In Primal Therapy, and in any kind of awareness, you might have a person so emotionally engaged in something positive that when they leave the experience, they're emptied. That's exactly what should happen, in the best possible sense.
About me: THIS IS FAN PAGE!
Joel-Peter Witkin is a photographer whose images of the human condition are undeniably powerful. For more than twenty years he has pursued his interest in spirituality and how it impacts the physical world in which we exist. Finding beauty within the grotesque, Witkin pursues this complex issue through people most often cast aside by society -- human spectacles including hermaphrodites, dwarfs, amputees, androgynes, carcasses, people with odd physical capabilities, fetishists and "any living myth . . . anyone bearing the wounds of Christ." His fascination with other people's physicality has inspired works that confront our sense of normalcy and decency, while constantly examining the teachings handed down through Christianity. His constant reference to paintings from art history, including the works of Bosch, Goya, Velasquez, Miro, Botticelli and Picasso are testaments to his need to create a new history for himself. By using imagery and symbols from the past, Witkin celebrates our history while constantly redefining its present day context. Visiting medical schools, morgues and insane asylums around the world, Witkin seeks out his collaborators, who, in the end, represent the numerous personas of the artist himself. The resulting photographs are haunting and beautiful, grotesque yet bold in their defiance a hideous beauty that is as compelling as it is taboo. Witkin begins each image by sketching his ideas on paper, perfecting every detail by arranging the scene before he gets into the studio to stage his elaborate tableaus. Once photographed, Witkin spends hours in the darkroom, scratching and piercing his negatives, transforming them into images that look made rather than taken. Through printing, Witkin reinterprets his original idea in a final act of adoration. Joel-Peter Witkin lets us look into his created world, which is both frightening and fascinating, as he seeks to dismantle our preconceived notions about sexuality and physical beauty. Through his imagery, we gain a greater understanding about human difference and tolerance.
When Joel-Peter Witkin takes a photograph of a headless corpse (its neck terminating in a meaty stump, its penis shriveling into its fat stomach, its feet absurdly sporting black socks), does it repel you? Is death repulsive? We know that people who develop a familiarity with death (undertakers, soldiers, etc.) can eat in the same room as a corpse and digest as happily as ever. It is illogical to say that death is intrinsically able to repel; rather, we come to repel it, to hide it away in hospitals, to say No to death (in the 1950s,the English sociologist Geoffrey Gorer claimed that death had become the new pornography, replacing sex as society's greatest taboo). So is it possible for Witkin's photograph, Man Without a Head, 1993, to repel you? Or does it simply put you in the uncomfortable position of having to say a Yes or a No? Witkin has long specialized in subjects to which society tends to say a resounding No: not just corpses, but sexual pariahs, circus freaks, and "physical prodigies of all kinds," as he once put it. The generally necrotic b/w photographs in this new show employ the same elements that Witkin has combined and recombined for years: abundant art historical references, manipulated negatives and prints, Baroque staging and lighting, etc. But what is the function of these elements? Is it possible to reconcile the formal sophistication — and beauty — of Witkin's photography with its "repulsive" subjects? In Still Life, Mexico, 1992, a crisp white tablecloth emerges from a black background to proffer fruit, a fish, a roll, and a human leg (severed just below the knee). Though horrible, stringy, meaty stuff gushes out the top of the leg, and a cut on its side reveals globules of what looks like caviar, it's a perfectly elegant still life — very deliberate, technically perfect, and utterly unsensationalistic. Even if you want to say No to the subject matter, its rendering is so beautiful that you just might say Yes.
Why would you want to say Yes to death, dismemberment, or any of the other staples in Witkin's banquet of the bizarre? It's sort of like an extreme form of multiculturalism, a respect for that which is drastically foreign to you, even terrifying. In John Herring, Person with AIDS, Posed as Flora with Lover and Mother, 1992, modeled after Rembrandt's portrait of his wife Saskia as Flora, the subject stands on a fake little cloud, a nipple poking out of his elaborate bodice, his lover and mother sitting off to his left. No doubt this photograph is a radical departure from the representational modes at either end of the debate about how PWA's should be depicted (i.e. in works that chronicle the debilitating effects of AIDS, a la Nicholas Nixon, or in works that depict PWA's as living active, "normal" lives). Aren't both these modes problematic, though, in that the former reduces the person to the disease, while the latter denies the disease altogether? Whereas one mode says No to the person, the other to the illness, Witkin positions himself as the husband (Rembrandt: Saskia = Witkin: Herring), as he who loves and cherishes regardless of sickness or health. He often claims (as in a recent Vanity Fair article) to see himself as "loving the unloved, the damaged, the outcasts," and such unconditional acceptance characterizes his work in general: like St Francis of Assisi, who drank the pus of lepers in order to overcome his repulsion of them, Witkin is not a rubbernecker, an exploiter, or a pessimist, but one who says Yes to everything questionable, even to the terrible.
I have the wisdom of one condemned… I have the wisdom of one condemned to die, I possess nothing so nothing can possess me and have written my will in my own blood: "O inhabitants of my song: trust in water" and I sleep pierced and crowned by my tomorrow… I dreamed the earth's heart is greater than its map, more clear than its mirrors and my gallows. I was lost in a white cloud that carried me up high as if I were a hoopoe and the wind itself my wings. At dawn, the call of the night guard woke me from my dream, from my language: You will live another death, so revise your last will, the hour of execution is postponed again. I asked: Until when? He said: Wait till you have died some more. I said: I possess nothing so nothing can possess me and have written my will in my own blood: "O inhabitants of my song: trust in water."
