Since the early 90s, Terry Richardson has let his freak flag
fly him all the way to the top. Balding and bespectacled, the self-appointed
“Naughty Knave” of the fashion industry wears a button-down flannel and a
simpering grin. He is notorious for coercing barely-legal models into getting
naked and performing sex acts for the camera. He is one of the most successful
photographers in the business.
Being a pervert is the cornerstone of Richardson’s personal brand,
which could be labeled “creep chic.” One disgusted model described his
signature outfit as a “hipster pedophile costume.” He requests that his
subjects call him Uncle Terry in a deliberate attempt at upping the ick factor.
Ironically, it may be this out-and-proud perversity that
places the shady shutterbug above suspicion. Richardson - a citizen of
scandal-happy post-Lewinsky America – has photographed himself receiving
fellatio from his own young intern, and put it on display. How do you expose a
person obsessed with exposing himself? And is there perhaps some relief in
seeing a public figure make art from his own dirty laundry?
Then again, maybe this is reverse psychology. Maybe the
portrayal of Richardson as an honest freak with no shame is designed to obscure
the fact that he does have something
to be ashamed of. This queasy hypothetical has been brought to the fore on the
several occasions that he has been accused of sexual harassment.
Model Jamie Peck described a shoot in which Richardson took
off all his clothes without warning. When she refused to get naked herself,
explaining that she was on her period, he asked that she take her tampon out so
that he could “play with it” and “make tampon tea.” Ick, indeed. Peck also observed that he spoke in a “psychotically
upbeat way that temporarily convinces so many girls that what’s fun for Uncle
Terry is fun for them.” While she acknowledged that she didn’t speak for
everyone, it’s hard not to consider her assessment when perusing the archives
of tongue waggling teeny-boppers.
Such allegations have not fallen on deaf ears. The
blogosphere is full of Terry bashing. Writers for Jezebel and the Guardian have
called him, respectively, “Fashion’s Shameful Secret” and “the World’s Most
Fucked up Fashion Photographer.” A Change.org petition beseeching heavy hitters
like Vogue and H&M to stop using the “sex offender,” has attracted over
17,000 supporters.
Yet Richardson seems invincible to these criticims,
continuing to work at the height of the fashion world. He was once accused by
the model Rie Rasmussen of exploiting young girls who "are
too afraid to say no because their agency booked them on the job and are too
young to stand up for themselves." These are powerful words, but
they don’t apply to recent high-profile subjects like Beyonce, Lady Gaga, and
Gisele Bundchen. These women are industry powerhouses, hardly vulnerable to the
seedy misconduct of a predatory photographer.
Further complicating the accusations is the fact that a
fashion shoot is a sexually charged environment, and objectification is part of
being a model. It should also be noted that plenty of women are empowered by
posing nude, and enjoy acting raunchy in a world that still wants them to sit
up straight and keep their legs together.
So what is Uncle Terry guilt of? Mediocrity. The artist
Chuck Close has called photography the easiest medium to be competent in, and
the most difficult medium through which to express an original voice. Even
Richardson’s most notable work does not graduate beyond competency. His resume
overlaps with that of Annie Leibovitz in terms of subjects and employers, yet
Leibovitz demonstrates the strength of vision that elevates fashion photography
from advertisement to art form. Richardson’s more pornographic work invites a
comparison to another visionary, Robert Mapplethorpe. Mapplethorpe’s erotic
imagery carries a radical fearlessness that is absent in Richardson’s endless
overexposed portraits of blondes pouting against plain backdrops.
A great artist defines the times, where an average one is
merely a product of them. These days everyone is afraid of being called a prude,
and Richardson conceals his average-ness behind this fear. While there is
nothing inherently wrong with mediocrity, it is discouraging to see an artist
with so many resources and so much influence settle into a creative plateau.
As with all art, the merits of Richardson’s work are a
matter of opinion. Objectively, what matters is whether he is hiding something
darker and more dangerous than a lack of artistic talent. The entertainment
industry has a history of turning a blind eye to the bad behavior of big names.
There needs to be a more serious investigation into whether Richardson has crossed
a line from provacateur to criminal. Until then, he will continue to lower the
bar in terms of sex-positive creative expression. Of that we know he is guilty.
