Irving Penn's exhibition in Paris Preview of 'L'Essence du portrait'

By Germano d'Acquisto

Picasso didn't want to be photographed. In fact, when Irving Penn showed up at his Cannes villa, La Californie, he even pretended not to be home. The photographer's assistant climbed over the gate, and the master finally granted him ten minutes. He appeared in a gray sweatshirt, then donned a Spanish cape and hat. Penn gradually moved closer until he could isolate a single eye, wide open beneath the brim. The result? One of the most penetrating portraits of the twentieth century. Picasso had prepared the costume; Penn had stolen the mask.

It's this ability to dismantle public image that pervades L'Essence du portrait. An exhibition that restores portraiture to its less reassuring dimension: not celebrating someone, but trying to understand who hides behind the celebrity. Because being famous doesn't necessarily mean being interesting. And Penn seemed to know the difference very well.

'I have always always stood in awe of the camera. I recognize it for the instrument that it is, part Stradivarius, part scalpel,' Penn maintained. A perfect definition for an artist capable of alternating delicacy and surgical precision. Before each session, he studied the subject's work, then conversed over coffee. He knew that each person arrived 'armed with their own image.' His task was to disarm them. Without humiliating them, without pleasing them, and above all without granting them control of the scene. [...]

Yves Saint Laurent observes through the open fingers of one hand, almost a mask; Gianni Versace strikes a vaguely Mannerist pose, just the right amount of self-confidence. And then Silvana Mangano, whose profile has the severity of an old master painting. From Goya to Toulouse-Lautrec, Penn's pictorial references are not decorative quotations, but tools for constructing images designed to stand the test of time. [...]