21st: The Journal of Contemporary Photography

Volume 5, Strange Genius, 2001

Ceci n'est pas une nue: David Levinthal's XXX Series

By Lance Speer

My father built highly elaborate model railroad layouts in the basement of our home while I was growing up in the 1960's & early 1970's. Here, the culture of trains that existed in the 1930's, 40's and 50's was richly recreated, to be lived once again if only in miniature. Now my father builds wooden ship models, the impossibly detailed sort where every wooden plank (hundreds of them), every cannon carriage (by the dozen), and every inch of threaded rigging (yard upon yard) is hand cut, hand worked and individually tooled over a period of several months, if not years. His model of the Charles W. Morgan, a whaling ship launched in 1841, is in my dining room, 400 miles from the sea and a century and a half distant from its original moment in history. The exacting detail of this ship affords an almost magical sense of immediacy. The fact that it is only a miniature copy of the real thing dissipates as the mind's eye follows the graceful curves of the hull, travels across the decks, embraces the intangible historicity that accompanies this symbol of 19th century engineering, commerce and adventure. In this sense the model is a focal point, the nexus between me, landlocked in my century, and those who built and sailed the original full-sized vessel.

The distance from my dining room to my office in my home is 30 feet. By crossing this short divide I find myself at Chartres Cathedral. In my five or six visits to the actual cathedral I have studied every square foot of facade and buttress; I have walked the perimeter of the copper-clad roof in the sun and in the rain; I have heard the massive organ echo through the nave and transept; I have seen sunlight blaze through the bejeweled 13th century windows; I have witnessed lightning flood through these same heavenly portals at dusk; I have stood where centuries of pilgrims have assembled, my awe driven not by religious zeal but by the inherent mystique of the late Middle Ages, by the aesthetics of the Gothic, by an active sense of history. All this is recalled and made synchronic, 2500 miles and seven centuries away from the true monument, by the three inch plaster model on my desk.

Prying my mind away from such reveries, I page through a book on David Levinthal's new XXX Series of color photographs. I am now at a strip club or a live sex show, the latter common in New York, Paris, Amsterdam and Tokyo. Rather than sharing this smoky space, with its canned music, its floor sticky with spilled beer, I am alone with these objects of sexual fantasy. The lights are dimmed, I don't need a five dollar cover charge, and I remain unassailed by scantly clad waitresses asking me if I want the obligatory six dollar beer. Here it doesn't matter if, in the colloquial language of men together, I am a "leg man," or a "tit man," or an "ass man," or a "lingerie man," as all are equally well represented. I even get to pick my favorites and linger. In these images the very lack of subtlety of pose perfectly mimics the ambiance of the strip club -- where the dance and the dancer is just for you, the customer, at least for as long as eye contact remains during the exchange of the requisite dollar tip. Then, of course, it's on to the next guy. These motionless figures entice, but, in fact, I am once again responding to models.

With the current XXX Series, Levinthal seems to have followed a perfectly logical trajectory through his earlier narratives and motifs. Beginning with his original Hitler Moves East (1975-1979), and progressing through work such as his Wild West images (1987-1989), and his Blackface series (1995-1996), Levinthal has continued to collect and photograph toys, models and historical figurines. In both elaborate and simple tableaux, he recreates actual and mythical histories that reveal how we construct cultural narrative. The new XXX Series blends many elements of this earlier work: the straightforward, almost archeological recording of Blackface, the soft focus of his playset work, and the sexual overtones of his Desire series (1990-1991). It also continues his ongoing fascination with models as both cultural objects, in this case representing sexually charged figures of women, and as initiators of public and private discourse.

Most of Levinthal's signature photographs are "model driven," inspired directly and spontaneously by the models themselves as he works with them in the studio. In the case of the XXX Series, Levinthal came across the figures by chance while searching for fantasy warrior/sci-fi/mythological models for use in a commercial job. The figures from the Desire series were, by comparison, poorly made. These new models were highly detailed and, while only twelve inches tall, were charged with a much higher level of sexuality through this detail, their overall pose, and their dress (or lack thereof). Compared to the Desire models, the XXX figures also become extraordinarily more life-like in the large-format Polaroid camera. Here the transformative power of photography, emphasized by the photographer's use of selective focus and lighting, turns toys into seemingly life-sized figures that resonate with a wide range of interpretative possibilities.

Many of Levinthal's table top narratives include very little in the way of backgrounds. Often his limited focal plane actually serves to expand the opportunities for the viewer to fill in the details by encouraging him to bring collective and individual memories to bear. The very fact that his figures exist in a frame of limited context and perspective lends them, in a counterintuitive way, an even greater sense of reality.

In the XXX Series we immediately realize that we are familiar with this genre of woman/entertainer, just as we are familiar with the genres of his other series. In Levinthal's Mein Kampf (1993-1994), for example, the iconic imagery from Triumph of the Will and the newsreels from the holocaust and liberation of the camps inform our reaction to the imagery, allowing us instantly to place the work in context. Levinthal's understanding and creative use of well known imagery from throughout history allows him to create tableaux in tune with our collective mental image of the narratives he wishes to explore. This allows the individual events, whether historically accurate or imagined on the part of the photographer, to come alive, almost attaining the status of a "documentary." Time and again Levinthal's trademark blur makes such images seem more real. Rather than serving as a haze we must struggle to penetrate, his soft focus becomes the very element that makes these toys and tableaux seem more real as it distorts the fact that his models are only inches tall.

Sexual saturation is everywhere these days. Over the last half century the boundaries have shifted as sexual imagery in all its forms has moved out of the isolated porno shops and theatres and toward the mainstream. Elements of this shift are precisely what Levinthal is exploring with the XXX Series, the basic and universal knowledge that makes these images recognizable. In focusing on these artifacts of material culture, Levinthal offers us fuel for this conversation --whether heated feminist arguments, diatribes on aesthetic freedom, or straight and wordless erotic fantasy.

The tracks of sexual freedom (anarchy to some) are fully chronicled and traceable through the images created in the last fifty years. Bettie Page was considered one of the ideal girly pin-ups from the 1950's, the era of David Levinthal's youth and the decade when Playboy made its then-controversial debut. Rita Hayworth and Betty Grable fulfilled a similar role in US armed forces barracks throughout the European and Pacific Theatres during the Second World War, although unlike Bettie Page they kept most of their clothes on. In the 1960's Raquel Welch posters from the movie One Million Years BC were particularly common. Likewise, the ubiquitous Cheryl Tiegs and Farrah Fawcett posters were to be found in every college dorm in the 1970's. This period also saw the rise and mainstream acceptance of triple-x rated sex films, beginning with Deep Throat, The Devil in Miss Jones, The Opening of Misty Beethoven, and Behind the Green Door. In the 80's and 90's Madonna seemed to be everywhere. Between her music and videos, her Truth or Dare film, and her Sex book, Madonna came to represent a new generation of woman, helping to define an emerging wave of feminism that built on the foundations of the movement laid down in the 1960's. She represented a new breed of savvy business woman, successful in the recording, film and publishing industries. She also knew the value of self-promotion and in the personal re-making of herself over and over again to avoid typecasting and to renew her career/fan base. She also had, and continues to exhibit, a complete understanding of the power inherent in the ability to manipulate her sexuality. She is the Material Girl, the mother figure, the virgin/whore. She is able to re-invent herself not only to create numerous personae, but also to play into, if not establish, the gender roles that dominate the current culture. She seems to both create and respond to trends in pop culture in a way that flaunts and yet deeply respects a wide range of feminist ideals. Thrusting herself into the middle of pop culture, she steers her vast audience in the direction she wants them to go, all the while choreographing her career as few others have before her.

By the turn of the millennium there has been, as Levinthal sees it, a gradual convergence of sexuality, popular culture and pornography. This is certainly suggested in the work of Madonna but is perhaps made obvious in more subtle ways. For example, on a recent trip to Santa Monica, I noticed that the hotel's in-room movie selection was divided into five distinct categories: Action-Adventure; Drama; Comedy; Family & Children; and Adult Titles. The importance of this resides in its subtlety. Adult film and videos, once shunted to the back alleys of culture, have now become just another entertainment option, available at the touch of a button, on the same cultural plane as mainstream comedies and family fare. As another example, even the covers of general interest magazines, not just the dozens of adult titles found these days in every corner magazine shop, suggest the sexing of the culture. Cleavage, legs and ass are no longer the provenance of the Swimsuit Issue, but of People Magazine, Vanity Fair, Vogue and, of course, Cosmopolitan, all to be found at eye level at the checkout counter in even the most family friendly, G-rated grocery stores.

Today, with the proliferation of music videos, sex videos and adult web sites, sexual content is ever more common and universally accessible. These are potent forces in the construction of contemporary culture. Levinthal's discovery of the XXX figures in a model shop, usually considered the mainstream domain of adolescent boys, serves to further amplify the current state of affairs.

In the XXX images one can perceive a sense of the banality of sex, of lust without intimacy. Here the models are not "nudes." They are naked. This nakedness is in fact enhanced by their lingerie, just as the choker, bracelet and shoes worn by Manet's Olympia (1863) enhance her nakedness, her awareness of the viewer, her pose for the pleasure of the voyeur's gaze. In Levinthal's models, many wear sexy lingerie, but these outfits are no longer the restricted uniform of sex workers and strippers, as evidenced by the tremendous success of retail giants such as Victoria's Secret. Billions of dollars are spent annually on "intimate apparel," undergarments that go well beyond what is absolutely necessary for cleanliness, hygiene and support. Any number of average soccer moms, professional women and homemakers own lingerie that they either purchased for themselves or were given by their husbands/boyfriends/signi?cant others, any variety of which could be found on Levinthal's models. In fact, more erotically charged images of actual women than those from the XXX series often appear in Victoria's Secret catalogs, arriving daily in a mailbox near you. These images, along with MTV, inform many more minds that David Levinthal could ever imagine.

How does knowing that the XXX images were created by a white middle-aged man influence how they are read? Does it matter? CBS once aired a 60 Minutes segment on singer/songwriter Paul Simon. In his interview, Simon stated that after he released his Graceland album (1986), a tremendously successful record that included the rhythms and voices of native South Africans, he was genuinely taken aback when it was suggested to him that such an album might have been expected by, and might have been even better, had it been created by a black musician, perhaps Stevie Wonder. Simon's reaction was that perhaps this might have been true, but that it wasn't Wonder who created this new sound, it was Simon himself. As a hypothetical analogy, consider for a moment how Levinthal's XXX Series might be interpreted had it been created by Laurie Simmons or Cindy Sherman. Along the same lines, what if Merry Alpern's Dirty Windows series (1994) had been photographed by a man. Alpern's grainy black and white photographs of sex and drug transactions in the back room of a strip club, shot surreptitiously from a darkened room across the street, seem in many respects to be documentary first and erotic/voyeuristic second. Such a reading significantly alters the way the work is perceived. We share the hypnotically potent role of voyeur as we ourselves peer across the street into the private lives of these couples when we view these photographs in Alpern's book or on a gallery wall. Yet such pictures could just as easily appear in a social science or psychology journal as documents of cultural practice. This very concept of the document can be applied to Levinthal's XXX Series, as he records the artifacts of material culture. Granted, these images are manipulated through arrangement, lighting and focus, but the final photographs do nothing if not zero in on the social/sexual zeitgeist of their era.

One might speculate that Levinthal's XXX images could easily find themselves published in Hustler magazine or hung as decoration in a strip joint or used as evidence in yet another round of hearings to defund art endowments or to close down "offensive" exhibitions. Perhaps a more interesting exercise might involve placing this work on the continuum that progresses from the Venus of Willendorf (25,000 BC), to historic nudes analyzed by Kenneth Clark or John Berger, to the Kinsey Institute photo archive, to Jeff Koons' Made in Heaven series (1991) of life-sized explicit color images of vaginal, oral and anal sex with his then wife Cicciolina, the former porn star and member of Italian Parliament.

Levinthal himself states that he does not set out to create or inspire a political agenda nor to be deliberately provocative. The actual political statements his works make become, in some ways, even stronger precisely because they are without agenda. Levinthal also states that his images are not created for their shock value but as a mirror of culture. Whether or not he intends it, however, his works do elicit strong emotional and, in the case of the XXX Series, sexual response. As we know, toys are not benign. They are emblematic symbols of our society. Levinthal's genius resides in his ability to take these objects and put them back in our face -- to the point where we must begin to challenge our individual and collective cultural constructions.

One would think that the Mein Kampf series, with its Nazi death camps and executions, would be patently offensive. Yet when shown at the Holocaust Museum in Houston in 1997 there was no hostile response. In fact, the show served to raise many new questions. Likewise, Levinthal has mentioned that individuals as diverse as Oprah and Spike Lee have appreciated his Blackface series, clear-eyed color photographs of blatantly racist figurines from the past century and a half. What Levinthal seems to care most about is the model as physical object and as artifact of material culture. He does not stand back and contemplate what each image may mean, for he knows that when he places the work in the marketplace, he loses control over interpretation. In fact, Levinthal states that he actively avoids trying to predict possible viewer responses to particular works. He feels that to do so is inhibiting and says it constipates the creative process. Instead, he likes to explore, to do something interesting with really interesting objects. He considers this methodology to be more spontaneous, for it allows him unlimited freedoms in choosing which figures to purchase, in posing, in lighting, and in editing the final selections. This is not to demean his intellectual credentials, as he has attended Yale, Stanford and MIT. Indeed, this extensive background serves to inform his spontaneity and allows his intuitive vision to explore and expand his options. At the end of the day he knows what has worked and what hasn't. He considers his most successful pieces those that open new dialogues.

All this is not to say that Levinthal is free of opinions regarding the work and the culture that inspires it. In an era where Brittany ("I'm not that innocent") Spear's midriff is plastered over half the magazines at the checkout counter, where Barbies sport tattoos, where kiddie makeup kits proclaim that they are "suitable for children 6 years and up," Levinthal feels that the borders of culture are being inexorably pulled back. Magazines such as Barely Legal, a men's magazine featuring nude 18 and 19 year olds, scare him. Some may feel that there is a contradiction between these attitudes and the XXX work. Yet if Levinthal's rationale is to explore the culture by recording its artifacts, then he remains completely on target.

Sex, and its discussion, is basic to human nature. Yet we often like to cloak it, as Levinthal states, in "academic niceties." Sometimes this takes the form of dispassionate analysis; other times it comes across like some overly zealous screed, either from the "radical left" or from the "moral right" (in point of fact, Levinthal has the sense that the liberal establishment is more afraid of his work that those on the right). Smack in the middle is Joe Six-Pack, who occasionally pages through a Playboy or Penthouse he finds on the newsstand. Perhaps he subscribes to Sports Illustrated for the sports, but certainly does not despair at the arrival of the annual Swimsuit Issue. The marketers at Sports Illustrated go so far as to advertise the magazine to women at Christmas as the perfect gift for their men. Playing up the extensive monthly sports coverage, the football phone chachkie ("free with your paid subscription"), they also never fail to mention, even feature, the Swimsuit Issue.

In some respects, the Swimsuit Issue is like a strip show, a girly magazine or a xxx video, as these are about lust, desire and sex without intimacy. With the XXX images Levinthal calls on us to view these artifacts in the context of our culture. In his photographs he supplies the bare facts (no pun intended) of twelve inch models shot softly out of focus. We then must ask ourselves an entire series of questions: How do we attach meaning to these images? How much is pure and simple sexual response, on behalf of both male and female viewers? How much indignation and anger, if any, should be directed at Levinthal over the idea that he is exploiting the female body? Do we characterize our gaze as that of the innocent spectator, the voyeur, the anthropologist? What tropes are at play here? How powerful is the fantasy of looking? What does this work tell us about the commodification of art, of sex, of culture?

For years and years, almost every issue of Playboy magazine included an image of a sexy woman painted by Alberto Vargas (1896-1982). Mention the phrase "Vargas Girl" to most any male over 40 years old and he will instantly know what you are talking about. The women in these paintings were perfectly rendered, voluptuous and teasingly risquÈ in their see-through negligees, stockings, or tight fitting outfits. The sexy granddaughter of the Gibson Girl, that idealized fiction from the early 1900's, the Vargas Girl has Levinthal's XXX Series models as her contemporary counterpart. The Vargas Girl would indeed feel completely at home in Levinthal's work. One could easily imagine that it is her stocking-clad legs depicted in XXX Series #122. By the same token, these legs could also exist quite naturally in a 1940's film noir movie, in this month's Victoria's Secret catalog, or even at the mall at the local J.C. Penney or Sears store.

What is important here is the fact that in both the Vargas Girl illustrations and in the XXX images by David Levinthal, no actual women are depicted. We place ourselves in the physical presence of the XXX figures by looking at them through the "window" of the photographic frame. There is no small degree of irony in the idea that the original models are only twelve inches tall, yet by photographing them, in effect increasing our separation from these models by an additional order of magnitude, the very artifice of photography makes them seem even more real. For all their detail, their loaded iconography and their immediate presence in our physical and cultural space, it is important to remember that, in an updating of Rene Magritte's infamous statement, Ceci n'est pas une nue.