They say ask and you shall receive; I never thought it applied to penises.
After a rant a couple of weeks ago in this column about the sorry state of public peter viewings, it seems we’ve been granted a reprieve from repression. Wondrous male nudity, the continued display of which could save us all from the encroaching abyss of patriotic conservatism, is once again available for your perusal. In short—and at length, for that matter—the magic johnson has returned to grace the walls of the Benham Gallery.
The First Avenue space has welcomed the artistic joys of the male member many times before but took a slight publicity hit when, as reported in the Weekly back in February, director Marita Holdaway chose to move photographer Patricia Ridenour’s well-hung collection to the back room because “the big dicks offended visitors.” Those same visitors, presumably, have come to their sensibilities, because the artfully erotic images on display at Benham through mid-June take up more than a few inches of the intimate gallery space.
Greg Gorman has perhaps the highest profile of the trio of photographers showcased here. Gorman is a well-known celebrity portraitist whose work has filled national glossies for decades, but his reputation—like homoerotic contemporaries Herb Ritts and Bruce Weber—is based on his heroically sensuous male nudes. You can prattle on about Art all you want while staring at the delights of Gorman’s young models (and his work has a casual, carnal elegance), but you’re lying if you claim your initial reaction is anything more refined than “Hel-lo!” Not all the photos are full frontal, but the skin still seems revelatory. A recent shot of Christopher Atkins proves that while the bottom may have dropped out of Atkins’ acting career, it certainly didn’t desert his bountiful backside—his bum looks as carefree and happy as it did cavorting alongside Brooke Shields’ carefully concealed heinie in The Blue Lagoon over 20 years ago.
You want more? Well, of course you do. The esteemed Paul Dahlquist, a veteran of the human form for over half a century, and Cornish grad Marianne McCoy also command attention with their vital nude studies. Dahlquist has a shot of proudly contemplative model Alexander, whose prodigious willy could intimidate even the most threatening of billy clubs. While popular culture is hard at work manufacturing the kind of thoughtless conformity of post-WWII America, artists like these are still trying to draw us toward naked contemplation—which feels more like my idea of peace.
