By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
By R. C. Baker
By Melissa Anderson
By Alexis Soloski
By Keegan Hamilton
By R. C. Baker
By R. C. Baker
Because they have to work with teams of models, makeup artists, hairdressers, set designers, stylists, magazine editors, retouchers, and a posse of assistants, fashion photographers are not unlike film directors. And like directors, many of them are hacks, turning out reliably glossy, vacuously glamorous schlock month after month, but the best are genuine auteursartists who use the collaborative process to realize their own personal vision. If Beaton, Horst, Avedon, Penn, and Newton virtually define the pantheon, and Steven Meisel was inducted into its ranks years ago (his Linda Evangelista covers for Italian Vogue were the clincher), Steven Klein is its most accomplished and idiosyncratic new member. His collaboration with Madonnaincluding 44 pages in the April W, a massive video installation at Deitch Projects, and a fat, limited-edition artist's book masquerading as that show's catalogis the capper to several years' worth of drop-dead audacious magazine spreads, covers, and ad campaigns that have made Klein fashion photography's auteur of the moment.
"It's my world and the world beneath the surface," Klein says when asked to describe the atmosphere he conjures up for his most memorable photo shoots. "Everything that is and isn't." Klein's world is not unrelievedly dark, but the images that define him (like his fall 2002 campaigns for Alexander McQueen and D Squared) often seem to emerge from the unconscious and are set in a desolate, claustrophobic underworlda place at once sinister and seductive. "I'm always looking for the ordinary, the generic, the ambiguous place," he says. "Something that doesn't fit into any time or place. I think of my spaces as gray spaces, neutral spaces that allow things to emerge."
Before Klein brought Madonna into one of these spaces, for one 10-hour session last August in L.A., they exchanged e-mails and images for several months. Although he'd already done tough, sexy, and brilliantly iconoclastic spreads with Brad Pitt, David Beckham, and Justin Timberlake, Klein was understandably intimidated by Madonna. What can you do with a notoriously been-there, done-that chameleon? Their exchange reassured him: "Her premise is that sometimes not knowing what to do is a good place to start." Early on, Klein had approached W with the project, knowing that its adventurous creative director, Dennis Freedman, would give him the freedom (and, later, the gatefold pages) he needed. But because Madonna made it clear from the beginning that she wasn't interested in doing another fashion spread ("If I don't feel like I'm creating something that means something," she told W's Merle Ginsberg, "I don't want to do it"), the exchange quickly focused on the idea of a performance, with the shoot imagined as a rehearsal, a peek backstage. "I always saw her more as a performance artist, anyway," Klein says. "She started talking about how the final product is always disappointing, how sometimes the perfected performance no longer has the energy that the process originally had."
It will surprise no one that in the resulting photographs, Madonna is wearing Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche leather boots, Prada tap pants, a Dolce & Gabbana silk corset, and several lavishly ornamented Christian Lacroix Couture pieces, including a beaded face covering that the Daily News mistook for a gas mask. But even in the pages of W no one will mistake this for a fashion shoot. In one of that magazine's panoramic double gatefolds, the masked Madonna kneels, one leg outstretched, on a bare stage in what looks like a factory space, raw save for several panels of sheer curtains behind her. On the concrete floor nearby, a coyote strains at its leash, while a little further off a burning wedding dress, already half-consumed, sends flames high into the air. (Klein acknowledges "revisiting," sometimes unintentionally, several key Madonna propsthe wedding dress, the bed, the dance poleto see how the singer's relationship to them has changed.) At Deitch, in a show called, annoyingly, "X-STaTIC PRo=CeSS," this image has been turned into a billboard-sized "photo animation," eight feet high and 26 feet long, housed at the back of a deep, shed-like structure designed by those suave masters of the ad hoc, LOT/EK. At this scale, the photo is essentially life-size, and the illusion that we're looking into another room is underscored by the animated images of the wafting curtains and the mounting flames. The effect is bombastic, all the more so because speakers embedded in the side of the booth are playing a loop of Madonna reciting passages from the Book of Revelation (one of the many "Justify My Love" remixes), filtered through whomping industrial noise.
But if the combination of absurdity and sincerity can turn deadly (a not uncommon problem for both Madonna and fashion photographers), trust Klein to balance it with a few oddly thrilling moments and a slew of images too slippery, too ephemeral to process except as dreams. There are four other pieces at Deitch, all sited at the far end of LOT/EK's brutally industrial, silver-sheathed shooting ranges; the darkened space feels less like an amusement arcade than a torture chamber, complete with gunshots and electronic blips. Since Klein was making video and still photos simultaneously, he was able to bring several of his pictures to life in three of the installations here. In one, Madonna sits beside herself, one figure almost immobilized in a gold-encrusted red gown and headdress, the other stretched out in a leotard and tights on a bare mattress draped with piece of vivid blue silk (when Klein uses color in his gray spaces, you can almost taste it). Both figures execute a series of stiff, stuttered gestures, the one on the bed raising and lowering her bare arms in stylized movements whose elegance is undercut by the video's jump-cut repetitions. At one point, she turns to look at us, but her glance slides away, and she cups a hand over her eyes as if to shield them from our gaze. It's the perfect Madonna performance: She's tantalizingly present but elusivea siren, a cipher, a phantom.