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Cindy Sherman is a strangely elusive artist. Her face has become famous through the photographs she takes of herself, but her work is not autobiographical. Coveted by collectors and extolled by critics, her images explore raw human emotion and common artifice—without revealing who she really is. A retrospective at the Museum of Modem Art (MoMA) in New York demonstrates that although the 58-year-old American may be her own model, she is not her own muse. Her ninth-floor Manhattan studio also offers clues. Pinned to the walls are magazine cuttings and computer printouts of people in what she calls "preposterous" positions: society ladies in ball gowns making breakfast, actresses who are completely naked except for a designer handbag and costume jewellery. She keeps her props in meticulously organised cupboards—multicoloured wigs, prosthetic noses, false boobs and funny clothes. An orange plastic chest of drawers holds loads of make-up; nearby is the giant track pad she uses to do her post-production digital work. It is here that Ms Sherman mutates into the objects of her fascination. Why does the photographer appear in most of her work One reason is shyness. Disguises can be liberating and delegating can be arduous; she tried hiring models once, but found she hated it. Ms Sherman enjoys working alone and doing everything herself. She has also experimented with still lives in which she does not appear. These images appeal to her hard-core fans but they lack the life, literally, of her other work. They are also hard to sell. When collectors buy a Sherman photograph, they want her. Last year one of the 1981 "Centrefold" series (pictured) made $3.9m, then a record for a photograph at auction. Bemused by how much collectors want her in the frame, the artist mimics a male voice: "Is she behind that mask I only want it if she is in there!" Unlike many of her male peers who have jumped ship to bigger galleries, Ms Sherman has stayed loyal to her original dealers—Metro Pictures, the New York gallery that presented her first solo show in 1979, and Sprüth Magers, which has represented her in Europe since 1984. Neither gallery puts pressure on her; they let her get on with her work at her own pace. As a result, she does not overproduce or aimlessly repeat herself. Ms Sherman broke into the art world with "Untitled Film Stills", a series of 69 black-and-white images that were taken in the late 1970s. A fictional archive of publicity shots in which she poses as characters in films from the 1950s and 1960s, the work was an immediate hit. Its exploration of media culture took Pop Art beyond celebratory consumerism into a more critical vein. And its satire of female stereotypes was subtly feminist—so subtle, in fact, that a feminist art historian advised the young Ms Sherman to superimpose text on the works to bring out the irony. Ambiguity is a characteristic of Ms Sherman’s work. One is never quite sure where the artist stands in relation to her characters, and they in turn are often difficult to define. The "Centrefold" series of 12 colour photos in which the artist shot herself from above with fearful or pensive expressions added a layer of anxiety to the uncertainty. Among Ms Sherman’s most celebrated later works are her "Clowns", which were shot in 2003 and 2004. Eva Respini, who has curated the MoMA show, believes that the clown is a "stand-in" for the artist. In one picture, the name Cindy is embroidered on the jacket of a heavily made-up clown with prosthetic cheeks and nose. It is typical of Ms Sherman’s style that she would be disguised beyond all recognition, looking sad and ugly, in a work that flirts with self-portraiture. Indeed, looking over all the photographs, it is interesting to see how the artist has aged gracefully in real life but intriguingly badly in her fictions. In 2007 French Vogue commissioned her to do a series of six photographs in which she transformed herself into desperate middle-aged fashion victims dressed in Balenciaga. These pictures led to "The Socialites" in which she depicted herself as older women whose multimillionaire husbands, one suspects, have cast them off for younger versions. Their dignity in the face of faded glamour reveals both the empathy and brutality of the artist’s eye. Ms Sherman is a kind of actor-director of still pictures who delves into the representation of women—and occasionally men—in Western society. Back in the 1970s, when she first embarked on this artistic path, few would have predicted that she could make so many compelling bodies of work through depicting herself. But much like a character actor who takes pleasure in nailing a bit part, Ms Sherman takes a detailed interest in others while mastering the art of making it up. (From The Economist; 805 words) What is most probably the reason that Ms Sherman hasn’t changed dealers
Chris, I have something to tell you. Yesterday, a woman conducting a survey called the house. You know I usually don’t do those things—not unless I’m feeling especially guilty that day—but then she mentioned not having to commute. You see, this was the choice the survey offered me, as I understood it: I could continue to take a forty-seven-minute train ride (or a thirty-eight-minute ferry fide) and a twelve-minute subway ride to and from work every day while remaining your wife, or I could work from home and cease to be married to you. I have chosen the latter. You probably have a few questions, as I did. For example, will this home be our home, where you also live Given the fact that we will no longer be husband and wife, this is a complication. I asked the surveyor this question, but she had already moved on to "Would you give up manicures if it meant you didn’t have to commute" (No.) You may be confused, or perturbed. This I understand. I had my doubts, too. Not long after I said I would divorce you to work from home, I wondered if the surveyors would be providing me with some sort of alternate home or, ideally, divorce-litigation fees. On these matters, too, my surveyor was mute. And if you refuse to grant me a divorce I also queried the surveyor about whether a mere separation would be sufficient to guarantee me a commute-free existence, but by then, it seemed, I was taking up her time—her very important surveyor time—and she had to get off the phone. I am unsure if you will be allowed to remain in our house; the survey was murky on this point. Can we still speak to each other Will I still make roasted veggie-meatie for the Franks on Thursdays I know this is difficult for everyone. Will you be working from home, too With regard to that last one—c’mon, Chris, it’s important to be realistic here. Perhaps you are wondering what will happen to our children. Will they be able to remain in their childhood home, likely my new office Again, I’m still pretty unclear on this whole thing, but I’d guess no. If we have to separate physically, it’s better that they move in with you—you make the mac and cheese they like. Having the entire house to myself does bring up some annoying considerations, such as choosing which room I will work in. I suspect I’ll alternate. If you like, Chris, I will use our lovely master bedroom only for the most important of conference calls. Our daughter’s room will be for Mondays; the light will cheer me. I became a bit concerned when Todd called this morning asking why I wasn’t at the office. Apparently, the surveyors have yet to make arrangements with my employers for me to work from home, but perhaps they are waiting for the divorce papers to be signed. It does make me question the binding nature of my answer, though. Maybe we don’t have to end our marriage, simply because I answered "Yes" on a survey conducted by a company called TeamVision But of course we do. Don’t be silly, Chris. You may find comfort, in this unfortunate circumstance, in the fact that TeamVision is a popular company that provides software for remote and online meetings, and that by participating in its survey I have helped confirm the strong future of telecommuting. Darling, I really did love you. When the survey asked if I would bike to work in exchange for you, I said, "What kind of bike" And then, "Absolutely not." I’ll see you at the office. (From New Yorker; 619 words) What can be inferred from the passage
Chris, I have something to tell you. Yesterday, a woman conducting a survey called the house. You know I usually don’t do those things—not unless I’m feeling especially guilty that day—but then she mentioned not having to commute. You see, this was the choice the survey offered me, as I understood it: I could continue to take a forty-seven-minute train ride (or a thirty-eight-minute ferry fide) and a twelve-minute subway ride to and from work every day while remaining your wife, or I could work from home and cease to be married to you. I have chosen the latter. You probably have a few questions, as I did. For example, will this home be our home, where you also live Given the fact that we will no longer be husband and wife, this is a complication. I asked the surveyor this question, but she had already moved on to "Would you give up manicures if it meant you didn’t have to commute" (No.) You may be confused, or perturbed. This I understand. I had my doubts, too. Not long after I said I would divorce you to work from home, I wondered if the surveyors would be providing me with some sort of alternate home or, ideally, divorce-litigation fees. On these matters, too, my surveyor was mute. And if you refuse to grant me a divorce I also queried the surveyor about whether a mere separation would be sufficient to guarantee me a commute-free existence, but by then, it seemed, I was taking up her time—her very important surveyor time—and she had to get off the phone. I am unsure if you will be allowed to remain in our house; the survey was murky on this point. Can we still speak to each other Will I still make roasted veggie-meatie for the Franks on Thursdays I know this is difficult for everyone. Will you be working from home, too With regard to that last one—c’mon, Chris, it’s important to be realistic here. Perhaps you are wondering what will happen to our children. Will they be able to remain in their childhood home, likely my new office Again, I’m still pretty unclear on this whole thing, but I’d guess no. If we have to separate physically, it’s better that they move in with you—you make the mac and cheese they like. Having the entire house to myself does bring up some annoying considerations, such as choosing which room I will work in. I suspect I’ll alternate. If you like, Chris, I will use our lovely master bedroom only for the most important of conference calls. Our daughter’s room will be for Mondays; the light will cheer me. I became a bit concerned when Todd called this morning asking why I wasn’t at the office. Apparently, the surveyors have yet to make arrangements with my employers for me to work from home, but perhaps they are waiting for the divorce papers to be signed. It does make me question the binding nature of my answer, though. Maybe we don’t have to end our marriage, simply because I answered "Yes" on a survey conducted by a company called TeamVision But of course we do. Don’t be silly, Chris. You may find comfort, in this unfortunate circumstance, in the fact that TeamVision is a popular company that provides software for remote and online meetings, and that by participating in its survey I have helped confirm the strong future of telecommuting. Darling, I really did love you. When the survey asked if I would bike to work in exchange for you, I said, "What kind of bike" And then, "Absolutely not." I’ll see you at the office. (From New Yorker; 619 words) Which is true of the surveyor
Old 8ram videos of my older brother and me depict the same casual disregard any child has for a parent. My father, nearing 70, shot hours of footage of us with his old-fashioned video camera, his booming baritone narrating while Dan and I played air guitar or showcased our best belly flops. In my favorite vignette, I am smearing chocolate in my hair as Dad trills my nickname, Jussy, in trademark, singsong staccato. My father, Sidney Harman, is credited with many things: building one of the biggest audio-equipment companies in the world, Harman International; maintaining an impressive golf handicap into his 90s; buying Newsweek from The Washington Post in 2010, when he was 91. He was puckish; he was a poet, a philosopher, and a sports enthusiast. But more than anything, my dad was a magician. I will never forget the way his wiry eyebrows furrowed when he beguiled a stranger’s son at a restaurant, asking him to blow on a coin that would later surface in the boy’s ear. I remember willfully insisting that the quarter had never vanished and reappeared, that it had been in his pocket the whole time. That was my role: the adversary. When I was a kid, nothing my dad did—despite his curiosity, good humor, or success—particularly impressed me. In the seventh grade, I was accepted to a prestigious all-girls horseback-riding camp in Vermont. Only for the most serious equestriennes, the program demanded hours of intensive lessons and a regimented diet. Prior to my departure, I heavily campaigned for care packages, citing the irreparable side effects of withdrawal from Sour Straw candy. Halfway through camp session, I received a notice that a package was waiting for me at the canteen, but that it had been inspected for contraband. Evidently Dad had bought a board game and filled the box to the brim with candy, and then had taken it to be shrink-wrapped. Although the packaging was seamless—and, as the camp director admitted, unprecedented—my sweets were seized. As I walked away with my gutted Monopoly game, I read the note from my dad: "A game for a gamine," he had written, in trademark, blocky scrawl. That wasn’t the only time one of his tricks backfired, but he never stopped trying. When I was in the 12th grade, a teacher ordered me to rewrite an essay on Henry IV. Although I was fairly confident in my mastery of Falstaff as a foil to Prince Hal, I asked Dad for help. After an hour of brainstorming, we crafted a three-page masterpiece, which included two, single-sentence paragraphs for emphasis. We were quite pleased with our creativity, especially those two artful sentences. When I came home with an F, my dad maintained that Mrs. B. wouldn’t know iambic pentameter if it bit her in the ass. It was this refusal to ascribe to social rules that made him so magical. And although I used to cringe when he would pick me up in his convertible, Frank Sinatra blaring from the speakers, the more I listened, the more I became enchanted with O1’ Blue Eyes. My dad always said his goal was to live long enough to see my older brother graduate from high school; this would have made him 82. At my own college graduation, Dad—then 88 and lively as ever—rank warm keg beer from a plastic cup and flirted with my roommates. When we found out last March, that at 92, he had acute myeloid leukemia, no one believed my dad was really sick. He didn’t look it, and he didn’t feel it, he said; his opinions were still provocative, his jokes, terrible. But as we sat on the balcony of my parents’ oceanfront home on Venice Beach, he encouraged me to pursue my dream of writing, assured me I had a wonderful partner in my boyfriend, and told that one day, I’d be a lovely mother. The words were heavy, but the sun on my nose was warm, and I didn’t take any of it too seriously. After all, he’d always had a penchant for dramatics. A month later, in April, I saw him at the hospital for the last time. Despite the morphine coursing through his veins, he looked at me and conspiratorially suggested we "get out of here." I smiled at him, his warm body bloated with chemicals, his face shrouded in unfamiliar stubble, his dark-blue eyes weighted and cloudy. I finally understood that this was his final trick: the disappearing act. (From Newsweek; 750 words) What happened to the package that her father sent to her when it arrived at the horseback-tiding camp
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