King of Kink: a fresh look at Helmut Newton
‘Some people’s photography is art, mine is not’ said the Berliner, whose genius is the glossy celebration of the superficial
Bergstrom over Paris (1976). Photograph: copyright Helmut Newton Estate
Stern, Los Angeles (1980). Photograph: copyright Helmut Newton Estate
Helmut Newton and his wife, Alice Springs, in 1999. Photograph: Markus Stuecklin/AP Photo
Nova (1973). Photograph: copyright Helmut Newton Estate
A decade after his death, the photographer Helmut Newton lives on through his immortal images of Amazonian models wearing little but high heels and impassive glares.
But there is a lot more to Newton than his imperious nudes, as is clear from a retrospective in his home city of Berlin. It’s a shame, then, to see as few smiles among the audience as on the walls. Visitors mill around, high-brows furrowed, scouring the stark images for hidden depth that, in their minds, would qualify them as art. And all the while, high on a wall, Newton explains why his low-brow charm goes right over their heads.
“Some people’s photography is art, mine is not. If they happen to be exhibited in a gallery or a museum, that’s fine. But that’s not why I do them. I’m a gun for hire.” Newton’s words, to Newsweek shortly before his sudden death in 2004, are his epitaph. A contract snapper and multimedia mercenary, he went where the work was. The retrospective Paris-Berlin, a nod to the two cities he called home, gives visitors a chance to enjoy a six-decade catalogue that impresses through breadth rather than depth.
Most impressive is his commission work for everything from Vogue to the ceramics company Villeroy & Boch. A highlight of the show is his 1960s work for Queen magazine, a riot of scurrilous, playful and hilarious images with a heavy ironic twist.
How else to describe the set-piece homage to Hitchcock’s North by Northwest where a shocked model – in hat, coat and pristine white boots – is pursued by an aircraft across a deserted field?
Or the jewellery shot where a woman, in a diamond bracelet and opal ring, does suggestive things to a greasy, spread-eagled roast chicken as she carves?
Seeing this other side of Newton casts a richer light on his more familiar work – the nudes – which made him public enemy number one among feminist groups.
They saw his female portraits as exploitative and demeaning, a reaction that is understandable. But things look different in this exhibition. Perhaps it is critical distance, maybe it’s seeing these images in the context of his entire body of work, but Newton’s nudes take on another air in Berlin: exuding strength, not weakness.
If anything, it is the men who should be complaining: objectified in successive images as anonymous, oiled muscle men in swimming trunks, always in packs and vying for the attention of the inevitably immaculate, aloof, couture-clad goddess.
Newton was born Helmut Neustädter in Berlin in 1920, the son of a wealthy Jewish button manufacturer. The family was well-off and secular. As a teenager he learned his trade under the city’s premier female photographer, Yva. She was also Jewish, and she died in the Holocaust, but he escaped on a train to Trieste in 1938 and moved on to Singapore.