A portrait of Madonna, 1991, seen through Steven Meisel’s mercilessly tender lens: not merely an image but a revelation wrought of contrary humours. For she croucheth low upon herself, limbs drawn inward, arms clasped about her knees as though she might contain the entire din of fame within that slender and delicate vessel. Her regard strayeth aside—beyond our sight, beyond the instant—unto some far horizon discerned of her alone. From this vantage, the rest of us are shut out as from a forbidden mystery.
Sequins shimmer like liquid fire upon her flesh, whilst her hair—sculpted in waves of cinematic perfection—summoneth the spectral glamour of Greta Garbo and Jean Harlow, when womanhood was in equal measure a masque and a defence. Yet Meisel’s genius is in that which he refuseth to disclose: the shadow that looms behind her, immense and heavy, a darkness that threatens to eclipse her hard-won radiance.
Here beholdeth no coquettish idol, nor a creature made for dalliance. It is Madonna as paradox incarnate—the empress of self-fashioning rendered suddenly breakable. The photograph breathes vulnerability into the myth, transforming her into something at once exquisite and human: a porcelain figure poised on the brink of collapse, waiting, perchance, to be taken gently from the glittering shelf of her own renown.
Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook.
No comments:
Post a Comment