographer to a subject?
Very few photos break free from Arbus' now-iconic formal tropes -- awkward angle, off-kilter composition, capturing an in-between moment, subjects trapped within a frame too tight or unmoored in a frame too large. But a few likenesses break free, showing the subjects in full possession of themselves. A girl with Downs Syndrome rolls on the grass, her feet flying, with unbridled joy. A female sword swallower lifts her arms and throws back her shoulders with bravado.
Arbus was always peering into dark corners, searching for vulnerabilities. This is particularly true, and damning, in her photos of elderly New Yorkers. These men and women are magnificently groomed and dressed; they face her camera proudly. Yet Arbus almost always captures their tiredness, their grimaces, their seeming oblivion to her stare. Why does she focus on people's weaknesses? It's a position that's only dubiously defensible and ultimately tiresome.
Diane Arbus, Two Ladies at the Automat, New York City, 1966. © The Estate of Diane Arbus











