By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
For extravagance in another vein, there's Grace: Thirty Years of Fashion at Vogue (Edition 7L, $120), an appropriately lavish celebration of the career of model-turned-creative director Grace Coddington, who worked first at British Vogue and is now at its American counterpart. Coddington's talent is her ability to imagine a particular designer garment out in the world and to translate that fantasy into something startling, amusing, or seductiveideally, all of the above. She can't do this without the close collaboration of a number of trusted photographers, and, if all goes right, her work is virtually indistinguishable from theirs. Grace devotes most of its 400 supersized pages to the fruits of these collaborations, with individual portfolios by Annie Leibovitz, Norman Parkinson, Guy Bourdin, Helmut Newton, Ellen Von Unwerth, Mario Testino, Bruce Weber, and 23 others, each accompanied by a few brief paragraphs from Coddington that substitute anecdote for insight. No matterwhat the book lacks in pithiness is more than made up for by its wealth of great images and its insider's view of the history of contemporary fashion photography. Worth the price of admission all by itself: Leibovitz's deftly orchestrated standoff between Sean Combs and Kate Moss at the Paris haute couture collections.
For an even headier dose of fashion history, there's the reissue of Diane Vreeland's Allure (Bulfinch, $75), originally published in 1980 after the former editor at Harper's Bazaar and Vogue had moved on to the position of curator at the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Legendarily opinionated and passionately over-the-top, Vreeland had a taste for the grand gesture, for beauty at its most rarefied, but she knew how to make extravagance entertaining, and she could talk up a storm. Allure, bound in her signature lipstick red, is a scrapbook (she called it a "potpourri") of pictures by Beaton, Horst, Avedon, Penn, Man Ray, Baron de Meyer, and other primarily fashion photographers that evoked her sensibility and provoked her comment (faithfully transcribed and edited by Christopher Hemphill). The photos, all in black-and-white, suggest a world swinging manically between cool elegance and overheated exuberancea place where Anna Magnani, Nijinsky, Eva Perón, Fred Astaire, and Penelope Tree are the gods and goddesses, and mere mortals can only swoon. Vreeland inhabits this world so fully you've got to submit to her considerable will, and her pronouncements are Allure's real meat or, more accurately, fizzy champagne. She knows she's parodying herself when she declares that blue jeans are "the most beautiful things since the gondola," but she's not joking when she says, "I loathe narcissism but I approve of vanity."
Vreeland would approve of the inimitable style displayed by the African women and men in Jackie Nickerson's Farm (Jonathan Cape, $55). Although her book of portraits and landscapes from the farmlands of Zimbabwe, Malawi, Mozambique, and South Africa has a documentary underpinning, Nickerson is not particularly interested in the conditions under which these tomato pickers or tea pluckers work. Instead, she's interested (like Leni Riefenstahl with the Nuba) in their physical beauty and the way they wear their clothes. And no wonder: On the evidence she presents, African farmworkers are not only uncommonly dignified, they're among the planet's most inventive dressers. The radical deconstructionists of Paris and Brussels have nothing on the Zimbabwean woman whose eyelet skirt is wrapped in a wide panel of wrinkled silver fabric or the man in Malawi whose pants are a loosely stitched collage of cloth and plastic patches. It may be heedlessly reductive to turn barefoot laborers into exemplars of DIY style, but their originality and flair are too astonishing to ignore. With these handsome, understated pictures, taken in the fields where they work, Nickerson gives her subjects much respect and pays their inspired improvisation the attention it deserves.
At $35, Richard Avedon's Portraits (Abrams), which accompanies his current show at the Metropolitan Museum, is the season's most affordable extravagance. Designed as a slip-cased, accordion-fold screen that can stand on its own, the book contains 50 of Avedon's most arresting portraits (from Samuel Beckett, June Leaf, and James Galanos to the Warhol Factory crew) on one side and accessible, insightful texts by the photographer and his Met curators, Maria Morris Hambourg and Mia Fineman, on the reverse. If you're really feeling generous, combine Portraits with Kerry William Purcell's new book on Alexey Brodovitch (Phaidon, $75), the genius art director who was Avedon's mentor at Bazaar. Like Vreeland, Brodovitch was another one of the fashion world's larger-than-life legends, and Purcell's book makes it clear why he still matters. Not only does it include a slew of layouts and covers from his years at Bazaar (1934 to 1958), it reproduces every page of his extraordinary first book of photographs, Ballet, of his designs for Andre Kertesz's Day of Paris and Bill Manville's Saloon Society, and of the three issues of the short-lived graphic arts quarterly, Portfolio, that he art directed and edited in 1950 and '51. There's enough inspiration here to fuel countless other design projectseven if they never get further than your bedroom.
Speaking of your bedroom, make a place on the bedside table for Carlo Mollino's Polaroids (Arena, $55), the chicest book of erotica around. Mollino, the perennially rediscovered Italian architect and designer, made nearly 2000 photographs of nude young women in the last years of his life, from 1960 until his death in '73, and kept them to himself. Some 250 are reproduced here, and their aura of airless intimacy is reminiscent of Pierre Molinier's transvestite self-portraits, but Mollino's pictures have a kind of knowing, naughty wit, and they're entirely more softcore than Molinier's. In fact, they're closer to fashion photos than porn, primarily because Mollino dressed his many willing models in a surprisingly varied array of stylish clothesfrom belted trench coats to flimsy peignoirsand posed them in artfully arranged areas of his home, sometimes on one of his prototype chairs. But even if the photos are more about getting undressed than being naked, there's a real verve to their voyeurism, and they exude the sweet, teasing heat generated by two people sharing a sexy secret.
Finally, there's the book I want to give everyone this holiday: Photobooth (Princeton Architectural Press, $19.95), Babette Hines's collection of pictures made since the 1927 introduction of that automated self-portrait device. With reproductions of over 700 portraits, including Warhol-like strips and individual images in miniature metallic frames, Photobooth is at once a rush of instant intimacy and a total immersion in the pleasures of vernacular photography. Though it would be foolish to claim a few moments alone in a curtained booth produce anything especially revealing, there's something touching about many of these portraits. Because the subjects aren't performing for a photographer, only for their own reflected image, they're sometimes more naked, more introspective, or more uninhibited than usual. And with more than 700 people to choose from, you're bound to find a soul mate or two. Cheers!