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He’s been called “high-fashion’s dirty old man“, a misogynistic visionary with a love of lenses, limbs, and licentious ladies. Helmut Newton’s photography is world-(in)famous, his provocative, sexually charged subjects a regular feature in Parisian and American Vogue. His models were often stripped bare, long necks exposed, hands gently touching their faces or nursing a cigarette, or even more provocatively, a gun. The women are undoubtedly beautiful, but are they objectified beyond agency? Was Newton’s imagery counteractive to the sexual revolution of the 70s, when his work became so popular?

I recently came across this interview conducted by Leeta Harding on her Tumblr. She talks to Newton about his choice in models and his views on the female form. Everyone seems to have their own opinion on the controversial photographer, and as a fan of his photography, his rationale for creating the images is something I find you can’t ignore if you’re a photography student. You don’t just take images, you make them.

LEETA:  The women in your photographs always seem to possess a strong spirit. In a lot of other fashion photography, the models look so out-of-it and withdrawn.
HELMUT: I don’t like using girls who are already very famous. That way they don’t have a routine — which I prefer.
LEETA: What do you generally look for when you choose a girl?
HELMUT: It depends — my tastes change with the times. Every decade women’s bodies seem to be different. I remember when I first came to Paris in ’56, or ’57, all the models in the haute couture houses were little. They were five-foot six … and they were all French. Now you look at a French girl, and she’s like an American girl. It has to do with what they eat, working out, going jogging, bicycling. There’s an American influence on everything. Everybody looks the same around the world — sneakers and jeans.
LEETA: I don’t think that’s going to change anytime soon.
HELMUT: Then there was a time, in the early ’60s, when women had no waist. Remember the sack and the A-line dress? Before that, when I was in Australia in the ’50s, if a girl could wear a dog collar as a belt, that was the ultimate. Then you got the Twiggies. You know who Twiggy is don’t you?
LEETA: Yes, the original waif.
HELMUT: And then the big Swedish, German, and American girls came on the scene in the ‘80s. They were built like truck drivers, which is a look that I like. It was the heyday of the super models like Cindy Crawford — Cindy had a great quality. Then it went back to this kind of zonked-out, anorexic girl in the early ’90s.
LEETA: What makes a woman sexy?
HELMUT: Ah! I think it’s nothing to do with beauty. It’s nothing to do with if she has big boobs, little boobs or no boobs. I think it all goes through the head. It’s intellect. I think that what goes on in the head of a woman is much more important than whether she’s blonde or brunette or whatever.

One of the main criticisms of  Helmut Newton’s work is that he shot for Playboy for 19 years. After being a position where portraying women completely for the male gaze was your only MO, one could argue that all his images are laden with misogynistic innuendo. I mean, it was his job to portray women as objects, right? Did his job at Playboy condition him to depict women first and foremost as sexual objects? His argument was that in positioning the models with front-on, pelvises thrust forward as they stare directly down the barrel of the camera lens, he was providing women with agency. These women aren’t hiding anything (not like those Supre ads you see on billboards). They’re almost defiant, in their (nearly) natural state, poised as if so say “what of it?” in regards to their nudity.

I’m not going to get into the semiotic codings of his images because I’m on a study break week from university and am saving my academic inclinations for my tutors, but I will briefly allude to a more contemporary controversy. Just as Newton was lampooned for creating demoralising art, I see a similar witch hunt happening on my own home turf. I remember the Bill Henson controversy of 2007. The contemporary photographer’s exhibition shut down because it allegedly sexualised children. I was talking to a girlfriend about this at the time (another Henson supporter) and I was so afraid to publicly declare my support for the photographer. But she said something to me which really made me wish I could be more articulate instead of fence sitting: If one takes a photograph with no intention of sexualising or objectifying the subject matter, are they at fault if someone’s interpretation deviates from their innocent actions? I guess it all gums down to whether or not that was the intent Newton had at the time. I have no concrete proof that Newton’s work is ultimately empowering for feminine sexuality, but I do know that when I look at his images I see something fierce, a raw sexuality that I haven’t seen anywhere else.
“I am superficial, my images aren’t deep. Good taste is the anti-fashion, the anti-photo, the anti-woman, the anti-eroticism. Vulgarity is life, is fun, the desire for extreme reactions.” – Helmut Newton

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Even though March signals the official start of Autumn, I really considered last week the last real week of Summer. Whilst the rest of the country is succumbed to the wet weather wrath of La Nina, Perth’s endless sunshine had me thumbing my nose at my East Coast friends and family. Last week I was flitting about in a tshirt and open foot wear – this week not even the bush shelter can keep me dry.

I had a day off on Thursday, so I took a little me-time and explored the latest exhibition at the Fremantle Arts Centre. It’s by far my favourite Gallery in Perth, and in fact, it actually used to be a Womens’ Asylum. Neat fact, amiright? I really love just taking down a pen and notebook and writing under the shade of the trees. It’s so peaceful there.

Inside, the City of Fremantle Festival of Photography (FotoFreo) was going on. Very, very cool stuff.

Salt by Murray Fredericks

'Fair Game' by Eric Bridgeman

Gauri Gill

I’m also starting get myself ready for The Ride to Conquer Cancer. I already have a bike, but Stella is huge and chunky and probably won’t last the 200kms. So I’m thinking of getting another bike, or probably even renting one. Mercer Cycles on South Terrace in Fremantle has the cutest selection of bikes ever!

On Saturday I had the day off from work so I went into the city to see Hijacked III at PICA. Hijacked is an annual exhibition which showcases the work of Australian and international photographers, and this year featured the talents of UK photographers.

The below images are by Laura Pannack. I think they’re so beautiful and simple (maybe I’m just a sucker for teenage love?).

Later that night, I went on a picnic to Monument Hill with a lovely lady. I failed to take photos of our vegan feast, but I did manage to get a few snaps of the Lantern Parade we went to later. We wandered down to Wray Ave in South Terrace to have a drink at Who’s Your Mumma, and came across a big group of people making lanterns for Earth Hour. There was lots of food, people playing music and dancing, just your average community affair in Fremantle I guess =]

Some cool pavement art outside Who's Your Mumma

On Sunday I went to the West Coast Blues and Roots Festival to review for Everguide. Check out this dude welcoming people at the gate!

This lady was having so. much. fun dancing at Gin Wigmore. Can’t blame her – Gin was awesome! All those years ago listening to Holy Smoke in my bedroom….

Mega babe Gin Wigmore

I’m not usually one to listen to contemporary Blues and Roots, but I really enjoyed Husky. They’re dreamy and ethereal and I’ve never watched a gig lying down on the floor.

Blitzen Trapper

Sometimes I feel like Perth gets a really bad rep for not having a lot on. It definitely doesn’t compare to party cities like Sydney and Melbourne, but I don’t feel like I had a bad week. I am looking forward to going back to Sydney for my birthday though! Booked tickets last week – yeehaw!

 

 

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For a recent photography assignment I chose to photograph two of the most beautiful girls I know – my cousin Rachel, an aspiring London-bound actress and artist, and my friend Simone, an up-and-coming film maker.

Drawing inspiration from Sophia Coppola’s Virgin Suicides, the shoot took place in my cousin’s sunny Fremantle cottage. The house has become a second home of sorts for me, and I always look forward to warm welcomes in the form of delicious scents of wholesome home-cooked meals and the smiling faces of a large family over-flowing with love for one another.

The girls hardly needed any direction, channeling the repressive suburban vibe that I wanted, whilst also appearing lost in a dream, sailing ships in their minds.

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Devon Aoki by Kayt Jones. Photo: Trendland.com

LA-based and London born photographer Kayt Jones is an unabashed lover of the female form. She takes searingly sensual images of women with their friends, women with their family, women in elegant couture and women who are positively Eden-esque. Her style switches gracefully between fierce fashion editorial to intimate portraiture. You can read her interview in Issue 312 of i.D, but here’s a few snippets to whet your appetite.

Do you think a woman’s sexuality is predominantly in her mind or body?

I think a woman’s sexuality is absolutely in her mind.

How do you avoid your nude images being smutty or gratuitous?

I think the body is beautiful and sensual. I think sex is great, I dont have hang ups about it being dirty or as a tool of power. I really want to celebrate women’s sensuality and the freedom we have to express it.

Handbags are a recurring motif in your work, what is it about the bag that you identify with?

Yes, I have a handbag fetish. I find it very cinematic – a bag of mysteries, a box of tricks… I love how a woman has so many hidden parts. Some things you see, some things are not always on the surfact, they lie beneath. I think our relationship and love affair with handbags is part of that.

Photo: Trendland

Photo: Trendland.com

Photo: Trendland

See more of her work at Kaytjones.com

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It’s been raining lately, so I turned the camera on myself.

New shirt from Pigeon Hole Vintage.

Collection of Russh magazines, shoes from TopShop, Canon EOS 500.

Old records from King Street, Newtown, large crystal from Berry markets, collection of crystal from my grandfather, Arabian Nights from my mother, lace gloves from Alannah Hill.

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I think I’ve been in Perth for almost a month now. To be quite honest, I think the parents saw it coming.  I used to be able to hide everything from them. Nights spent smoking in my closet with my best friend (yes, really!), forbidden facial piercings, secret lovers…Like most teenagers, I was a Pandora’s box to my parents. Nowadays, I have a lot less energy. They’re far from Yogis, but I think I dropped a number of not so subtle hints to dear old Ma and Pa regarding my inability to act like a Big Person. After two years of phone calls which usually began with the impression that I was a good, loving, smart and compassionate daughter, but more often than not ended with something along the lines of “Don’t tell me what to do! Just send money!”, I conceded defeat. A bitch called Life = 1, Camilla = 0. With my tail between my legs, I packed up all 23 boxes of my worldly possessions and hauled a suitcase half my body weight over to Western Australia. A place I swore I would never call home. A place where the majority of shops are closed on a Sunday. A place where the public transport system is only used by those who are too young too drive, or those who can’t afford to. Is there life on Mars?

Two years ago, my parents decided to retire to Perth. It’s a great place to recuperate, take stock, relax and think in retrospect. I always looked forward to my vacations away from the hustling, bustling, work-yourself-into-a-frenzy lifestyle pace of Sydney. But Perth was never really a place I thought suited me. Like most young 20-somethings, life is sweet when you’re when you take advantage of the drunken stumbling distance home from a boozy night out. Life is even better when you celebrate this fact by rendering yourself physically unable to walk home, despite living 5 minutes walk away (thank you, Vodka!). This was Sydney life for me, in a nutshell. I was born in Sydney, I was bred in Sydney. The 1994 bush fires, Mariah Carey’s brief visit to Westfield Miranda, the 2000 Olympic Games, the Cronulla Race Riots – I was there, man. But I kinda just fell out of love with ‘ol Sydney. And I really grew disenchanted with the whole lone wolf life-style I was leading.

Living out of home was definitely a learning curve. And it gives you boasting rights over your friends who still kick it with the parentals. You’re that cooler, wise-beyond-her-years, independent friend. You can bring home one night stands, you can decorate your home with 80s cardboard cut outs and ash trays in the shape of a pistols, eat ice cream for dinner. Ah, freedom. It smelt like a heady mix of cheap wine, a leaning tower of empty pizza boxes and unwashed sheets. It’s a delicious feeling as you triumphantly march past piles of dirty dishes and overflowing floor-drobes. Nobody to tell you what to do and if you’re lucky, your flat mates have the same shoe size as you.

Eventually the novelty wore off. Bills go unpaid, mould builds up in the shower, laundry goes unwashed, flat mates move on and leave you with an unfurnished apartment and no ADSL. Juggling landlords, real estate agents, internet connections, building managers, contracts and sharing living space with others is stressful. Especially whilst studying. On top of fighting over whose turn it is to buy toilet paper, you’ve got assignments, exams, work commitments and the stress of juggling it all whilst remaining classy. It’s not fun. It’s enough to drive a gal up the wazoo. Stress brings out the worst in people, and I definitely brought out Ugly Princess Bitch-face one too many times.

Which is why I decided to give sunny Perth a go. After four weeks, I finally feel at home. I might not be within somersault distance of the nearest bar, but I do have a sweet flat screen TV, access to a free laundry, a car, broadband internet and my own bathroom. Oh, and I guess the support of a loving family counts for something too. I’m a Boomerang Kid, and after a large helpful of humble pie, I couldn’t feel happier.

All photos taken by moi, in and around Perth.

 

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Boredom is unsettling. Luckily it gives me time to play with my camera a bit more! Hooray for end of semester and summer!

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