Lindbergh’s photograph includes everything he is famed for. The supermodel, the desert landscape and the black and white hues are all present. But there is something different, something awkward and unnerving that sets it apart from his other work.
Guided by Lindbergh’s lens we approach as voyeurs towards the scene. We don’t want to be here. A heat makes us uncomfortable. Dusty rock faces fence us in and we are surrounded by thirsty plants too withered to provide shade.
A cool vision of ethereal femininity is our only relief. A silver shine down the back of deeply bronzed legs laughs derisively at our sweating upper lips and we are advised in no uncertain terms, if you can’t stand it, leave. But we stay, captured by the enigma of the spectacle.
An aura of determination surrounds the woman before us. A dry breeze whips at her hair and skirts. Ignoring the elements that work against her, she continues to peg. She traps the clothes calmly and methodically.
The contrast of pearlescent whites and soft ruffles against the barren landscape creates an uneasy beauty. The garments appear enlivened and anxious to depart. They strain away from their fetters in desperation. Yet the silent heroine refuses their release. She casually adds peg after peg in almost cruel nonchalance.
A gap in the middle of her progress allows us a glimpse into the distance. A wire hanger swings pathetically in the opening. Seemingly useless in its fragility, it hangs there snubbed by its mistress.
Behind it the horizon opens up and the solitariness of the lady is magnified. Why is she here? Lindbergh implies her performance is more than a domestic chore. For one, the lady is not your typical housewife. Her hair may be teased into a homely 60s wave, but her attire is straight from the catwalk. Her bronzed beauty speaks less of the desert surrounding her and rather of a stint in the South of France. Who is she? She doesn’t turn around. She knows we’re here. It’s a deliberate act of arrogance. She’s trying to prove something. You will her to relax, to step back and let the breeze carry the innocent garments to kinder climbs. But her control is absolute and unwavering.
Lindbergh pictures a woman who is at once beautiful, capable and determined. She is evocative of the vampish supermodels of the 90s Lindbergh helped to create. Is she the new woman of the millennium? If she moved to face us maybe we could tell.
Instead we must retreat. Lindbergh reclines silently as we leave, our questions unanswered and minds still wondering, occasionally looking back at the lady who won’t turn around.
Peter Lindbergh for Vogue Italia, April 2001. Model, Trish Goff.
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