A fascinating effect: I am not actually comfortable looking at these portraits. The photographer frames them as an act of resistance (if he couldn't avoid taking the photos, he could at least make sure they weren't the tidy, compliant headshots the authorities wanted—frankly, I don't think he was the one making that choice) and points out that fifty years later the women were grateful for these records of themselves, but there was nothing willing about them at the time. It comes through. I do not want to see these women unveiled, because I don't have the right to: it is so clearly not how they wish to be seen. But they aren't hiding. They are staring back. They are making it as difficult as possible for the camera, for the viewer to look at them and feel it is a consenting act. That's not something I've seen in a lot of pictures. So I am linking these, but I couldn't look at more than five myself. I don't know if they should ever have been taken. That is a strange thing to say about art.
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- 1: When I invited Frank and you back to mine for a mange tout when I meant ménage à trois
- 2: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 3: This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now
- 4: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 5: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 6: You know this city like the back of your hand, but deep roots are holding me down
- 7: Here we are in the summer rain again
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