The last time I saw Helmut
If you’re a photographer, like I am, and you like naked women, like I used to, then you have to like Helmut Newton, even if it makes you a little nervous. Even if you don’t want to admit to the public at large that naked girls in full-body braces were kind of intriguing. This was a man who pushed the limits of “le shock” so far that he got sick of it altogether. For the last few years he was enraptured by the idea of fully-clothed women who were not tied up or standing on anyone in stilettos. An artist must always explore new areas, and he had never tried that before.
But Helmet Newton is dead, like James Dean before him the owner of a broken head. Clearly a car crash scene involving Mr. Newton is a difficulty for the police, as he usually drives with several pre-mangled mannequins in his back seat. But as I stepped out of a deli on Third Avenue and saw the New York Post headline “NO SAFETY, HELMUT” I knew it was the end of an era. First Herb Ritts, now Saint Newton. Truly, I might get some work if this keeps up.
I met Mr. Newton only once. It was in Los Angeles when I was still in school. I was out there trying to sleep with celebrities or at least clean their pools, while working on my portfolio. I decided I needed some ugly California photos to go with my ugly New York ones. I was lurking around the entrance to the Hollywood Roosevelt, clutching my camera bag and wondering if I should try smoking, when out from the lobby comes Mr. Newton with a troupe of assistants wielding light stands and models wielding not a lot. Mr. Newton was dressed in a many-pocketed khaki photographer’s vest, just like the fellows at Adorama. We had the same sunglasses.
They all stood around in a clump for a moment, waiting for their van. I decided to brush up against history.
“Mr. Newton,” I said as I approached him, “do you have any advice for young photographers?”
He started answering before he turned to me. “Yeah. Same thing I tell all you kids. You want to get laid? So be a plumber. Photography replaces sex, it doesn’t facilitate it.”
The van arrived and they left. I had already known what he said, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. I had always felt that photographic conquests were an end in themselves. You don’t photograph a beautiful woman because you want to go to bed with her. You photograph her because you want to make a small reversed-out image of her to keep in a binder of celluloid. Or at least because you can manage that easier.
It’s the same advice I give to you all. Helmut Newton, R.I.P.
by Jack, February 2, 2004 2:59 PM | More from Women
Within the Chronology
« All roads lead to me | Home | Celebrating Jack History Month »
The man was 83-years-old. He lost control of his Caddy while pulling out of the fucking Marmont. Stupid, stupid Hollywood. Wake me up when Jock Sturges, Annie L., LaChapelle and Cindy Sherman start carpooling.
Sorry, I don't have $3000 to spend on a single book so I never really got to take his work home with me and study it while fully alert and alone. Besides, his pictures were only vaguely menacing and I could never quite figure out what brand of vodka the guy was trying to sell me, so I could never fully apreciate his subtext.
I think the thing that bothers me about Helmut Newton was that I couldn't jack off to his work. His work always summoned too much cortex for me.
Wait a minute...who am I talking about here?