I find that many people are repulsed or at least surprised by the bodies in Carrie's photographs. She is photographing "normal" people, not professional models that we are accustomed to seeing in photographs. I find it interesting that viewers have this reaction to bodies that are not air brushed, shaved, tanned or tucked. Maybe it reminds us of our own bodies and in turn makes us feel ashamed that we aren't super models. Maybe it reminds us of the little lies we tell ourselves about our own appearance.

In Carrie's images posture, pose and stance are very important. There is a language of avoidance within the nudity; revealing but concealing. Is it just Carrie's photograph that makes a viewer uncomfortable or is it the images in our memory that her work evokes?

Dan’s post raises an interesting issue. When I first saw Carrie’s photos, I was somewhat surprised (and quite honestly, excited) by the uncomfortable reaction I had. Why did I feel this way? There is nothing obscene about the work… as Dan mentions, one doesn’t even see the most private parts of the subjects’ bodies.

But the viewer doesn’t see the subject’s face either. The viewer is voyeur; the subject in the photo the object of the gaze. These photos only allow unreciprocated looking, which empowers the viewer/voyeur with the privilege of gazing.

For me, I think this is why the uncomfortable feeling creeps in. I feel somewhat guilty or impolite looking at this person, who is vulnerable, naked, unaware of my gaze. I feel that maybe I should turn away too… but somehow I’m transfixed.

Would I want to be the subject of this picture? Would I want people looking at me the way I am looking at the subject of the photo? (What if Carrie would have included the subject’s names in the titles of the photos?)

Then I wonder, if these were paintings and not photographs, would I have the same reaction? No. The immediacy of a photograph, the “reality” of it, its indexical nature, all seem to evoke raw and unmitigated responses. It seems so easy to dismiss paintings as not “real,” as interpretations, as products of an artist’s imagination, with liberties taken and changes made. But not so with photographs. Even though photos often possess just as much artifice, there is still a (perceived, imagined?) documentary quality that persists.

The pictures of Turning Away dovetail nicely with the pictures of Lorretta Lux. Where the children are unashamed of their uniqueness and seem to be enjoying being in front of a camera, the adults here are still trying to hide themselves, even when their clothes are stripped away.
Studies have shown that place is a far more accurate indicator of behavior than personality. For instance, the information that someone is standing behind a cash register is far more informative about their behavior while behind that register than their life story.
Clothing has become for these people a way to hide themselves, a way to put on a mask and act its part. They, and we, are afraid when separated from the control and direction we are accustomed to. Children, on the other hand, invariably despise uniforms, and, usually, rules of any sort.