In 1971, at the age of 48, the American photographer Diane Arbus took her own life. Her work, now on show at David Zwirner Gallery in London, reveals a vision of humanity that is not so much tragic as utterly alienated. One image shows a woman nursing a baby monkey, captioned 'A woman with her baby monkey, NJ, 1971' – a pitiable travesty of motherhood that mirrors Arbus's own despair.
Arbus's photographs of gender-blurring subjects, such as 'Transvestite at Her Birthday Party, NYC 1969', are often seen positively, but she herself described the occasion as macabre and pathetic. The party, held in a shabby hotel room, consisted only of the transvestite, a prostitute, her pimp, and Arbus. She ruthlessly captured the sad truth of her subject's impoverished and lonely life.
Arbus portrayed everyone who interested her as a 'freak' – a word she used. Even a portrait of a baby manages to be pessimistic, seeing a fleshy mass of potential flaws. Critic Susan Sontag condemned Arbus for dwelling on misery and ugliness, calling her work anti-humanist. Yet art need not be humane; it must only have a strong, memorable vision. Arbus's eye is true, capturing the disenchanted reality of her subjects.
Arbus could see beauty, as in her portraits of Marcello Mastroianni and Mia Farrow, but these are not her best work. Her true genius lies in photographing those the camera does not love – the little man in the arms of his tall dominatrix, the nudist family with a teenage daughter, and the wealthy old widows with dry, mummified skin under their jewellery. Mrs T Charlton Henry, portrayed in 1965, looks literally dead in her dress with a skeletal wrist.
