In Black and White, and Black Again
The paperback has a perfect cover: a black-and-white close-up of a young woman partially covering one eye as she gazes into the camera, with a reversed negative of the same image on the back. The woman, we are to imagine, is Ann Rogers, daughter and only model for her late father, the famous photographer Edgar Evans Rogers. Or perhaps I should say notorious, for the publication in the 1970's of his photographs of his daughter, frequently naked and posed as if injured or dead, both thrilled and shocked the art world. As one critic would say of the MoMA retrospective of Rogers' work in 1992, the artist perfectly understood "the profound and ironical effect of offensive subject matter exquisitely crafted." In this respect, the fictional Rogers may be compared to, say, Robert Mapplethorpe. Or perhaps to Sally Mann, whose collection of often-nude photographs of her own young children, "Immediate Family," was first exhibited in 1990, and could thus have been an inspiration for Kathryn Harrison's book, published in 1993.
But don't forget that back cover, in which every hint of brightness is converted to black. Ann Rogers, when we first meet her, appears to be a success. Now a photographer herself, she is happily married, a partner in a thriving Manhattan firm, giving a portion of her income to destitute immigrants, and volunteering weekly at a hospital for orphaned children. Yes, she has an occasional shop-lifting habit, but at first this seems little more than a caper. But as the novel proceeds, it becomes clear that this is only the iceberg tip of Ann's increasing emotional dysfunction. As the final exposure of the MoMA exhibition approaches, the narrative jumps between Ann's childhood and the present, including court transcripts, newspaper articles, surveillance reports, and unwritten letters to her father from Ann herself. We begin to learn both the full extent of her trauma and the reasons for it. For it becomes clear that Ann's father was no Sally Mann, but a systematic abuser of his daughter—no less horrible for the fact that the implied sexuality and violence was never physical in nature—and his hitherto unpublished photographs go even further still.
This is a gut-wrenching book to read, but a brilliantly constructed psychological thriller nonetheless, screwing the vise inexorably to a climax that I can only call (with apologies to Capote) "Last Supper at Tiffanys." Some of the questions that the author raises about art and life are quite profound; it is clear she knows a good deal about photography. Let us hope that her first-hand experience stops there.