Contrasts Draw Substance from Photo-Booths, Pinups and Posturing

In the age of abundant Internet porn (or so I hear), the notion of '50s pinups seems quaint, to say the least.

Brooklyn-bred photographer Lorna Simpson draws associations beyond the awkward come-hither posturing, though, in her solo show at the , “Lorna Simpson: Gathered.”  The show opens today and runs through Aug. 21 at the museum.

In one of Simpson’s two photographic installations in the show, “’57/’09,” she juxtaposes black-and-white pinup prints with self-portraits made in similar poses. In the other series, photo-booth snapshots from the Jim Crow era (the period of legal segregation from 1876 to 1965) nestle among ink drawings and solid copper plates.

In each group of work, the contrasts draw out the substance. The pinup models, given their current-day doppelganger, mark history more sharply than if they hung alone. Simpson’s presence within the frame contrasts her power, as both photographer and subject, with the lesser autonomy of her '50s counterparts, most of whom look stiff and unnatural in their arrangements. Her juxtapositions lead you down narrative paths you might not embark upon if gazing at lone historical photos.

Multiple presentations of the same print in “’57/’09” also suggest the disposability of these sorts of pictures and, by extension, their subjects, underscoring the suggestion of exploitation. But there is plenty of humor in these photographs, also: The strained smiles and awkward positions are light-years from the high-gloss stylization now found anywhere, from the pages of Vogue to the billboards downtown. A few, though, are actually beautiful, and all the more delightful for the glimmer of natural radiance, as with the photo of a seated woman in a trenchcoat, smiling broadly, her coat falling open to bare a pair of elegant legs.

The second installation, which gathers together several series of photo-booth shots, ink drawings and copper plates, creates a more profound effect. The drawings, blooms of ink-blots the same size as the photographs, look more like burned or damaged photos. Among the images of people smiling, staring or posing for posterity, the drawings seem to suggest people who are not there: People whose identities have been blurred by time, people who might have been erased, or blotted out, one way or another. The copper plates, also the same size as the other pieces, hang among the photos like coffin lids.

As with the pinups, there are more light-hearted elements here, too, found in the expressions of some of the faces. Some are beaming, some are fooling. Some transmit sadness, others exude youthful vigor.

Simpson found or bought the vintage photographs in “Gathered” from eBay and flea markets, pairing them with her own work to present slices of African-American and feminist history. But what drifts to the surface from the past, above all, is the force of each unique, enduring personality, caught in one moment, stretching across time.