“There is something secret concealed behind people and things.” (Ernst Ludwig Kirchner)
In the centre of the photo stands a pregnant woman, leaning against a wall, smiling. We see another leaning forward on one leg, like a child still trying to find its balance. A third returns our gaze, in full frontal view. Not a hint of sexiness is lost to the rotund belly. The models play their part with self-assurance, banishing any coyness about their nudity. Unashamedly, the photographic image shares amazement and admiration: this is what she looks like in the eighth month, this is what her picture tells us, objectively and life-size. When a baby is on the way, the future takes shape.
A nude portrait of a mother is not something that is entirely mundane. She is carrying not only her child but a whole bundle of cultural history and socially sensitive issues. How do we react to the fact that women, when they become mothers, are no longer quite the same for (their) men? How do we depict their bodies without judgemental distancing, without speculation about origin, paternity, living conditions? Even when he asks women if he can photograph them in the nude in his Paris studio, Swiss artist and photographer Peter Knapp (b.1931) approaches his subject as if he had no concerns. Of course, there is the tradition that the male eye would merely look down on women as “models”. But in the presence of such cheerful figures, any suspicion of patriarchal superciliousness is dispelled. As an art director and photographer for numerous magazines and fashion designers, Knapp has been portraying the democratization of fashion for decades. He has often invited coincidence and played with movement. More than in the miniskirt, the nylon stocking or trouser suit, he was interested in depicting the urge for freedom and movement to which women laid claim from the 1960s onwards: the self-determined model represents only herself; she becomes an attractive counterpart to the photographer.
The text at the lower edge of the picture indicates the name, weight and length of the child that will only see the light of day some weeks after the shoot. The Arabic “Jelua” stands for beautiful; “Arthur” evokes memories of Nordic legends, an author or filmmaker; “Clélia” reads like a bright echo of her mother’s radiant glow. Each name embraces past lives and at the same time precedes life in the making – as a sound, a wish and a promise. The future begins with thought. It has its weight and an initial length. Its duration is then partly up to us: the future will last as long as we don’t lose sight of life – its mystery and its confidence.
Text: Isabel Zürcher, March 2024
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