Women's History Month - Diane Arbus

Diane Arbus by Allan Arbus (a film test), 1949

Diane Arbus was born to privilege. This world presented an insulated "unreality" that was less real than the nudist camps, circus and carnival ciruit, or the female impersonaters she captured on film. She photographed the underbelly of society, individuals considered "freaks or eccentrics", and focused light on an entire world swept under society's rug, and thereby changed the rules of subject matter and what can be considered art for the medium irrevocably.

Child with a toy hand grenade in Central Park, N.Y.C., 1962


Arbus' contact sheet

It's impossible to know how many rolls of film a photographer shoots to get that one photograph. This image of one of the contact sheets from Arbus' session with the child with the grenade provides a glimpse into her process at: The Indecisive Moment.

Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus

Watch a clip of the film at Fancast. Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus stars Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey Jr. The film was directed by Steven Shainberg.

See that camera? the vintage twin lens Rollieflex? I want it, and according to Sotheby's there are only 700 in existence for this particular model, so, out of my price range. I'm still on a quest to find an affordable, working TLR 2.8 Rolleiflex, but I believe I will begin with a TLR Mamiya.

Fur is a wild and wonderful imagining of Diane's life. Robert Downey Jr. is phenomenal as the beast man who ignites the ember smoldering beneath Diane's proper buttoned down exterior, and Kidman's understated portrayal of Arbus provides just the right blend of unexpressed passion, submission and passive defiance. I loved this film.

I wrote the following flash for a flash flood challenge in a friend's office at zoetrope. The challenge was to write a flash of 100-1000 words, with a film as inspiration. I had just seen Fur, so it was my most recent inspiration.

Warning: the flash contains some racy bits.

Fur - Danna

Unlike me, Lionel wears his animal on his skin.

He is the new neighbor who lives one flight up. The wolfman. My beast. I hear his relentless pacing and the sound is intoxicating. I cannot sleep until he does, and then, I lie in my bed listening to the blood rushing through my body until I nearly cry out. I imagine curling my fingers through his mane and drawing him to me. Rubbing his scent over my body. Taking him into me.

Lionel sees me as I am: a woman who longs for the carnival life, the illustrated man, bearded lady, the snake man, the intoxicating parade of giants and dwarves.

Lionel sees me, and that is all that matters.

My husband is a kind man. An ordinary man. He loves me the best he can, but insists on seeing me, seeing us posed in starched Sunday clothes under conventional light. I long for him to take me by the neck and thrust from behind.

It is Lionel who knew before I did that my camera is the key to unlock all my doors, its insatiable shutter dialating and contracting as light strikes film, my animal eye narrowed behind the viewfinder, watching. Always watching.