by Jenna Blum
Although Wilton’s subjects are all unclothed and under 18, his portraits feature them in solitary settings and poses, and Wilton’s supporters fiercely deny his work is pornographic.
“To say that Mr. Wilton’s photography is pornographic demonstrates a poor understanding of both pornography and art,” says Henry Papel, curator of the Guggenheim, which currently features seven Wilton photographs. “His work is intended not to sexually titillate but to showcase personality in its most unfettered form.”
Jean-Francis Krantz of MoMA agrees: “People who see pornography in Julian’s sensitive portraits of children need to ask themselves what’s in the eye of the beholder.”
Wilton’s critics are equally vehement in their dissent. “This man’s so-called work not only criminally exploits our society’s weakest members, children, but runs counter to the very morals this country is founded upon,” said Alec Reagan, spokesperson for the National Center for American Values, which has organized antipornography demonstrations outside Wilton’s exhibits in Chicago, New York and Los Angeles.
The National Endowment for the Arts, which has funded Wilton’s work, agrees the controversy has reached a national level but calls it “a witch hunt.”
“In the past year, we’ve seen the right wing start to persecute artists in the name of so-called family values,” says Kate Woodward, chairperson for the NEA. “Mr. Wilton is its first target. He has our full sympathy and support.”
Wilton, who resides in New York City, could not be reached for comment.
16
Shameless
The gallery was in SoHo, and as Elsbeth stood in front of it, checking and rechecking the slip of paper in her hand and wondering whether she was in the right place, it occurred to her that she had never been in this neighborhood before. The Twin Towers once, Windows on the World with her parents for brunch—Elsbeth still remembered the eggs Benedict. And the Village, yes, obviously: before crossing Houston Street Elsbeth had detoured past the little Italian restaurant where she had been with Julian, shuttered at this hour of the afternoon, and looked at its closed red curtains with longing. In front of the Pink Pussycat she had indulged in a fantasy about how she had brought Julian in here after all, and he had helped her pick out a new bustier, and he had not gotten quite so wasted and there had been no blow-job disaster, and subsequently things went on as normal, a couple of shoots a month, and Julian had not then disappeared.
The gallery, like the Italian eatery, was closed. It was two in the afternoon on a Monday; maybe for galleries, like restaurants, this was their slowest day. What was more confusing to Elsbeth was that the floor-to-ceiling windows were sheathed in brown paper, as if the place were out of business. There was no sign announcing Julian’s new show, no display to entice passersby; if not for the tiny brass-plated name beneath the bell—Hazaan Gallery—Elsbeth would have given up and gone home.
But she had called Julian’s manager and pretended to be a collector—which was easy; Elsbeth had just channeled the imperious tones of one of Sol’s art brunch ladies. So Elsbeth knew that the Hazaan Gallery was where the debut of Julian’s new exhibit would be. And Elsbeth had read in several of Julian’s biographies that although he rarely attended any showing of his work, he often oversaw the mounting of the photos. He was a perfectionist; he wanted to make sure the placement, the lighting, was just right. Elsbeth took out her Parliament Lights, which she had started smoking in September in lieu of eating—she was down to 102. She smoked a cigarette, pacing in the cold wind off the Hudson, her fingertips going numb in her fingerless gloves, then rapped on the gallery’s window, once, twice, again.
A bike messenger with a Mohawk pedaled by. This was such a weird neighborhood; the brick streets potholed and deserted, the buildings graffiti-covered and derelict, and then there were brightly gleaming storefronts showcasing heaps of rugs, Japanese prints, African masks and statues. A tiny lady in a wide-brimmed black hat and an explosion of red dreadlocks dragged a lizard down the sidewalk on a leash—“Hurry the fuck up, Piccolo, Mummy’s freezing.” Elsbeth knocked and knocked, taptaptaptaptap, until finally the door opened a crack and an irritable Rasputin face peered out.
“Yes,” he said, “what is it? All deliveries go to the back.”
“I’m looking for Julian Wilton,” said Elsbeth.
The man’s eyebrows, silver triangles, flew up, then came together over his nose. “Mr. Wilton is not here.”
“When do you expect him?”
“The opening is not until next week, young lady. Please come back then.”
“I know that,” said Elsbeth patiently, “but Julian rarely attends his openings. He’s too shy. He only oversees the hangings.”
The man’s mouth twitched in his pointed beard. “You mean the mountings.”
“Yes, the mountings,” said Elsbeth. “May I come in?”
The man looked her over, the door opening a bit more to reveal his impeccably tailored suit and shining shoes. Elsbeth thought he must be the owner, Mr. Hazaan.
“We are quite a scholar of Mr. Wilton, I see,” he said.
“We are Mr. Wilton’s model,” Elsbeth said.
Now the door did open fully, the man looking Elsbeth up and down. Elsbeth drew herself up to her full height, which, with the addition of spike-heeled boots, was five-nine—an inch taller than Mr. Hazaan. She tried not to tremble in the wind, although it was strong enough to whip her lace petticoats and crimped hair off to one side and drag tears from her eyes. Mr. Hazaan was frowning.
“Seriously,” said Elsbeth, “please. It’s frigid out here.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Hazaan. “Come in, Miss—”
“Rashkin. Elsbeth Rashkin.”
He stepped aside with a little bow.
Elsbeth walked past him into the gallery. The warmth was welcome after the raw wind, the honeyed hardwood floors and white walls an antidote to the gray and trashy streets. But what stunned Elsbeth were the images of—herself, everywhere. It was one thing to read about Julian’s developing technique in Photoplay and Aperture, something called dye process that produced supersaturated colors, and the unusually bold size of his prints; it was another to be confronted with photos of her naked body blown up to five by seven feet and matted and framed so they were even bigger, much larger than life. Here Elsbeth was spouting water in the blue surf of Montauk, head thrown back and hands over her head, her skin a glistening peach; here she was wandering through a green forest, the dimple above her tailbone the size of a quarter. Here, there, and everywhere were her armpits, her curls, her thighs and chubby knees and her hated belly—all of it transformed by Julian’s camera and vision into something . . . not comfortable for Elsbeth to look at, exactly, but so bright, so exuberant and full of movement, that she felt tears rising. He had caught exactly how she looked at him, how she had felt all along.
Mr. Hazaan was standing beside her now, watching a pair of assistants—it was hard to tell if they were male or female; they were both all in black, with short slicked-back hair and white gloves, like mimes—struggle to hang another of the photos on the far wall, beneath a sharply focused spotlight. Giant Elsbeth crouching at a stream, laughing back at Julian over her shoulder—the photo didn’t show it, but there were iridescent dragonflies on the brook’s surface that they had marveled at together. Next to the mimes, awaiting its turn to be mounted, was a small framed sign:
Julian Wilton
shameless
31 oct—5 nov
and another print of Elsbeth leaping into the air. Julian had caught her silhouetted against the sky, feet far above the hill, suspended against a billowing cloud. You’re queen of the mountain!
“I think two inches to the left,” Mr. Hazaan said, and the mimes readjusted the photo. He walked over to them and said something, and they climbed down off their stepstools and disappeared behind a black curtain.
“They will bring tea,” he said. He took Elsbeth’s elbow to guide her across the room, where there were
two folding chairs. “Please, sit.”
“Thank you,” said Elsbeth. She had once in kindergarten fallen off the monkey bars onto her back; the surprised tears, the stupid breathless way she’d felt then, that was how she felt now.
“They are remarkable, the images, are they not?” said Mr. Hazaan.
Elsbeth nodded. One of the mimes reappeared, pushing a tea cart laden with cups, saucers, a pot and spoons. Mr. Hazaan poured.
“Extraordinary, even for Julian,” he continued. “I expect most favorable reviews. And sales.” He paused with tongs above the sugar bowl, his eyebrows a question, but Elsbeth shook her head. It had been months since she’d used anything but Sweet’n Low.
“Forgive me for not recognizing you sooner,” said Mr. Hazaan. “The transformation is astonishing.”
“Thank you,” said Elsbeth again. If she had been shocked by what the images evoked, the memories of moments only she and Julian knew about, she felt safely detached from the big body displayed in most of the photos—in which, Elsbeth thought, she looked like a rubber bath toy. She had worked hard the past several months; by now she even had cheekbones. If Elsbeth came to the opening next week, nobody would identify her as the fat child in the photos. She was proud of that fact. But Mr. Hazaan looked inexplicably sad.
“Why are your windows covered?” she asked.
“For the big reveal, my dear,” said Mr. Hazaan. “We wouldn’t want anybody to get a sneak peek, would we?”
“I guess not,” said Elsbeth and accepted her tea. “So when will Julian be here?”
Mr. Hazaan blew into his cup. “Miss Rashkin,” he said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I haven’t had direct contact with Julian in months.”
Elsbeth sipped her tea. It was too hot, and she scalded the roof of her mouth. She set it down on the cart.
“But you’re his friend,” she said. “You gave him his first big break back in ‘83—I read about it.”
“That is true,” said Mr. Hazaan, “but I suspect Julian believes it to be kinder to his friends to stay away just now.”
“What? Why?”
Mr. Hazaan drank deeply of his tea and set his cup deliberately back in its saucer.
“Miss Rashkin,” he said, “since you seem to know much of Julian’s affairs, I assume you are aware of his legal troubles?”
“Of course.”
“Then you know he has gone underground until the investigation is over.”
“Yes,” said Elsbeth. She knew this all too well; how many times had she called Julian’s number, letting the phone ring and ring and ring? How many afternoons and evenings had she stood outside his apartment, waiting for a shade to be raised, a light to be switched on, only for the windows to remain dark? She had even called his attorney—Mr. Wilton is not available for comment at this time.
“I understand,” Elsbeth told Mr. Hazaan, “why he wouldn’t want to talk to the press or FBI. Or anyone but people he knows really well. People he trusts. But that’s you, right? And me—he knows me better than anyone.” She waved around at the photos. “I mean, this is ours. We made it together.”
Mr. Hazaan looked sadder than ever. “I see.”
“So if you hear from him, if he comes here, would you please tell him Charlie’s been trying to get in touch with him? I really just want to talk to him. I’ll assume the risk.”
“Miss Rashkin,” Mr. Hazaan said, “may I speak freely?”
“Sure.”
“I have teenage daughters myself,” said Mr. Hazaan, “so I know what scorn I am inviting by giving you advice. You will not take kindly to it. But as you said, I have known Julian for years. I am his friend as well as colleague and ardent admirer. And even so, I will tell you this.”
He put his fingertips together and touched them to his mouth. It seemed a long time before he spoke.
“Julian is a genius,” he said. “You know this. I know this. The world knows this. One need only look at his work to see it.”
He gestured around at the gallery of Elsbeths. She nodded, impatient now.
“And he means well,” Mr. Hazaan continued. “His heart is in the right place. He has good intentions. And sometimes those people are the most dangerous of all.”
He looked significantly at her. Elsbeth said, “Sorry, I don’t get what you mean.”
Now Mr. Hazaan did smile, for the first time since Elsbeth had entered the gallery. She thought it the most sorrowful expression she’d ever seen.
“Miss Rashkin,” he said, “go home. Wash your face. Attend school. Be a girl again. You may think Julian cruel in disappearing, but in fact he has done you a great favor. You must forget him. You must pretend he never existed.”
* * *
But she did see Julian again.
It was Halloween, and Elsbeth was staking out his apartment, in black cat ears and a tail. It was the night of Julian’s opening, and if he was here, he had to come out sometime; Elsbeth would catch him when he did. She was alone, although at first she’d brought Liza with her—saying they’d wait at Julian’s until the show, then check out the gallery, and then, if he wasn’t there, they’d go to the costume ball at Limelight. Liza had acquiesced, dressing as her mother in an attorney’s skirt suit and pearls. But once in the city she’d changed her mind—“I’m tired of hanging around that guy’s apartment like a hooker,” she’d said. “Why don’t we go to happy hour instead, find us some new squeezes?” “I don’t want a new squeeze,” said Elsbeth, “I want Julian,” and Liza said, “I don’t know how to break it to you, kid, but he’s gone.” They were in Port Authority, by the escalator amid exhaust fumes so thick they were visible. Elsbeth stood stupidly while Liza continued, “Hasta la vista, baby, good-bye. Forget him! Let it go,” and Elsbeth had said, “I can’t go to the gallery without you,” and Liza said, “I’m not going.” Elsbeth said, “You’re seriously not?” and Liza said, “I’m seriously not,” and Elsbeth said, “I’ll never forgive you. You don’t know what being in love is like,” and Liza said, “If you’re what it’s like, thank God for that.” She stepped backward onto the escalator and added, “I’ll be at Limelight if you want to find me. See ya around, kid—and stop doing you-know-what! You’ll grow fur!” and she pantomimed sticking her finger down her throat as she descended out of sight.
So here Elsbeth was, by herself. She lit her last cigarette, shivering—it really wasn’t that cold out, pleasantly Halloweenish, in the forties. But Elsbeth was cold all the time now. Traitor Liza was right about one thing: if you got too skinny, your body could grow a thin protective layer of hair. Elsbeth had read about it. But she hadn’t quite reached that point. Her periods hadn’t stopped, either—just grown a little irregular. There was no way she was giving up her self-improvement program now; when Julian resurfaced, Elsbeth didn’t want him to think she was a blimp.
She pulled her denim jacket closed over her black turtleneck and looked at Julian’s windows. Still no movement up there. She decided to go to the newsstand by the subway for more cigarettes. If the first Parliament she lit only half burned, Elsbeth would know Julian was thinking about her—everyone said that was true. If that happened and she smoked it while holding the love charm Liza had given her, by the time she got back to his block, he’d be there.
Elsbeth had tried these rituals so many times without success that she was astonished to see, when she returned to her stakeout bench, that there actually was a light on in Julian’s loft. Elsbeth squinted. The glow remained. He was home! She darted across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a cab, tossing her cigarette behind her as she went.
She burst into the lobby and pressed Julian’s buzzer; when nobody answered, she mashed all the buttons with both palms until the vestibule door opened and she plunged in. She took the stairs up, forsaking the slow elevator. When she reached the top, panting and dizzy, Julian’s door was closed, and for a moment Elsbeth was sure she had imagined the light after all. But the lock wasn’t latched.
Into the loft she walk
ed, cautiously now. What if it was a burglar? Crime was epidemic in the city, muggings in the subways, rapes in Central Park, thieves creeping over the rooftops and through air shafts. Elsbeth looked around: there was a record on the turntable, revolving quietly. “We’ve got magic to do,” it sang, “just for you!” The room was just as disarrayed as it had been when she’d seen it last, only dustier, and there were clothes scattered near the hallway, as if somebody had just shucked them off. Elsbeth pounced on a shirt she recognized, with light blue lines on it like graph paper. Julian! She held it to her face: cotton, smoke. Then she heard noises from down the hall, a groan, a thud. What if somebody had broken in to find Julian asleep? What if they had him tied up in there?
Elsbeth seized a tripod and crept down the hall. Behind her the record started to hiccup: “Magic to do! . . . Magic to do! . . . Magic to do!” and from Julian’s bedroom the sounds grew louder—a thwack!, a low male voice, sinister, not Julian’s; a moan, definitely somebody in pain. The door was open an inch, and Elsbeth kicked it open—it was important to take them by surprise.
What she saw in the bedroom was so strange that at first she didn’t comprehend it; the only thing she could think of was a Klee painting at one of Sol’s fund-raising exhibits, called Twittering Machine. The painting should have been innocuous enough; it was just of some birds shackled together with wire and chained to a hand crank. But looking at it had produced in Elsbeth terrible discombobulation, vertigo, dread. The people on the bed were arranged in a similarly nonsensical tableau. There was a man lying on his back, wearing a Lone Ranger mask; there was Julian on all fours, crouching over the man and doing to him what Elsbeth had tried to do to Julian in this very bed a few months ago; behind Julian was a woman with eggplant-colored skin and a huge Afro. She was wearing a belt, and whatever was attached to it was connecting her to Julian from behind. The sounds were coming from the Lone Ranger and the woman smacking Julian, rhythmically and hard, on one buttock. Julian wasn’t making any noise at all, since his mouth was full.
