A collection of Diane Arbus' most famous works, edited by her daughter Doon.
Everything that needs to be said has already been said about this book, this record, this heartache, this brave account, this body of evidence Arbus is able to tell us how much we want and how much we will have and will not have, she manage it in the pages of one monograph. Laurel Nakadate, "The Photobook Review"
An unflinching poetry inhabits the pages of the recently published "Diane Arbus: An Aperture Monograph: Fortieth-Anniversary Edition," a reissue of the volume that accompanied her posthumous 1972 MoMA retrospective. "Art Critical"
What strikes me as I leaf through this book is Arbus s convincing sensibility of the world, and how thoroughly her subjects inhabit it. "Art Critical"
There is nothing clinical or exploitative about her motivations and she talks about being more interested in her interactions than in the final images that resulted from them. "Hyperallergic"
Photographs are souvenirs, a stand-in for what we experienced and wish to remember, and Arbus images are amazing relics. "Hyperallergic" "
Diane Arbus was not a theorist but an artist. Her concern was not to buttress philosophical positions but to make pictures. She loved photography for the miracles it performs every day by accident, and respected it for the precise intentional tool that it could be, given talent, intelligence, dedication and discipline. Her pictures are concerned with private rather than social realities, with psychological rather than visual coherence, with the prototypical and mythic rather than the topical and temporal. Her real subject is no less than the unique interior lives of those she photographed. John Szarkowski, 1972, Director, Department of Photography, The Museum of Modern Art
Those portraits of sideshow performers and weeping children, her matter-of-fact nudists and naked transvestites, her pictures of "them," her pictures of "us" something of consequence is at stake here, and it's not just art. Arbus worked at the point where the voyeuristic and the sacramental converge. She lies in wait for your first misstep in her direction. Then she dares you to stare at something a little boy with a toy hand grenade, a dominatrix embracing her client until you admit your own complicity with whatever it is in there that frightens you. At that point, all the picture's traps unfold, and it confers its rough grace. Richard Lacayo, "Time"
Confronting a major photograph by Arbus, you lose your ability to know or distinctly to think or feel, and certainly to judge anything. She turned picture-making inside out. She didn t gaze at her subjects; she induced them to gaze at her. Selected for their powers of strangeness and confidence, they burst through the camera lens with a presence so intense that whatever attitude she or you or anyone might take toward them disintegrates You may feel, crazily, that you have never really seen a photograph before. Peter Schjeldahl "The New Yorker" "
Diane Arbus was not a theorist but an artist. Her concern was not to buttress philosophical positions but to make pictures. She loved photography for the miracles it performs every day by accident, and respected it for the precise intentional tool that it could be, given talent, intelligence, dedication and discipline. Her pictures are concerned with private rather than social realities, with psychological rather than visual coherence, with the prototypical and mythic rather than the topical and temporal. Her real subject is no less than the unique interior lives of those she photographed. John Szarkowski, 1972, Director, Department of Photography, The Museum of Modern Art
Those portraits of sideshow performers and weeping children, her matter-of-fact nudists and naked transvestites, her pictures of "them," her pictures of "us" something of consequence is at stake here, and it's not just art. Arbus worked at the point where the voyeuristic and the sacramental converge. She lies in wait for your first misstep in her direction. Then she dares you to stare at something a little boy with a toy hand grenade, a dominatrix embracing her client until you admit your own complicity with whatever it is in there that frightens you. At that point, all the picture's traps unfold, and it confers its rough grace. Richard Lacayo, Time
Confronting a major photograph by Arbus, you lose your ability to know or distinctly to think or feel, and certainly to judge anything. She turned picture-making inside out. She didn t gaze at her subjects; she induced them to gaze at her. Selected for their powers of strangeness and confidence, they burst through the camera lens with a presence so intense that whatever attitude she or you or anyone might take toward them disintegrates You may feel, crazily, that you have never really seen a photograph before. Peter Schjeldahl The New Yorker"
