An Invitation

Recently, friends of mine invited me to the Annie Leibovitz exhibit showing at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, DC. Knowing very little about Leibovitz, aside from the fact that she photographed typically shy stars and was a lesbian, I expected to be entertained by a gallery overflowing with Hollywood A-listers. I knew of her talent in capturing the humanity of her subjects, so I agreed to join them and felt excited at the opportunity to appreciate the art and ability of a skilled female photographer. I was curious to learn more about Leibovitz and the kind of woman she is, so gifted at pulling people out of their shell and into the unrelenting eye of the camera.

Reading through the brochure upon arrival, I learned that the exhibit presented photographs from 1990-2005 and included both editorial assignment pieces, as well as personal photographs of her family and close friends; I assumed that "close friends" meant Leibovitz's partner, Susan Sontag. As we ascended the staircase to the second floor of the museum, I recalled having seen a picture of Susan sprawled across a couch in loungewear and the caption mentioning Susan's battle with cancer. Finishing the small synopsis was a quote by Leibovitz: "I don't have two lives. This is one life, and the personal pictures and the assignment work are all part of it."

Flipping through the booklet I noticed that there was no reference to Susan in either the biography or the review. Subtle mentions of "extended family" or "images of. close friends" were sprinkled throughout but nothing direct or blatant. I kept this in the back of my mind as we approached the first few portraits.

Meeting the Exhibit

A beautiful and startling image of model Cindy Crawford as Eve, nude but for a large snake greeted me at the entrance. The unapologetic nature of the photograph paired with Crawford's calm, peaceful gaze made it feel deep and strong, a theme that would consistently present itself throughout. The trust between photographer and subject embraced me, making me feel like an integral part of the scene. A rare gift, indeed.

The celebrity images continued, ranging from Olympic athletes and Bush's cabinet to famous portraits of a pregnant Demi Moore and Gwyneth Paltrow leaning against her mother, even Jack Lemmon in drag and naked Kate Moss draped in a sleeping Johnny Depp. Every shot drew me in, held my eye, and made me see the person, the soul, the intensity behind the glossy celebrity image. They felt intimate, raw, and powerful. The composition was exquisite. Few, if any, of the faces smiled back at me, rarely were the props anything more than the clothing or backdrop, and all of this served to heighten my awareness of the subject and their gaze.

The men usually looked relaxed and were seated, lending an air of familiarity. The women, however, were strong, confident Goddesses, each commanding the page in their own right, full of life and depth. They were captivating, enchanting, and raw. Some were outwardly sexual while others were subtle and understated; only a woman could capture another woman in this way. I felt a connection with these framed goddesses that was primal and awesome. It became clear from these feminine images that Leibovitz prizes mothers, daughters, family, children, and home above all else.

Surprisingly, the entire shiny, sleek, larger-than-life display of the rich and famous was the most forgettable part of the show. Far more powerful and engaging were the small, personal snapshots of Leibovitz's family and partner. Many of the family pictures were filled with water and sand, her mother in a swimsuit more often than not. Pictures of Susan were usually taken candidly from across the breakfast table or while she was in repose reading in a hotel or napping naked on the bed.

The intimacy of these photographs is poignant and touching. Not a small woman, Leibovitz's mother can be seen in multiple shots kicking her legs high in the air, a loud smile on her face, or crawling through the sand with a half-naked toddler on her back. You understand immediately that her mother loves life and does not apologize for it. Each group of family photos feels real and authentic, as if seeing your own family through someone else's eyes. Each imperfect pose and clumsy smile only serves to make them more charming.

Of all the family portraits Leibovitz includes in this exhibit, the most powerful is one of her mother at the age of seventy, a simple headshot taken with brutal honesty. Deep lines and sagging skin honor her mother as a crone of many years. There is sadness in her eyes at being caught so vulnerable and unprepared. Leibovitz shares that she wept behind the camera during the shoot, at hearing her mother worry over looking too old. After developing the picture, her mother didn't like it because she looked aged and her father didn't like it because his wife wasn't smiling; it seemed too serious. The vulnerability of Leibovitz and her aging parents is heart-wrenching and I cried at the beauty of it all, marveling at how rare it is that someone honors the passage of time with such integrity.

Susan's snapshots show a progression from her healthier days through three bouts with cancer to death. Whether it is a shot taken in the early morning while Susan sleeps naked on a bed of white sheets, a pillow partially covering her face and one side of her bare chest or Susan bathing in a tub, self-consciously covering her chest where a breast was removed from a mastectomy, all are painfully loving and honest, Leibovitz documenting the life of her lover as best she knows how: through the lens of a camera.

There is nothing glamorous or glorified in these black-and-white pictures of Susan. Often she looks slightly annoyed or lost in thought, oblivious to the camera seizing the moment. What a radical thing that these private moments shared between two women were being shared with the world, a world often harsh and glaringly critical of love that doesn't conform. I felt like an intruder that stumbled upon a too-intimate scene between lovers. What struck me most profoundly through each of these incredibly personal photographs was that each picture is a love letter from Leibovitz to Susan, each image a memory that will be treasured for all time. Even the simple, seemingly insignificant photos of Susan's shell collection or rock collection take on a grander meaning with Leibovitz's devotion.

Through all of the commentary and quotes from Leibovitz, never once are words like "lover," "girlfriend," "partner," or "wife" used. While the "out and loud" feminist in me wanted some sort of verbal confirmation of their partnership, I realized long after leaving the gallery that their love didn't require a label or an explanation: it simply was. Leibovitz's ongoing refusal to publicly acknowledge or define her relationship with Susan may rankle many in a community that prides itself on vociferously screaming from the rooftops how you define yourself (I include myself in this out loud category), but what more could be said, what words could do justice to a love so deep and profound? It is clear from each tender photograph that they need not explain themselves. They love each other and that is enough.

As a woman that is bombarded constantly with images of perfection, I found Leibovitz's images of cancer, sickness, surgery, and healing refreshing and necessary. One group of pictures shows Susan again in a bathtub, this time from the waist down, naked, with a crooked and dangerous scar curving from navel to pubic bone, fresh, angry, and ugly. Her hand half-heartedly tries to cover her genitalia while the water laps at her thighs.

Another series of pictures have Susan in Paris, battling her third and ultimately final sickness, leukemia. Leibovitz shares that they had been apartment shopping and explicitly told the realtor there had to be an elevator available due to Susan having neuropathy in her feet that made it painful to walk. After finding the perfect apartment on the edge of the Seine, Leibovitz snaps a shot of Susan at the water's edge, the sunlight failing in the background. The shadows are heavy and Susan looks ill as she gazes directly into the lens, appearing exhausted but somehow at peace. There is no apology, no attempt to beautify the ruthlessness of life, and yet there is sensitivity and caring behind each shot; a lover trying desperately to save a moment, a memory.

Ultimately, the exhibit culminates with Susan's death followed in quick succession by Leibovitz's father's passing. Of Susan's death, Leibovitz shares the history of how she picked out the clothing that Susan would be buried in, the numbness that descended on her, and the emptiness that filled the space that was Susan. Three or four snapshots are combined unevenly to create the portrait of Susan on her deathbed, resting at last, white and lifeless.

A few short weeks later, Leibovitz's father lay dying. The pictures of his ailing body are stark and skeletal. She recounts how he died at home, early one morning while sleeping in the arms of his wife; so unlike Susan's passing in a hospital, humiliated with the intrusions that come with illness and doctors. The sorrow I felt was tempered by the incredible magnificence of death as presented by Leibovitz's devoted eye. It is clear that she deals with her sorrow and loss by documenting it, to be revisited again and again.

Reflections

Never have I felt so moved by an art exhibit. Annie Leibovitz has clearly emerged again and again as a gifted, powerful photographer. A woman, a lover, a mother, and a witness to life, Leibovitz goes to extraordinary lengths to present life as it happens: messy, unpredictable, painful, full of love, and always honest. Despite her fame due to celebrity portraits (which are amazing and wonderful), it is the simple pictures of her loved ones that take your breath away. I left feeling more connected to humanity, more in touch with my own struggles and the love I feel for my partner. I feel so much more aware.

Leibovitz is an inspiration to young and not-so-young women everywhere. Previously, I'd known very little about her life and work. I have to say that I now consider myself a huge fan. There is nothing raunchy or predictable in any of her pieces. She may be a mystery to many, but her photographs paint one hell of a picture.

I am left with a desire to return to the exhibit, again and again. I am tempted to take a day off work so that I can sit in solitude with the photos and stare into the eyes of her vision. I suspect that with each visit, the snapshots will tell a different story, one that becomes even more alive and tactile.

There was one small picture early on in the exhibit that I cannot forget. Shrouded in shadow, Susan stands at the opposite end of two towering rock walls, miniscule against their imposing sides. Leibovitz explains that she'd originally positioned Susan there to impart a sense of scale on the observer, demonstrating the magnitude of these monolithic walls. But, in hindsight, she says that death changes how we see things. Now when looking at that image of Susan, she feels as if it shows how much the world beckoned to Susan, how much it wanted her and how small she was in its vastness.

Post Script - Following my trip to the Corcoran, I happened upon an old December 2006 issue of Out Magazine. In it, a staff member laments a recent Newsweek article on this latest Leibovitz exhibit. He bemoans the fact that the article fails to mention Leibovitz as a lesbian and what a disservice that is to the community on the part of Newsweek. Had I read this a few days prior, I would have whole-heartedly agreed. But now, having seen the exhibit, I disagree. It is clear that Leibovitz does not intend to label her relationship with Susan. Whatever they had, it was exclusively between them. It was loving, honest, devoted, loyal, and beautiful. Whether they had a sexual relationship, a deep friendship, or something else does not matter. What does matter is that these women shared an extraordinary life together. One that the rest of us can only hope to experience in our own small way.

Comments (2)

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Julie said:

Loved reading your reactions to the exhibition. I saw it over the holidays as well - and I heard Liebovitz talk about it on the Diane Rehm show. I'm conflicted, honestly. Not about her work - I love her work, and in many ways I admire Sontag's work. I'm conflicted about how they characterized their relationship. I understand that it is everyone's responsibility to characterize their own relationship, but it gets under my skin when people are reticent to use the word lesbian. I think that Liebovitz is less reticent than Sontag was. She said on Diane Rehm that "yes, you could say we were lesbians, but Susan never used that word." Well, Susan was happy to make money talking about gay male culture so she wasn't homophobic per se, just reticent about being a lesbian. I don't know, I'm conflicted, as I've said now three times. Your article about it is great though!

January 02, 2008

Jennifer said:

Dawn, This was beautifully written! I think you really captured the essence of Leibovitz and her work; even not having seen this exhibit, I could picture it in my mind through your words. Brava! I hope we get to read more from you soon.

January 05, 2008

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