EYE FOR AN EYE

Henry Taylor and the fraught art of seeing.

- JACKSON ARN

There’s something dodgy about portrait artists, and that’s part of their allure. One way or another, they need faces. Often, they steal them and hope nobody complains. At times, they entice volunteers by appealing to their arrogance or cluelessness. Other portraitists pride themselves on treating their subjects well—befriending them, learning about them—but even a subject who feels seen may not understand exactly what she’s getting into (how many people know how they look?), and, if she is satisfied with the result, she is lucky. It’s the artist’s way that counts, not hers.

Not everyone agrees—if anything, there seems to be a law that all great portraitists must be praised for their empathy. (Even Diane Arbus, who referred to the people she photographed as “freaks,” is now described as a champion of body positivity.) There’s something defensive about this, perhaps related to the intrinsic strangeness, so common that we forget, of looking at faces that can’t look back. The more we flatter portrait makers for their virtue, the better we portrait viewers get to feel about our ogling.