40 years ago today—19 January 1981—a young woman, a talented American photographer, died. She was just 22 years old.
Francesca Woodman was her name. In her short life, she had produced a collection of more than 800 photographs, each one individually unique, yet collectively they bear a distinctive, unifying aesthetic:
Dreamlike, whimsical, dark, just out of reach: Woodman’s photographs display a sense of self, as often she herself stood in as the subject, citing the “convenience” of having herself be the model. Her work is ethereal, as objects blur and move due to long exposure, while the lighting is soft and subtle. The daughter of artist parents, Francesca’s father gave his daughter her first camera, a 2.25-inch-by-2.25-inch Yashica, that she would use for most of her career. Taking her first self portrait at 13, it marked the beginning of a unique, and painful, journey.
I first came across Woodman’s work on Instagram last summer. I was immediately intrigued by the black and white images, undeniably creative in the poses, subjects, and expressions captured. They are such a stark contrast to the aesthetic offered on “Insta,” of near neon colored images with impossibly perfect subjects, with no flaws—or soul for that matter—to be found. Clearly, Woodman’s photographs were taken and developed before the digital age.
Accompanied with the images was this self portrait (above) of the very photographer, Francesca Woodman. Judging from the clothes, hair and type of camera pictured, I assumed Woodman was a photographer from the 1950s. Her aesthetic was yester-decade, not at all contemporary, but in a cool and natural way. When I came across this other self portrait, however, I had a sudden sense of foreboding.
She looks so…melancholy. Without having to look right away, I felt that her career—and life—had been short. I was already surprised that the majority of her work was taken in the 1970s, not the 50s; her aesthetic was already “retro” during the disco age. But I noted that the dates of the images I saw, never went any further. It was if the photographs—and the artist—simply stopped. I did some more research, and my forebodings were confirmed: Francesca committed suicide that January day, 40 years ago.
Knowing this, it’s all the more tempting to truly dive into her work, looking for clues that explain the why of what she did. For example, many of the photographs display the female form, nude, but not in a sexual or graphic way; many proponents claim Woodman’s art as feminist, as a “taking back” of the female form as when captured on film by a woman. However, Woodman herself never explicitly identified herself, or her work, as feminist. Many other images consist of the subject, usually Woodman, with her face and/ or body partially or completely obscured. Here, it’s easy to conclude that such images refer to a loss of identity.
Ask an art critic of what they make of Woodman’s images, and I’m sure you’ll get in-depth analyses. I’m still new to Woodman’s work, but regardless there’s a mastery in the creative genius the girl had. Its clear she had a passion for photography, yes, but more so for the aesthetic she captured on film. Her dedication to her craft was clearly there. So why did she end her life?
Like me, Francesca was born and raised in Colorado. She spent her formative years primarily in Boulder, where her parents worked as professors at CU. She spent summers in Florence, Italy, a place where her artistic aspirations thrived, as she was surrounded by museums. She took photography while at boarding school in Massachusetts, and in 1975 began attending Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), quite confident in her artistic abilities. As she further added to her portfolio, she remained determined to make her mark, specifically in becoming a fashion photographer. She thrived in school, but by the time she graduated, photography was not in vogue.
Moving to New York City, Francesca worked tirelessly in promoting her work and skills as a photographer, but met little success. Colleagues describe her as being needy and intense in nature, utterly dedicated to her craft but just as fragile in emotion. Acquaintances also cite Francesca’s desire to outshine the art accomplishments of her parents. Despite sending her portfolio to numerous companies and agencies, nothing came to fruition; others cited her work as too avant-garde. The first break came fall 1980, when Francesca attempted suicide for the first time. Family and friends did their best to monitor her, but her depression remained.
When Francesca learned that her application for funding from the National Endowment of Arts was rejected, it appears that this was the final straw. Already dealing with the aftermath of a failed relationship, Francesca was in crisis. She made her final journal entry, then made her way to a nearby building in New York’s Lower East Side, and jumped from a window.
At her death, Francesca’s work was unknown. However, in the years and decades following, her work has, finally, garnered much attention and critical praise. Since 1985, there have been several solo exhibitions of her work, the latest having been 2019-2020’s Francesca Woodman: Portrait of a Reputation held at Denver’s Museum of Modern Contemporary Art (how I wish I’d attended)! There are also several books showcasing her photographs and notebooks, as well as a full length documentary, The Woodmans, released on the 30th anniversary of her death, in January 2011.
I can’t help but wonder what Francesca, had she lived, would have made of social media, especially Instagram. Would she scoff at the “selfies” made by Milennials and Zoomers, citing them as uninspired, due to how easy it is to snap pics with a SmartPhone? How would she perceive SmartPhones as a device for taking photos? Are such devices blasphemous to photography? Or would she embrace all these changes, and perhaps envy Instagram, silently cursing for it not having existed when she was young, as it would’ve provided her with a more concrete platform for her work? Just as it so tempting, and easy, to analyze Francesca’s photography via the lens of her tragic death, so it is with asking these hypothetical questions. But one thing remains constant: Francesca’s conviction of her role as an artist, as she wrote, “I was (am?) not unique but special. This is why I was an artist…I was inventing a language for people to see the everyday things that I also see…and show them something different.” And that “something different” is what draws people to her photographs, as they “contrast to the cool slickness of the digital,” while embracing “tactility and decay in a very sensual and seductive way,” remarks Corey Keller, a curator of photography at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. I couldn’t agree more. Francesca took photographs the old fashioned way, and combined with her artistic vision, made her images forever timeless—and forever haunting.
~LMC
*Note: All images are by Francesca Woodman unless where otherwise noted.