Sex
Divine decadence
Helmut Newton is a connoisseur of contemporary sex and death.
Photographer Helmut Newton is what Vogue and Vanity Fair regard as a naughty boy. But grown-ups don’t have to scare so easily. The editors of those magazines congratulate themselves on the cutting-edge autopsies he brings to their pages. They say, “Isn’t he perverse, depraved and shocking?” But in the delusions of glee they fail to notice little Newton’s monotonous enthusiasm for death, for some trick or slick of the light that can make a living human corpselike. Perhaps they also miss what could be their own memorials, done in a blancmange marble one might mistake for flesh.
The publication of “Helmut Newton Work,” an albumlike book with a chronology of all the exhibits Newton has had, is ostensibly the celebration of a great artist at 80. (Newton was born in 1920, in Berlin, and this book was made to coincide with a major show at the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin from November 2000 to January 2001.) But what sort of artist is one to have been so dependent on the fashion industry for work and who, by his own admission, prefers to do portraits of the “infamous” — movie stars, politicians, the rich and the scandalous — in short, those who find a certain glamour in being photographed by Newton, as if it paid for their place in the modern gallery of celebrity guilt.
But those who have their portraits done should train themselves in the way he treats his fashion models. He is not looking for lives or faces so much as attitude, the kind of sensuality poised on the edge of disease, a lean, meatlike nudity in which beauties seem ready to hang on the butcher’s hook — illustrious corpses, tender joints. The celebrities should pay attention to one of Newton’s favorite ploys, that of putting warm bodies with plaster or porcelain simulacra. He uses mannequins, dummies, whatever you want to call them — they are the perfect bodies that come in sections and that sell clothes in those very public forms of prison, the bright store windows.
There are some haunting images in that vein, quite arresting if you’re a connoisseur of all our contemporary forms of death. There’s the blond, naked above the waist, turned to look over the camera’s left shoulder, her hand reaching back to caress the breast of her twin, a blond mannequin — except that the twin’s breast is finer, more exactly conical, the nipple harder. The living woman’s breast is not bad, but pessimists might detect those telltale warnings of sag (or gravity), that extra lining of flesh in the lower curve, the fall of Eve. It is also left to us to appreciate the implicit insult to the living woman, that she is nearly but not entirely dead. The mannequin’s eyes are fixed, glassy, eternal, whereas the woman’s are still vaguely pained, as if she cannot fully forget the erosions caused by aging.
I like another thing about this picture — the way the two figures have been jolted out of an embrace by the light, and are placed in a bourgeois room with fragments of an armoire and a forlorn “old master” on the wall. There is a vestige of the social critic still in Newton, and it burns wanly in this air of intrigue in the parents’ fusty old house. But it could have been a great picture if Newton had had real danger in his eye, if the living woman had had the lurid wounds of some operation, a mastectomy perhaps. Newton is never brave enough for such ordinary outrages. He can mock beauty, but he is squeamish about real damage.
Still, I would rather have that picture, or some of the other mannequin shots, than all the flagrant, contemptuous views of tall, nude models, with their skin not just sleek or slippery but often oiled and varnished. Indeed, the only handles you could discover are the breasts, the blank faces and the shaggy clumps of pubic hair. These are heartless pictures, drab erotica, with an odd air of the concentration camp about them — an Auschwitz for perfect bodies. Again, that is a subtext that Newton hints at without grasping. I doubt that Vogue or Vanity Fair would go that far.
But there is a color picture called “Dummy and Human III,” done for Oui magazine in 1977, that is entrancingly beautiful. A living nude stands at the left of the frame, seen from knee height to just below breast level. Her body is bent back. One hand rests on her hip; the other clutches the black beaded cloche on a mannequin. That dummy is kneeling, her head lowered for cunnilingus. She is in shadow, but there is light enough to pick up her jewelry and the café au lait of her exposed left breast, like a cup just stirred. It is a very sensual, tender pose, and the composition is enhanced by a careful cropping that is not common in Newton’s work. The deep green fabric backdrop is very tastefully allied to the skin tones. It is a photograph, yet it conjures up thoughts of Ingres or Caravaggio in that the orgiastic stillness verges on something religious. The fact that one face is unseen and the other is in shadow is the beginning of real art.
In the section on portraits, I like a Catherine Deneuve picture from 1976, in part because it too is cropped, just above the line of her eyes. But there’s frankness in the picture, an air of the tramp fighting the lady in Deneuve. It might be more striking if one didn’t feel that it was derived from the way films directed by Luis Buñuel (“Belle de Jour” and “Tristana”) have seen Deneuve.
There’s also a striking, very tough-looking Sigourney Weaver, in a dress so drenched her nipples are like starter buttons. It gets the guy in Weaver all right, and the pose — holding a cigarette in a raised arm — is very intriguing. But it doesn’t get her matching vulnerability, and it’s finally not as compelling as some of the best views of her in the “Alien” films.
Newton has had an odd life, and this book is not very helpful about explaining him. It implies that he is Jewish, but never actually states it. I’d like to know so much more about how he worked in Berlin until December 1938, and then went to Singapore for two years before ending up in Australia. Was he ever drawn to photograph those places? There’s one picture of him from 1958, taken by his wife, June (she works as Alice Springs): It shows a melancholy, wolfish face, with a sad, tough con man’s gaze. Then there’s another, from 1987, in Monte Carlo (where they live) of Newton sitting in shorts and wearing fancy high-heeled shoes. Here the look is complacent, superior, sneering; it’s not a kind or an interested face. And I’m bound to add that in the history of good photography many artists’ faces are filled with the curiosity they feel about looking. Newton’s look, in contrast, is mean-spirited and past surprise. The coroner feels he has seen it all.
David Thomson is the author of "A Biographical Dictionary of Film" (new edition just published), "Rosebud: The Story of Orson Welles" and "In Nevada." More David Thomson.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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