Master of disguise
By dreaming up and embodying more than 600 different personas, Cindy Sherman reveals uncomfortable truths about humankind. But who are we really looking at?
Words: Aimee-lee Abraham | Images: Courtesy of the artist & Metro Pictures
A woman kneels on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, hovering over a bag of spilled groceries. She’s gazing up at an unknown figure with fury in her eyes. You can already predict what happens next.
A girl stands alone at the side of the road, shivering beneath an ominous sky. You could have sworn you’ve crossed paths before, but you can’t fathom where or when. You have no idea where she’s headed or what her intentions are — whether she’s about to run joyously into the arms of a childhood sweetheart, or into the jaws of a predator. Either way, you feel it in your gut. Something terrible is about to happen.
You know this because you recognise these women intimately; feel at home in their settings as if you’re standing within a scene from your own past.
But there’s a catch. You couldn’t have seen them before, because they don’t exist outside this room, in which you’ve never been. Every single image is a fiction, shot, styled and modelled by Cindy Sherman.
Over the course of her remarkable 50-year career, Sherman has dreamt up and embodied over 600 different personas on camera; each of them whole and distinct, each of them teetering on the edge of what the viewer can tolerate, revealing uncomfortable truths about humankind, unveiling what would otherwise remain hidden in plain sight.
A lover of cinema since a young age, Sherman’s need to conserve and document started in childhood, when she would trawl through family albums with a felt pen in hand, identifying herself in each shot.
As a young art student she became a voyeur, riding public transport without a destination in mind, peering into the lives of others from the back seat and recreating versions of the people she met, using props and costumes gathered from thrift stores and flea markets across the city.
Contrasted against the clinical backdrop of her studio, poses that would seem completely normal on a bus or a train are framed in a new light, forcing the viewer to think twice about the people they interact with on a daily basis.
It’s fascinating to see how this sentiment of unease has been expressed throughout the decades. Jaded by the frivolity of the art world, the 1980s were a turning point for Cindy. The more in demand her photos became, the more she sought to create works so repellent no one could possibly want to hang them on the wall, moving on from the cinematic tropes of her earlier works and into a world of total fantasy.
In her History Portraits series, she makes a mockery of the art world by imitating key periods so convincingly, the viewer initially questions if they’ve accidentally stepped into a different section of the gallery. Until, as always, the details emerge, and cannot be unseen.
An almost-Rapunzel pulls down her dress seductively, only to squirt breast milk directly at the camera. A man who looks like King Richard III is so crudely made up his cheeks look like they’ve been contoured with tar. A lady in waiting waits for the suitors who never come, and everyone quietly suspects her bulbous prosthetic nose might have something to do with it.
Things go from bad to worse. In both her Sex Pictures and Disaster Series, mutilated bodies of women — half human, half mannequin — lie naked in the grass, sprouting seeds from every orifice, swarming with flies. Looking at them is like driving past a car crash, or getting the giggles at a funeral. You know it’s wrong. You want to stop. But you can’t help yourself.
Many critics have identified a sense of barely contained fury in Cindy’s work, as well as a sense of tragedy. If you’re looking for it, it’s plain to see in her haunting ‘society portraits’ of high-class wives, driven half-mad by status anxiety. You can also see it in the various commissions she’s created for the very fashion houses who perpetuate the myths her work seeks to dismantle.
In these unlikely ads, luxurious kaftans are paired with nude tights three shades too dark for the wearer. Chanel twin-suits are worn with orthopedic shoes. A sanitary towel is visible underneath a Comme Des Garçons slip.
Framed out of context, the objects of desire quickly lose their appeal, much like the next big thing you threw money at and sought redemption in, only to find yourself feeling more wretched than before.
There’s a self knowledge that comes with standing before these tortured figures. A collective intake of breath. Though a lot of the images are repellent and difficult to look at, they’re cathartic, too.
However comically portrayed, however exaggerated, each character feels deeply knowable and frighteningly real — reflecting the particularities of the female experience with stunning clarity.
In her work, I catch glimpses of every woman I’ve ever loved. I smell my grandmother’s perfume. Feel the icy burn of the frozen peas my mother held against virgin eyebrows after she plucked them raw as a supermarket chicken. Wince remembering the first time I shaved my legs and took out a chunk so sizeable I could have sworn I saw it circle the drain.
But her work isn’t just about gender. It’s about what it means to be born into this world and negotiate your way through it.
All of us put on brave faces every time we leave the house. All of us construct the image we want to project depending on who’s looking.
When I look at her disaster photos — strewn with the body parts of blown-up office workers and burning computers — I think about the masquerade of showing up at work every day, tap-tap-tapping the time away, and making small talk at the water cooler.
When I gaze upon the Cindy waiting for the phone to ring, or posing half-heartedly in lingerie, or pacing the pavement, I think about dating and all its small tortures. The not-knowing. The masquerade of eating politely and guarding your heart, only to crawl out of bed with all the tact of a cartoon burglar just so you can wash your face before they wake.
There’s a reason these characters speak to us. A reason why a picture of Sherman lying on the floor clutching a lonely hearts ad became the highest selling photograph by a female artist when it was auctioned for $3.9m in 2011. By the end of the exhibition, we’ve seen every inch of Cindy’s face and body. But when we look for her in the photographs, we find only fragments.
This shouldn’t come as a surprise. According to legend, even Susan Jennings, an artist who was employed as Sherman’s assistant for six years, never saw a single picture being taken.
Staring at the ceiling on the eve of the exhibition with a thousand questions swimming around in my head, it hits me. I don’t think we’re supposed to understand the process, or the person behind it. I think we’re meant to go on a quest for Cindy, and perhaps, in the process, end up finding only ourselves.
Originally published in issue 50 of Oh Comely, in partnership with Art Fund
Experience the world of Cindy Sherman at London’s National Portrait gallery until 15 September. With a National Art Pass, you can discover the art you love, with free and reduced-price entry to museums and galleries across the UK. Learn more at artfund.org/ohcomely
