Nude Photo Collection

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Nudes
The photographic depiction of the human body
How I went from writing JUGGS to juggling writing at TASCHEN
Exhibition
June 10 - September 25, 2022
Exhibition
October 19, 2022 - January 15, 2023
The history of nude photography is the history of people’s fascination with the topic. Indeed, the photographic depiction of the human body is the only subject that has enthralled photographers, theoreticians and consumers over such a long period – more than 150 years. No other motif is as prevalent as this one during all the phases of development comprising the history of photography, no other is present, whatever the technique, and is a subject of discussion within the context of nearly all aesthetic movements. Nor has any other pictorial topic produced such a variety of specialities as the nude: from the ethnological interpretation of the body to the glamour shot, from nudist photography to the pin-up of today. No other photographic field of application has inspired as much desire as it has awakened official wrath.
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Nude: female photographers explore nudity and the feminine gaze
Bettina Pittaluga – Magueye - Paris. Photograph: Bettina Pittaluga/Courtesy of the artist and Fotografiska
Women behind the lens: ‘She was too beautiful not to be photographed’
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Fotografiska’s new group show questions traditional notions of beauty, gender and power.
“I ’ve been accused of trying to homosexualize African men,” photographer Denisse Ariana Pérez told me as we discussed photos she’s showcasing in Fotografiska New York’s exhibit Nude, a worldwide selection of nude portraits as seen through the female gaze. Pérez specializes in photographing men, particularly Black African men, and she purposely works with her subjects to draw them out of dominant ideas of what men should be.
“I like the challenge of it,” said Pérez, “of confronting more traditional masculinity and in some way trying to bend it and question it, and to create a space for men to explore and go beyond what they have been allowed to.”
Pérez makes her captivating, emotion-laden images by inviting her subjects to interact with water, letting them connect with a powerful, elemental force of nature that helps them to strip off the facades of identity and ego and go inwards toward the core of who they really are.
“Water is an element that forces you to let go and embrace that letting go,” she said. “It’s the element that makes me connect to myself the most, I see it almost as a maternal element. I wanted to bring that to others, even if for just a brief moment.”
Pérez’s work is emblematic of Nude’s aim, which is to upset dominant ideas of the nude body in art by showcasing what a diverse group of talented female photographers construe as nude portraits.
“This show is kind of rare in our exhibition history,” Amanda Hajjar, director of exhibitions for Fotografiska New York, told me. “All of the artists in this show have this past of trying to turn the portrayal of the nude on its head. They’re all trying to do something different, and this is the outcome.”
Bringing together 30 artists from 20 different countries who are shooting portraits all over the world, Nude offers a global perspective on the human form. Among other things, this broad cultural range lets the the exhibition wrestle with the question of how the meaning of a woman taking a nude portrait differs from society to society, as well as how the female gaze changes from one context to another.
For instance, the Swedish photographer Julia SH takes the museum as her setting, upsetting traditional western concepts of how that institution regards the female body. She does this by placing plus-sized women into striking, balletic poses on pedestals and in galleries that are more accustomed to displaying young, thinner women. As Hajjar noted, SH’s works are “nothing like what you would have seen in a museum before”. Hajjar added that, “We’re interested in dealing with the ‘nontraditional’ female body and what that looks like.”
While SH explores the nontraditional female body by putting larger women on pedestals, Joana Choumali does so through intricate, layered photographs of both real women and mannequins manufactured and displayed in her native Ivory Coast. These vivid, destabilized photos possess a fidgety energy, examining how the Awoulaba, or “beauty queen” mannequin propagates certain ideas of Black female beauty, contrasting it to the Taille fine, which adheres to westernized beauty standards. In the delicate interplay of reproduced forms Choumali combines stereotypes and reality to produce something that feels at once monstrous and without control, yet also familiar and mundane.
As those two artists would indicate, the range of subjects and artistic styles in Nude is large. Israeli Elinor Carucci cinematically depicts middle-age domesticity, while Brazilian Angélica Dass uses a sociological bent to document the true diversity of skin tones that are flattened under generic words like Black and white . The Chinese artist Yushi Li subverts the male gaze by using Tinder to find male subjects, whom she then photographs with a desirous lens. Although certain themes do emerge among subgroups of the photographers, these are not – as one might imagine – based in geography.
“It’s not like I can say the American artists all have the same aesthetic,” said Hajjar. “The photos in Nude don’t fit neatly in groups like that, which is really nice.”
In addition to bringing stylistic and cultural expansiveness, Nude also attempts to broaden the narrative around the artistic nude by incorporating transgender bodies – their presence in the show lends all of the exhibition’s photos a degree of ambiguity. With nude models stripped of many of the signifiers denoting queerness or heteronormativity, it can be hard to tell the trans from the cis, the queer from the straight. And while it is true that some of the individuals in Nude, such as those photographed by Japanese artist Momo Okabe, “look trans” due to their combinations of genitalia and secondary sex characteristics, most of the photos in Nude are not so easily read as anything other than human.
This raises the question of what exactly separates a trans body from a cis one and if the lines between the two are really as firm and fixed as current discourse presumes. As Okabe suggested to me, the demarcation depends more on “preconceived notions” about the LGBTQ+ community than anything innate about humanity, going on to conclude that “trans bodies to me do not differ from any other body.”
“I have come to the realization that all people are inherently strange and mysterious. I believe people are beginning to understand that everyone is queer,” said Okabe.
As a collection of work, Nude reveals much of what is inherently strange and mysterious about bodies that may not normally appear to be worthy of sustained artistic attention. It does so through a female gaze that does not dominate or take but rather empathizes and asks for consent. A rich interplay of human connection underlies the photographs in Nude, a freeing of self born of a genuine desire to see who other people really are. This is what allows these women to find views of the everyday that do not look so normal.
“I see the female gaze as the incorporation of a lot of care into the photographing process,” Pérez told me, “a lot of very empathetic caring for the process and for the subjects and how they are portrayed.”
She recounted the making of one of her favorite photos, of two boys whom she happened to meet on the street one day in Senegal. “One of them told me, I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’ve learned so much today. He said that was a day he would never forget. We had created something, he felt included in the process.”
It’s that kind of closeness, coming out of a spirit of care and generosity, that one senses again and again in Nude and that makes this show such a revealing experience.
Nude will be showing from 11 February to 1 May at Fotografiska, New York
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Is nakedness invisibility’s opposite? Maybe not, but, if it’s unapologetically displayed, it can be a kind of antidote to erasure.
“Bebe on Sand,” 2014. Photographs by Jocelyn Lee
“Deborah at Aquinnah Beach in September,” 2020.
“Nancy at 78, Maine at 18 (Aunt and Grandniece),” 2018.
“Nancy Floating at Quitsa Pond,” 2016.
“Judith at Home,” 2009. Photographs by Jocelyn Lee
“Bebe and Pagan in the Red Room,” 2004.
“Bebe and Pagan Pregnant with Twin Girls,” 2012.
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Some clichés about the cycle of life are true. When you are raising young children, the days are long and the years are short. And when you’re a woman, you will, at about age fifty, become invisible. All our lives, as girls and younger women, we prepare ourselves to be looked at. We grow accustomed to registering —to attracting, evading, or denouncing the male gaze. In “ Mrs. Dalloway ,” Clarissa, newly aware of herself as a woman of a certain age, walks down the street thinking, “This body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing—nothing at all.” The cultural critic Akiko Busch, quoting that line from “Mrs. Dalloway,” notes that “a reduced sense of visibility does not necessarily constrain experience.” True, but it takes some getting used to, and when it’s punctuated, as it often is, by condescension—when strangers are suddenly addressing you not even as “Ma’am” but, with a verbal wink, as “young lady”—you may not want to get used to it.
Is nakedness invisibility’s opposite? Maybe not, but, if it’s voluntarily, unapologetically displayed, it can be a kind of antidote to diminishment and erasure. A nude portrait of a woman older than, say, sixty is an unusual image—even a taboo one. To make such photographs, and, even more so, to pose for them, is an act of defiance. In the course of her career, the photographer Jocelyn Lee has been drawn to nude bodies of all shapes and ages. Her latest book, “Sovereign” (Minor Matters Books), features a selection of her photographs of women who range in age from their mid-fifties to their early nineties, posing naked, frequently outdoors and in natural settings.
Lee’s color images of older women are painterly, classical, but also frank. Skin puckers, crinkles, and sags. Bellies poof and pleat. A silver-haired woman stands knee-deep in a pond strewn with autumn leaves, looking directly at the camera, her elbows angled back like wings to reveal one intact breast and one mastectomy scar. A naked woman sits on a blanket of moss in the woods, her breasts and belly soft, so at ease she might be napping. In “Nancy at 78, Maine at 18,” a woman and her grandniece stand nude on a beach. Side by side, their long-legged, curly-headed bodies rhyme, but also remind us of the ways time will remake our familiar, corporeal selves. The image is not some grim memento mori, though. The women lean comfortably toward each other, touching shoulders; the younger woman’s arm loops through the elder woman’s. Behind them, the sea and sky are a light-suffused blue.
Lee, who is fifty-nine, lives part of the year on a lush, wooded property outside of Portland, Maine. She’s taken some of the portraits of older women at a pond near her house, and others on beaches at Martha’s Vineyard and elsewhere. The natural settings, devoid of sociological detail and inherently beautiful, tend to banish ironic readings and extend a certain benevolence to the naked subjects. We aren’t in paradise here—nobody in these photos looks that naïve—but we are not in any sort of judgment-laden social space, either. Lee told me that she hoped the locations implied the warmth of sun on the body—“that kind of comfort and love”—and communicated the idea that we are “all essentially sensual creatures.”
“The camera can be very cruel depending on how you use it,” she said. “There’s a whole tradition of photography that’s based on criticality and cruelty. Diane Arbus —whom I love, by the way—looked for unflattering moments to create a sense of drama. Sometimes that can be done with the juxtaposition of elements in a space, the exaggeration of the appearance of wealth or poverty, harsh lighting.”
Lee said that, by contrast, her work had sometimes been criticized for being “too earnest or romantic.” But she made her peace with that a long time ago. Through her photography, Lee has always tried to understand “what lay ahead.” When she was still in college, long before she had children herself, she photographed a pregnant friend in the nude as part of her thesis project. “This was before the Demi Moore Vanity Fair cover; people didn’t really know what a pregnant woman looked like,” she said. Through the years, she took many nude photographs of her mother, who, she says, had a remarkable ease in her own skin. Lee continued taking pictures of her as she was dying of cancer.
I’m about six months older than Lee, and, all in all, I consider aging to be far better than the alternative, as my own mother, who died at sixty, the age I am now, used to say. Still, I prefer the cloudy mirror in my bathroom to any in which I can see myself clearly. The older women who posed for Lee in the nude include professors, writers, artists, an astrologer, a hospice worker, and a small-town mayor. To me, they seem very brave, but it bothers me to say so. We all have bodies; if we’re lucky, we all get old, or at least older. Why not show what it looks like?
Two of Lee’s subjects, Judith and Nancy, have been posing for her for decades. Both told me that they don’t love how they look in some of the images, but that they treasured the experience of making them with Lee, whose process is creative and collaborative. Nancy, who is eighty, said, “I cringe when I look at the images, but I know that when I’m ninety I’m gonna say, ‘Ooh, look how great I looked!’ ” Her grandniece Maine, who posed with her, is a photography student. Maine told me that Lee’s image makes her happy because her grandaunt and she look so alike in it. “It’s like seeing myself in sixty years, and I sort of love that,” she said. “I think Nancy is beautiful.” Lee told me that she plans to photograph the pair every year.
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