Richard Kern: Boob Inspector

Richard Kern, photographer, filmmaker and quintessential New Yorker, is having a renewed moment. A former collaborator with ‘80s contemporaries Lydia Lunch, Cosey Fanni Tutti, Sonic Youth and artist Lucy McKenzie, Kern has rehabilitated his youth audience caché through his equally “barely legal” work. As the cool eye of an on-trend soft pornographic storm, it seems like Kern, along with fellow photographer Terry Richardson, has been canonized as the new Pope of Pussy by the narcissistic hipsters of 2010. With his obsessive catalogue of nudie girl pics, it seems only natural that his work might find a fan base in the Vice-conscious minds of jaded, party-oriented 20-somethings – after all, nobody loves to be objectified more than that demographic. Still, the obvious question remains: is his work art or is it pornography? Although Kern often shoots for porno magazines, he also shows in galleries – including an upcoming retrospective at Studio here in Toronto.

Above: The stage name of Throbbing Gristle‘s Cosey Fanni Tutti, a friend and inspiration to a younger Kern, phonetically translates as “something for everyone” in Italian. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK! Awesome music + awesome hotness equals insane bonertime, hence her stint in various porno magazines.

Curator Rafi Ghanaghounian claims that Kern, who is paradoxically a family man with a 10-year old son, has little to no interest in the “art vs. porn” argument. Yet, how can someone who almost exclusively photographs young, nude girls have no position on that age-old issue? Can he be that bored of the female form that it’s become devoid of eroticism? In a 2004 interview with artist and curator Matthew Higgs, Kern asserts that his work relates more to issues of power and complicity – that is, the complicity of subject to exhibit, and that of the photographer to act as voyeur. However, since Kern always has his models sign release forms, it’s clear that the power struggle is ultimately one-sided.

Above: Kern’s signature hipster-friendly softcore.

So really, what is his deal? I intend to find out – and about as intimately as I possibly can.

As a side attraction to the retrospective, Studio Gallery is holding an open call for girls to be photographed by Mr. Kern. I apply. He apparently accepts. I am short-listed to be one of his models, which means that I must meet with him in person and flash him my tits. I’m not much for prudery – really, life is too short for either pride or shame – so I book an appointment. It doesn’t help in the “Kern is not a pervert” side of things that the curator tells me not to come in with a “pussy mohawk” because “Richard doesn’t like that.” Still, I’m pretty determined to get a read on the inscrutable artist, so we meet.

Above: My headshot submission to Richard Kern, aka my passport photo. Yes, I sent it *exactly* as shown.

Kern is more professional than I would have imagined. Of course, the expectation of someone who looks at tits through a lens everyday is that they might ooze creepiness – if not overtly, than at least in some intangible fashion. However, he seems protective, ensuring that the Fashion Television camera crews that were on hand earlier, as well as the curator’s peeping eyes, are out of the room. He asks me to remove my shirt in the same coolly sexless fashion that my male gynecologist asks me to spread my legs – that is, without a hint of prurient interest or verbiage that could ever be construed as vulgar by even the most OTT backwoods Christian zealot. It seems like the right thing to do so I do it. He immediately hands me my discarded bra so that I can put it on straight away after we’re done – pretty considerate, I think. Proceeding to take out his point-and-shoot digital camera, Kern asks me if I’m nervous.

“Not really.” He’s actually that good at assuaging my distrust that I truly don’t mind.

After a couple of standard, albeit topless, photos, he remarks that I might be too skinny for him. Duh.

“Yeah, I assumed that would be the issue. I look pretty stupid – like a bobblehead.”

“What?”

… Nevermind. I replace my shirt and he more or less ushers me out the door.

“We’ll let you know.”

At this point, it’s pretty clear that my meagre slices of tit lack the star power he might be looking for, but I don’t feel negatively judged. If anything, I feel like I’ve just had my annual check-up at the doctor and been told that “they’ll get back to me” if anything comes up in the results. Well apparently my boobs, like my pap smears, are pretty unremarkable. Life goes on.

So is he a pervert? I still can’t really say; all I know is that I don’t feel violated. Still, the exhibition is yet to open and the myriad young party girls yet to attend … but whether or not that’s more Kern’s interest or the lascivious curator’s is, in my mind, undecided at this point.

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