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Deborah Turbeville: Hidden Under Layers
Excerpt of essay by Maeva Dubrez
Everything suggests that, although Deborah Turbeville was given considerable freedom with her commissions, her editors insisted that readers be shown a glimpse of the clothing collections presented, particularly in a magazine like Vogue. But despite such strictures, the photographer had a parallel vision on what she wanted to capture to fuel her own oeuvre.
The use of Polaroids might explain this “filter” that I had imagined placed in front of her Nikon camera. But this is not the only element at play; Turbeville also regularly resorted to another type of filter. At the time Deborah Turbeville did the shoot “Il bianco e blu di maglia mole” (“The white and blue of taupe mesh”) for Vogue Italia, Bertrand Cardon had not yet begun working for her. But during our conversation, Cardon told me that in 1985, during an assignment for Vogue US, she specifically asked for a 60x80 glass plate and “dulling spray,” which she mixed with water before applying to the glass. Then she started photographing through the plate. Dulling spray is commonly used in the film industry to control the reflection of light from various surfaces, helping create the intended mood while removing visual distractions during the shoot. Turbeville explained to Bertrand that this method was something she had mastered on photo shoots in the United States. A close analysis of three specific Polaroids suggests that she probably used this glass plate as a diffuser in front of her Polaroid lens, thus creating a fog-like effect to blur elements of the image and build up an even more ghostly atmosphere. Cardon also told me that Turbeville’s overexposure in her photographs was not intentional, but the result of accidents caused by sudden shifts from low to bright light. He recounted that she didn’t know how to set the shutter speed or aperture, which in turn caused errors, and accidents that she described as “beautiful.” After developing her films, she would systematically save the overexposed images for her personal work.
Her penchant for errors or “erratas” was not restricted to photographing. She closely collaborated with her printer and assistant in New York, Dawn Close, whose role was pivotal in creating her ghostly atmospheres. Close would print several versions of the same image with different alterations. As I explored Turbeville’s archives, I realized that she never stopped working on her photographs, as though each print had been left in the developing bath, never quite finished. She reproduced some of her images seemingly ad infinitum. Each time I opened a new box, I would discover the same subject, albeit in a different format, on another kind of paper or photographic process, which was sometimes torn, scratched, or marked to the point of near destruction. Some of the Polaroids and other prints in the L’heure entre chien et loup series bore traces of brushes or fingerprints, chemical additions, sepia tones, endless experimentation with different processes, and even internegatives. In addition, the gelatin-silver prints in this series were in some cases derived from internegatives of her Polaroid prints. It was almost vertiginous. Her experimental photographic process is endless, just like the stories she tells, which are always left open-ended.
According to Bertrand, who sometimes watched the prints being developed in the laboratory, it appears that Turbeville would ask "her printer", Dawn Close, to apply overexposure effects to a negative that had initially been correctly exposed. Then, Close would use a prolonged exposure time to selectively work on the highlights, while adjusting the contrast of the print using variable-grade papers. The act of exposing light-sensitive paper in the laboratory thus bears similarities to exposing photographic film during the shooting process. Walter Benjamin previously studied this technique when he examined an 1845 cemetery photograph by D.O. Hill and R. Adamson. In the mid-19th century, the use of photographic plates required a long exposure, meaning that the photograph recorded an extended period during which the space being photographed had time to change, thus altering the image. Benjamin refers to the blurred appearances revealed through this process, noting that “in the old images everything was made to last.” In the early 20th century, Emil Orlik, a Berlin graphic artist, coined the expression “luminous accumulation.” This accumulation of light, evident in Turbeville’s prints, leaves a nebulous veil that transforms her white garment-clad actresses into ghostly apparitions.
Photographic errors are integral to Turbeville’s oeuvre. As I looked through the archive, this aspect called to mind Fautographie, Petite histoire de l’erreur photographique, by Clément Chéroux, who writes: “Some authors are haunted by the erratum. Jorge Luis Borges, whose taste for literary facetiousness is legendary, didn’t much care for typographical, transcription, or translation errors; on the contrary, he believed that errata would enrich his books.” For Turbeville, the naturally occurring errata is precisely what gives the work its potency, forever captivating and haunting us.
Everything suggests that, although Deborah Turbeville was given considerable freedom with her commissions, her editors insisted that readers be shown a glimpse of the clothing collections presented, particularly in a magazine like Vogue. But despite such strictures, the photographer had a parallel vision on what she wanted to capture to fuel her own oeuvre.
The use of Polaroids might explain this “filter” that I had imagined placed in front of her Nikon camera. But this is not the only element at play; Turbeville also regularly resorted to another type of filter. At the time Deborah Turbeville did the shoot “Il bianco e blu di maglia mole” (“The white and blue of taupe mesh”) for Vogue Italia, Bertrand Cardon had not yet begun working for her. But during our conversation, Cardon told me that in 1985, during an assignment for Vogue US, she specifically asked for a 60x80 glass plate and “dulling spray,” which she mixed with water before applying to the glass. Then she started photographing through the plate. Dulling spray is commonly used in the film industry to control the reflection of light from various surfaces, helping create the intended mood while removing visual distractions during the shoot. Turbeville explained to Bertrand that this method was something she had mastered on photo shoots in the United States. A close analysis of three specific Polaroids suggests that she probably used this glass plate as a diffuser in front of her Polaroid lens, thus creating a fog-like effect to blur elements of the image and build up an even more ghostly atmosphere. Cardon also told me that Turbeville’s overexposure in her photographs was not intentional, but the result of accidents caused by sudden shifts from low to bright light. He recounted that she didn’t know how to set the shutter speed or aperture, which in turn caused errors, and accidents that she described as “beautiful.” After developing her films, she would systematically save the overexposed images for her personal work.
Her penchant for errors or “erratas” was not restricted to photographing. She closely collaborated with her printer and assistant in New York, Dawn Close, whose role was pivotal in creating her ghostly atmospheres. Close would print several versions of the same image with different alterations. As I explored Turbeville’s archives, I realized that she never stopped working on her photographs, as though each print had been left in the developing bath, never quite finished. She reproduced some of her images seemingly ad infinitum. Each time I opened a new box, I would discover the same subject, albeit in a different format, on another kind of paper or photographic process, which was sometimes torn, scratched, or marked to the point of near destruction. Some of the Polaroids and other prints in the L’heure entre chien et loup series bore traces of brushes or fingerprints, chemical additions, sepia tones, endless experimentation with different processes, and even internegatives. In addition, the gelatin-silver prints in this series were in some cases derived from internegatives of her Polaroid prints. It was almost vertiginous. Her experimental photographic process is endless, just like the stories she tells, which are always left open-ended.
According to Bertrand, who sometimes watched the prints being developed in the laboratory, it appears that Turbeville would ask "her printer", Dawn Close, to apply overexposure effects to a negative that had initially been correctly exposed. Then, Close would use a prolonged exposure time to selectively work on the highlights, while adjusting the contrast of the print using variable-grade papers. The act of exposing light-sensitive paper in the laboratory thus bears similarities to exposing photographic film during the shooting process. Walter Benjamin previously studied this technique when he examined an 1845 cemetery photograph by D.O. Hill and R. Adamson. In the mid-19th century, the use of photographic plates required a long exposure, meaning that the photograph recorded an extended period during which the space being photographed had time to change, thus altering the image. Benjamin refers to the blurred appearances revealed through this process, noting that “in the old images everything was made to last.” In the early 20th century, Emil Orlik, a Berlin graphic artist, coined the expression “luminous accumulation.” This accumulation of light, evident in Turbeville’s prints, leaves a nebulous veil that transforms her white garment-clad actresses into ghostly apparitions.
Photographic errors are integral to Turbeville’s oeuvre. As I looked through the archive, this aspect called to mind Fautographie, Petite histoire de l’erreur photographique, by Clément Chéroux, who writes: “Some authors are haunted by the erratum. Jorge Luis Borges, whose taste for literary facetiousness is legendary, didn’t much care for typographical, transcription, or translation errors; on the contrary, he believed that errata would enrich his books.” For Turbeville, the naturally occurring errata is precisely what gives the work its potency, forever captivating and haunting us.
Everything suggests that, although Deborah Turbeville was given considerable freedom with her commissions, her editors insisted that readers be shown a glimpse of the clothing collections presented, particularly in a magazine like Vogue. But despite such strictures, the photographer had a parallel vision on what she wanted to capture to fuel her own oeuvre.
The use of Polaroids might explain this “filter” that I had imagined placed in front of her Nikon camera. But this is not the only element at play; Turbeville also regularly resorted to another type of filter. At the time Deborah Turbeville did the shoot “Il bianco e blu di maglia mole” (“The white and blue of taupe mesh”) for Vogue Italia, Bertrand Cardon had not yet begun working for her. But during our conversation, Cardon told me that in 1985, during an assignment for Vogue US, she specifically asked for a 60x80 glass plate and “dulling spray,” which she mixed with water before applying to the glass. Then she started photographing through the plate. Dulling spray is commonly used in the film industry to control the reflection of light from various surfaces, helping create the intended mood while removing visual distractions during the shoot. Turbeville explained to Bertrand that this method was something she had mastered on photo shoots in the United States. A close analysis of three specific Polaroids suggests that she probably used this glass plate as a diffuser in front of her Polaroid lens, thus creating a fog-like effect to blur elements of the image and build up an even more ghostly atmosphere. Cardon also told me that Turbeville’s overexposure in her photographs was not intentional, but the result of accidents caused by sudden shifts from low to bright light. He recounted that she didn’t know how to set the shutter speed or aperture, which in turn caused errors, and accidents that she described as “beautiful.” After developing her films, she would systematically save the overexposed images for her personal work.
Her penchant for errors or “erratas” was not restricted to photographing. She closely collaborated with her printer and assistant in New York, Dawn Close, whose role was pivotal in creating her ghostly atmospheres. Close would print several versions of the same image with different alterations. As I explored Turbeville’s archives, I realized that she never stopped working on her photographs, as though each print had been left in the developing bath, never quite finished. She reproduced some of her images seemingly ad infinitum. Each time I opened a new box, I would discover the same subject, albeit in a different format, on another kind of paper or photographic process, which was sometimes torn, scratched, or marked to the point of near destruction. Some of the Polaroids and other prints in the L’heure entre chien et loup series bore traces of brushes or fingerprints, chemical additions, sepia tones, endless experimentation with different processes, and even internegatives. In addition, the gelatin-silver prints in this series were in some cases derived from internegatives of her Polaroid prints. It was almost vertiginous. Her experimental photographic process is endless, just like the stories she tells, which are always left open-ended.
According to Bertrand, who sometimes watched the prints being developed in the laboratory, it appears that Turbeville would ask "her printer", Dawn Close, to apply overexposure effects to a negative that had initially been correctly exposed. Then, Close would use a prolonged exposure time to selectively work on the highlights, while adjusting the contrast of the print using variable-grade papers. The act of exposing light-sensitive paper in the laboratory thus bears similarities to exposing photographic film during the shooting process. Walter Benjamin previously studied this technique when he examined an 1845 cemetery photograph by D.O. Hill and R. Adamson. In the mid-19th century, the use of photographic plates required a long exposure, meaning that the photograph recorded an extended period during which the space being photographed had time to change, thus altering the image. Benjamin refers to the blurred appearances revealed through this process, noting that “in the old images everything was made to last.” In the early 20th century, Emil Orlik, a Berlin graphic artist, coined the expression “luminous accumulation.” This accumulation of light, evident in Turbeville’s prints, leaves a nebulous veil that transforms her white garment-clad actresses into ghostly apparitions.
Photographic errors are integral to Turbeville’s oeuvre. As I looked through the archive, this aspect called to mind Fautographie, Petite histoire de l’erreur photographique, by Clément Chéroux, who writes: “Some authors are haunted by the erratum. Jorge Luis Borges, whose taste for literary facetiousness is legendary, didn’t much care for typographical, transcription, or translation errors; on the contrary, he believed that errata would enrich his books.” For Turbeville, the naturally occurring errata is precisely what gives the work its potency, forever captivating and haunting us.
Everything suggests that, although Deborah Turbeville was given considerable freedom with her commissions, her editors insisted that readers be shown a glimpse of the clothing collections presented, particularly in a magazine like Vogue. But despite such strictures, the photographer had a parallel vision on what she wanted to capture to fuel her own oeuvre.
The use of Polaroids might explain this “filter” that I had imagined placed in front of her Nikon camera. But this is not the only element at play; Turbeville also regularly resorted to another type of filter. At the time Deborah Turbeville did the shoot “Il bianco e blu di maglia mole” (“The white and blue of taupe mesh”) for Vogue Italia, Bertrand Cardon had not yet begun working for her. But during our conversation, Cardon told me that in 1985, during an assignment for Vogue US, she specifically asked for a 60x80 glass plate and “dulling spray,” which she mixed with water before applying to the glass. Then she started photographing through the plate. Dulling spray is commonly used in the film industry to control the reflection of light from various surfaces, helping create the intended mood while removing visual distractions during the shoot. Turbeville explained to Bertrand that this method was something she had mastered on photo shoots in the United States. A close analysis of three specific Polaroids suggests that she probably used this glass plate as a diffuser in front of her Polaroid lens, thus creating a fog-like effect to blur elements of the image and build up an even more ghostly atmosphere. Cardon also told me that Turbeville’s overexposure in her photographs was not intentional, but the result of accidents caused by sudden shifts from low to bright light. He recounted that she didn’t know how to set the shutter speed or aperture, which in turn caused errors, and accidents that she described as “beautiful.” After developing her films, she would systematically save the overexposed images for her personal work.
Her penchant for errors or “erratas” was not restricted to photographing. She closely collaborated with her printer and assistant in New York, Dawn Close, whose role was pivotal in creating her ghostly atmospheres. Close would print several versions of the same image with different alterations. As I explored Turbeville’s archives, I realized that she never stopped working on her photographs, as though each print had been left in the developing bath, never quite finished. She reproduced some of her images seemingly ad infinitum. Each time I opened a new box, I would discover the same subject, albeit in a different format, on another kind of paper or photographic process, which was sometimes torn, scratched, or marked to the point of near destruction. Some of the Polaroids and other prints in the L’heure entre chien et loup series bore traces of brushes or fingerprints, chemical additions, sepia tones, endless experimentation with different processes, and even internegatives. In addition, the gelatin-silver prints in this series were in some cases derived from internegatives of her Polaroid prints. It was almost vertiginous. Her experimental photographic process is endless, just like the stories she tells, which are always left open-ended.
According to Bertrand, who sometimes watched the prints being developed in the laboratory, it appears that Turbeville would ask "her printer", Dawn Close, to apply overexposure effects to a negative that had initially been correctly exposed. Then, Close would use a prolonged exposure time to selectively work on the highlights, while adjusting the contrast of the print using variable-grade papers. The act of exposing light-sensitive paper in the laboratory thus bears similarities to exposing photographic film during the shooting process. Walter Benjamin previously studied this technique when he examined an 1845 cemetery photograph by D.O. Hill and R. Adamson. In the mid-19th century, the use of photographic plates required a long exposure, meaning that the photograph recorded an extended period during which the space being photographed had time to change, thus altering the image. Benjamin refers to the blurred appearances revealed through this process, noting that “in the old images everything was made to last.” In the early 20th century, Emil Orlik, a Berlin graphic artist, coined the expression “luminous accumulation.” This accumulation of light, evident in Turbeville’s prints, leaves a nebulous veil that transforms her white garment-clad actresses into ghostly apparitions.
Photographic errors are integral to Turbeville’s oeuvre. As I looked through the archive, this aspect called to mind Fautographie, Petite histoire de l’erreur photographique, by Clément Chéroux, who writes: “Some authors are haunted by the erratum. Jorge Luis Borges, whose taste for literary facetiousness is legendary, didn’t much care for typographical, transcription, or translation errors; on the contrary, he believed that errata would enrich his books.” For Turbeville, the naturally occurring errata is precisely what gives the work its potency, forever captivating and haunting us.
According to Aurélien Garzarolli and Philippe Ayral, both experts in photographic processes, it seems undeniable that Close carried out further alteration steps. The type of developer and its strength also play a role, along with temperature and development time. Some prints display an abundance of grain, which probably stems from a technique whereby the developer is heated during development, bringing the grains to the surface and making them more visible. Some areas of the prints appear blurred and faded, accentuating the otherworldly atmosphere. According to Ayral’s findings, it was common practice to set masks in front of the enlarger lens during print exposure, a technique which Turbeville might have used to contribute to this effect. It’s also worth noting that Turbeville worked with various types of photographic paper, including chlorides, bromides, and chloro-bromides, all of which react in very different ways. In her process, the smallest gesture, shift in expression, new frame, variation in light or exposure time, or even, the choice of paper itself can change the narrative interpretation of a photograph and reveal unexpected effects.
Regardless of whether one agrees with Jacques Derrida’s theories in general, in Ken McMullen’s film Ghost Dance, the philosopher offers an observation that seems particularly apropos to Turbeville’s work, pointing out that “cinema [and photography since its origin], is an art of “fantomachie.” According to Derrida, the ghost is a fantastical being, but also a fantasized, phantasmatic being. It manifests as imaginary, something personal, both feared and desired. This haunting image, which we might call “ectoplasm” or “spectrality,” is “haunted by the void, by death,” according to Jean Baudrillard, another philosopher whose ideas seem especially relevant in the context of Turbeville’s work. Derrida also uses the term “spectrality,” which he later retitles “hauntology,” to expand its meaning as “the logic of haunting.” This logic is akin to the perpetual return of a dead person, a ghost. Since their origins, cinema and photography have skillfully played with these “spectralities,” which still haunt and manipulate our imaginations to this day. While Turbeville never explicitly refers to ghosts, her works depict silhouettes, shadows, and ancient faces “that appear...trapped in time, raising questions about other realities.” In Past Imperfect, she evokes beings from “another world into which we were not invited to enter. All those faces haunted me... I wanted to photograph them... They seemed to have been resurrected, gathered (captured in Paris) by the fashion world... and were now parading before me.” Thus, through the words of Derrida, the philosophy of Baudrillard, or the universe of Turbeville, photography emerges as a space where the frontiers between tangible and intangible fade away. It’s a space where past and present interact, where the ghosts of memory come to life to haunt us, and where fashion itself seems to morph into a specter.
According to Aurélien Garzarolli and Philippe Ayral, both experts in photographic processes, it seems undeniable that Close carried out further alteration steps. The type of developer and its strength also play a role, along with temperature and development time. Some prints display an abundance of grain, which probably stems from a technique whereby the developer is heated during development, bringing the grains to the surface and making them more visible. Some areas of the prints appear blurred and faded, accentuating the otherworldly atmosphere. According to Ayral’s findings, it was common practice to set masks in front of the enlarger lens during print exposure, a technique which Turbeville might have used to contribute to this effect. It’s also worth noting that Turbeville worked with various types of photographic paper, including chlorides, bromides, and chloro-bromides, all of which react in very different ways. In her process, the smallest gesture, shift in expression, new frame, variation in light or exposure time, or even, the choice of paper itself can change the narrative interpretation of a photograph and reveal unexpected effects.
Regardless of whether one agrees with Jacques Derrida’s theories in general, in Ken McMullen’s film Ghost Dance, the philosopher offers an observation that seems particularly apropos to Turbeville’s work, pointing out that “cinema [and photography since its origin], is an art of “fantomachie.” According to Derrida, the ghost is a fantastical being, but also a fantasized, phantasmatic being. It manifests as imaginary, something personal, both feared and desired. This haunting image, which we might call “ectoplasm” or “spectrality,” is “haunted by the void, by death,” according to Jean Baudrillard, another philosopher whose ideas seem especially relevant in the context of Turbeville’s work. Derrida also uses the term “spectrality,” which he later retitles “hauntology,” to expand its meaning as “the logic of haunting.” This logic is akin to the perpetual return of a dead person, a ghost. Since their origins, cinema and photography have skillfully played with these “spectralities,” which still haunt and manipulate our imaginations to this day. While Turbeville never explicitly refers to ghosts, her works depict silhouettes, shadows, and ancient faces “that appear...trapped in time, raising questions about other realities.” In Past Imperfect, she evokes beings from “another world into which we were not invited to enter. All those faces haunted me... I wanted to photograph them... They seemed to have been resurrected, gathered (captured in Paris) by the fashion world... and were now parading before me.” Thus, through the words of Derrida, the philosophy of Baudrillard, or the universe of Turbeville, photography emerges as a space where the frontiers between tangible and intangible fade away. It’s a space where past and present interact, where the ghosts of memory come to life to haunt us, and where fashion itself seems to morph into a specter.
According to Aurélien Garzarolli and Philippe Ayral, both experts in photographic processes, it seems undeniable that Close carried out further alteration steps. The type of developer and its strength also play a role, along with temperature and development time. Some prints display an abundance of grain, which probably stems from a technique whereby the developer is heated during development, bringing the grains to the surface and making them more visible. Some areas of the prints appear blurred and faded, accentuating the otherworldly atmosphere. According to Ayral’s findings, it was common practice to set masks in front of the enlarger lens during print exposure, a technique which Turbeville might have used to contribute to this effect. It’s also worth noting that Turbeville worked with various types of photographic paper, including chlorides, bromides, and chloro-bromides, all of which react in very different ways. In her process, the smallest gesture, shift in expression, new frame, variation in light or exposure time, or even, the choice of paper itself can change the narrative interpretation of a photograph and reveal unexpected effects.
Regardless of whether one agrees with Jacques Derrida’s theories in general, in Ken McMullen’s film Ghost Dance, the philosopher offers an observation that seems particularly apropos to Turbeville’s work, pointing out that “cinema [and photography since its origin], is an art of “fantomachie.” According to Derrida, the ghost is a fantastical being, but also a fantasized, phantasmatic being. It manifests as imaginary, something personal, both feared and desired. This haunting image, which we might call “ectoplasm” or “spectrality,” is “haunted by the void, by death,” according to Jean Baudrillard, another philosopher whose ideas seem especially relevant in the context of Turbeville’s work. Derrida also uses the term “spectrality,” which he later retitles “hauntology,” to expand its meaning as “the logic of haunting.” This logic is akin to the perpetual return of a dead person, a ghost. Since their origins, cinema and photography have skillfully played with these “spectralities,” which still haunt and manipulate our imaginations to this day. While Turbeville never explicitly refers to ghosts, her works depict silhouettes, shadows, and ancient faces “that appear...trapped in time, raising questions about other realities.” In Past Imperfect, she evokes beings from “another world into which we were not invited to enter. All those faces haunted me... I wanted to photograph them... They seemed to have been resurrected, gathered (captured in Paris) by the fashion world... and were now parading before me.” Thus, through the words of Derrida, the philosophy of Baudrillard, or the universe of Turbeville, photography emerges as a space where the frontiers between tangible and intangible fade away. It’s a space where past and present interact, where the ghosts of memory come to life to haunt us, and where fashion itself seems to morph into a specter.
According to Aurélien Garzarolli and Philippe Ayral, both experts in photographic processes, it seems undeniable that Close carried out further alteration steps. The type of developer and its strength also play a role, along with temperature and development time. Some prints display an abundance of grain, which probably stems from a technique whereby the developer is heated during development, bringing the grains to the surface and making them more visible. Some areas of the prints appear blurred and faded, accentuating the otherworldly atmosphere. According to Ayral’s findings, it was common practice to set masks in front of the enlarger lens during print exposure, a technique which Turbeville might have used to contribute to this effect. It’s also worth noting that Turbeville worked with various types of photographic paper, including chlorides, bromides, and chloro-bromides, all of which react in very different ways. In her process, the smallest gesture, shift in expression, new frame, variation in light or exposure time, or even, the choice of paper itself can change the narrative interpretation of a photograph and reveal unexpected effects.
Regardless of whether one agrees with Jacques Derrida’s theories in general, in Ken McMullen’s film Ghost Dance, the philosopher offers an observation that seems particularly apropos to Turbeville’s work, pointing out that “cinema [and photography since its origin], is an art of “fantomachie.” According to Derrida, the ghost is a fantastical being, but also a fantasized, phantasmatic being. It manifests as imaginary, something personal, both feared and desired. This haunting image, which we might call “ectoplasm” or “spectrality,” is “haunted by the void, by death,” according to Jean Baudrillard, another philosopher whose ideas seem especially relevant in the context of Turbeville’s work. Derrida also uses the term “spectrality,” which he later retitles “hauntology,” to expand its meaning as “the logic of haunting.” This logic is akin to the perpetual return of a dead person, a ghost. Since their origins, cinema and photography have skillfully played with these “spectralities,” which still haunt and manipulate our imaginations to this day. While Turbeville never explicitly refers to ghosts, her works depict silhouettes, shadows, and ancient faces “that appear...trapped in time, raising questions about other realities.” In Past Imperfect, she evokes beings from “another world into which we were not invited to enter. All those faces haunted me... I wanted to photograph them... They seemed to have been resurrected, gathered (captured in Paris) by the fashion world... and were now parading before me.” Thus, through the words of Derrida, the philosophy of Baudrillard, or the universe of Turbeville, photography emerges as a space where the frontiers between tangible and intangible fade away. It’s a space where past and present interact, where the ghosts of memory come to life to haunt us, and where fashion itself seems to morph into a specter.
Eschewing the editorial constraints of Vogue, Deborah Turbeville turned to avant-garde experimental magazines. Façade Magazine, edited by Alain Benoist, provided an ideal space for exploring her ghostly atmospheres, since its mission involved disturbing, surprising, and unsettling readers. In 1978, for its sixth issue, Façade Magazine featured seven fashion pages by seven photographers – including Turbeville – on the theme of “Suicide Fashion. Her photograph is evocatively staged: two women lie on the inner edge of an abandoned greenhouse in Normandy. The photograph is framed vertically, giving the space feel that is simultaneously dynamic and languid. Shattered windows, which dominate two-thirds of the image, dwarf the women. Like lifeless figures, their bodies are frozen in apparent lethargy, arms hanging limply and faces expressionless. Draped in black Sonia Rykiel dresses, they are the spectators of their own doomed fate. The mise-en-scène irrevocably conjures up the inanimate body of Léone in Carl-Theodor Dreyer’s Vampyr, a cinematic masterpiece in which Léone is bitten by Marguerite Chopin, a female vampire who vanishes behind the greenery. Like the ghost, the figure of the vampire serves as a metaphor for a past that haunts the present and threatens the living. Through Turbeville’s lens, fashion itself becomes a form of sacrifice.
True to form, Turbeville continues in this series to tell new narratives as she alters and recreates the same images over and over. Following her collaboration with Façade Magazine, she crafted a new series named Glass House. New photo prints emerge. Here, the borders of the images are delicately frayed, in keeping with the “soft border” photographic techniques pioneered by Diane Arbus in 1969. This method consists of dissolving the image’s inner frame by inserting hand-cut covers into cardboard used as enlarger mounts. For her part, it appears that Turbeville used fabric to create the same effect. Throughout this series, the characters evolve, images deteriorate, and overexposure leaves its mark. Here again, the contrast of the image erodes dresses and bodies, as though the photograph itself bears the scars of passing time, causing them to gradually disappear into space.
In this series, death looms in the background, but there are no apparent executioners. Together with her printer, Deborah Turbeville created an open-ended suite by superimposing two negatives, one from her series L'heure entre chien et loup, which conjures up ghosts, and one from Glass House. This superimposition resulted in her Clocktower series, which features ghostly apparitions in a haunted glasshouse. These new photographs were presented at the Clock Tower exhibition. Further consideration suggests that these specters bear an uncanny resemblance to the photographer herself, who was known for her distinctive hairstyle and thick hair. Could this be her own alter ego that haunts the fashion world, consuming and vampirizing it? Deborah Turbeville enters this off-world of fashion in the same way as Allan Gray in Vampyr, delving into the territories of phantoms and hauntings in the desolate village of Courtempierre. Throughout this exploration, she ultimately subverted the accepted norms of fashion photography. The constraints and imperatives involved in fulfilling her photographic imagination are deconstructed, leaving behind nothing but ghostlike images. In other words, the very act of creating spectrality is like killing fashion, transforming it into a ghost.
Eschewing the editorial constraints of Vogue, Deborah Turbeville turned to avant-garde experimental magazines. Façade Magazine, edited by Alain Benoist, provided an ideal space for exploring her ghostly atmospheres, since its mission involved disturbing, surprising, and unsettling readers. In 1978, for its sixth issue, Façade Magazine featured seven fashion pages by seven photographers – including Turbeville – on the theme of “Suicide Fashion. Her photograph is evocatively staged: two women lie on the inner edge of an abandoned greenhouse in Normandy. The photograph is framed vertically, giving the space feel that is simultaneously dynamic and languid. Shattered windows, which dominate two-thirds of the image, dwarf the women. Like lifeless figures, their bodies are frozen in apparent lethargy, arms hanging limply and faces expressionless. Draped in black Sonia Rykiel dresses, they are the spectators of their own doomed fate. The mise-en-scène irrevocably conjures up the inanimate body of Léone in Carl-Theodor Dreyer’s Vampyr, a cinematic masterpiece in which Léone is bitten by Marguerite Chopin, a female vampire who vanishes behind the greenery. Like the ghost, the figure of the vampire serves as a metaphor for a past that haunts the present and threatens the living. Through Turbeville’s lens, fashion itself becomes a form of sacrifice.
True to form, Turbeville continues in this series to tell new narratives as she alters and recreates the same images over and over. Following her collaboration with Façade Magazine, she crafted a new series named Glass House. New photo prints emerge. Here, the borders of the images are delicately frayed, in keeping with the “soft border” photographic techniques pioneered by Diane Arbus in 1969. This method consists of dissolving the image’s inner frame by inserting hand-cut covers into cardboard used as enlarger mounts. For her part, it appears that Turbeville used fabric to create the same effect. Throughout this series, the characters evolve, images deteriorate, and overexposure leaves its mark. Here again, the contrast of the image erodes dresses and bodies, as though the photograph itself bears the scars of passing time, causing them to gradually disappear into space.
In this series, death looms in the background, but there are no apparent executioners. Together with her printer, Deborah Turbeville created an open-ended suite by superimposing two negatives, one from her series L'heure entre chien et loup, which conjures up ghosts, and one from Glass House. This superimposition resulted in her Clocktower series, which features ghostly apparitions in a haunted glasshouse. These new photographs were presented at the Clock Tower exhibition. Further consideration suggests that these specters bear an uncanny resemblance to the photographer herself, who was known for her distinctive hairstyle and thick hair. Could this be her own alter ego that haunts the fashion world, consuming and vampirizing it? Deborah Turbeville enters this off-world of fashion in the same way as Allan Gray in Vampyr, delving into the territories of phantoms and hauntings in the desolate village of Courtempierre. Throughout this exploration, she ultimately subverted the accepted norms of fashion photography. The constraints and imperatives involved in fulfilling her photographic imagination are deconstructed, leaving behind nothing but ghostlike images. In other words, the very act of creating spectrality is like killing fashion, transforming it into a ghost.
Eschewing the editorial constraints of Vogue, Deborah Turbeville turned to avant-garde experimental magazines. Façade Magazine, edited by Alain Benoist, provided an ideal space for exploring her ghostly atmospheres, since its mission involved disturbing, surprising, and unsettling readers. In 1978, for its sixth issue, Façade Magazine featured seven fashion pages by seven photographers – including Turbeville – on the theme of “Suicide Fashion. Her photograph is evocatively staged: two women lie on the inner edge of an abandoned greenhouse in Normandy. The photograph is framed vertically, giving the space feel that is simultaneously dynamic and languid. Shattered windows, which dominate two-thirds of the image, dwarf the women. Like lifeless figures, their bodies are frozen in apparent lethargy, arms hanging limply and faces expressionless. Draped in black Sonia Rykiel dresses, they are the spectators of their own doomed fate. The mise-en-scène irrevocably conjures up the inanimate body of Léone in Carl-Theodor Dreyer’s Vampyr, a cinematic masterpiece in which Léone is bitten by Marguerite Chopin, a female vampire who vanishes behind the greenery. Like the ghost, the figure of the vampire serves as a metaphor for a past that haunts the present and threatens the living. Through Turbeville’s lens, fashion itself becomes a form of sacrifice.
True to form, Turbeville continues in this series to tell new narratives as she alters and recreates the same images over and over. Following her collaboration with Façade Magazine, she crafted a new series named Glass House. New photo prints emerge. Here, the borders of the images are delicately frayed, in keeping with the “soft border” photographic techniques pioneered by Diane Arbus in 1969. This method consists of dissolving the image’s inner frame by inserting hand-cut covers into cardboard used as enlarger mounts. For her part, it appears that Turbeville used fabric to create the same effect. Throughout this series, the characters evolve, images deteriorate, and overexposure leaves its mark. Here again, the contrast of the image erodes dresses and bodies, as though the photograph itself bears the scars of passing time, causing them to gradually disappear into space.
In this series, death looms in the background, but there are no apparent executioners. Together with her printer, Deborah Turbeville created an open-ended suite by superimposing two negatives, one from her series L'heure entre chien et loup, which conjures up ghosts, and one from Glass House. This superimposition resulted in her Clocktower series, which features ghostly apparitions in a haunted glasshouse. These new photographs were presented at the Clock Tower exhibition. Further consideration suggests that these specters bear an uncanny resemblance to the photographer herself, who was known for her distinctive hairstyle and thick hair. Could this be her own alter ego that haunts the fashion world, consuming and vampirizing it? Deborah Turbeville enters this off-world of fashion in the same way as Allan Gray in Vampyr, delving into the territories of phantoms and hauntings in the desolate village of Courtempierre. Throughout this exploration, she ultimately subverted the accepted norms of fashion photography. The constraints and imperatives involved in fulfilling her photographic imagination are deconstructed, leaving behind nothing but ghostlike images. In other words, the very act of creating spectrality is like killing fashion, transforming it into a ghost.
Eschewing the editorial constraints of Vogue, Deborah Turbeville turned to avant-garde experimental magazines. Façade Magazine, edited by Alain Benoist, provided an ideal space for exploring her ghostly atmospheres, since its mission involved disturbing, surprising, and unsettling readers. In 1978, for its sixth issue, Façade Magazine featured seven fashion pages by seven photographers – including Turbeville – on the theme of “Suicide Fashion. Her photograph is evocatively staged: two women lie on the inner edge of an abandoned greenhouse in Normandy. The photograph is framed vertically, giving the space feel that is simultaneously dynamic and languid. Shattered windows, which dominate two-thirds of the image, dwarf the women. Like lifeless figures, their bodies are frozen in apparent lethargy, arms hanging limply and faces expressionless. Draped in black Sonia Rykiel dresses, they are the spectators of their own doomed fate. The mise-en-scène irrevocably conjures up the inanimate body of Léone in Carl-Theodor Dreyer’s Vampyr, a cinematic masterpiece in which Léone is bitten by Marguerite Chopin, a female vampire who vanishes behind the greenery. Like the ghost, the figure of the vampire serves as a metaphor for a past that haunts the present and threatens the living. Through Turbeville’s lens, fashion itself becomes a form of sacrifice.
True to form, Turbeville continues in this series to tell new narratives as she alters and recreates the same images over and over. Following her collaboration with Façade Magazine, she crafted a new series named Glass House. New photo prints emerge. Here, the borders of the images are delicately frayed, in keeping with the “soft border” photographic techniques pioneered by Diane Arbus in 1969. This method consists of dissolving the image’s inner frame by inserting hand-cut covers into cardboard used as enlarger mounts. For her part, it appears that Turbeville used fabric to create the same effect. Throughout this series, the characters evolve, images deteriorate, and overexposure leaves its mark. Here again, the contrast of the image erodes dresses and bodies, as though the photograph itself bears the scars of passing time, causing them to gradually disappear into space.
In this series, death looms in the background, but there are no apparent executioners. Together with her printer, Deborah Turbeville created an open-ended suite by superimposing two negatives, one from her series L'heure entre chien et loup, which conjures up ghosts, and one from Glass House. This superimposition resulted in her Clocktower series, which features ghostly apparitions in a haunted glasshouse. These new photographs were presented at the Clock Tower exhibition. Further consideration suggests that these specters bear an uncanny resemblance to the photographer herself, who was known for her distinctive hairstyle and thick hair. Could this be her own alter ego that haunts the fashion world, consuming and vampirizing it? Deborah Turbeville enters this off-world of fashion in the same way as Allan Gray in Vampyr, delving into the territories of phantoms and hauntings in the desolate village of Courtempierre. Throughout this exploration, she ultimately subverted the accepted norms of fashion photography. The constraints and imperatives involved in fulfilling her photographic imagination are deconstructed, leaving behind nothing but ghostlike images. In other words, the very act of creating spectrality is like killing fashion, transforming it into a ghost.
In this regard, Deborah Turbeville embraces the photographic approach, not so much as part of the fashion industry, but rather as an expression of theories of the image, such as those proposed by Philippe Dubois and Siegfried Kracauer. Both men attribute to photography a capacity to record “an out-of-time death” and to offer “a world displaced from reality...a world of the dead, in its independence from humans.” By photographing a subject, the snapshot freezes the living, condemning it to an immutable form. The subject dies precisely when the photograph is taken, yet its image remains, preserved in a space-time detached from the reality of the living. The otherworldly ambiance of Deborah Turbeville’s photographs becomes an act of execution designed to keep these fashionable forms in frozen time. The mystery behind this enigmatic approach, along with its underlying motive, has yet to be unraveled.
Before delving into this investigation, it is worth examining Turbeville’s collaboration with Japanese fashion label Comme des Garçons in 1980. Here, too, the depiction of death – or perhaps spectrality – is present. In this visual narrative, space plays a starring role. Turbeville had spotted a neglected spiral staircase in Paris’s historic Galerie Vivienne and incorporated it into the work she did with the label. Turbeville’s monochrome, eerie aesthetic meshes harmoniously with Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo’s stylistic approach. In this series, Turbeville explores a variety of framing techniques, including the use of panoramas to open the space and set the sequence. The sinuous lines of the staircase banister, both sharp and sweeping, disturb and reinforce the composition. Light and shadows evoke a cinematic shot, deconstructing the image to produce interstices from which ghost-like figures seem to emerge. Frequently used as a cinematic motif, the spiral staircase here serves as a décor to illustrate the mood of the characters, a latent threat, or a scene of ambush. This eerie atmosphere inevitably recalls a famous scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo. The filmmaker describes vertigo as a state in which all things seem to be swallowed up in a vortex of terror. In the film, Madeleine is seen rushing up the spiral staircase of a church to escape her own demons, plagued by feelings of confusion and dread. In the subtle staging of Turbeville’s series, there’s no written script, no guidelines traced in black ink on a blank page. She preferred, as always, to let the mystery float. Turbeville herself emphasized that this enigmatic, elusive atmosphere “contributes to the mood of the stories, never fully explained (...)". We are thus invited to explore this scene through our "own interpretation".
In this regard, Deborah Turbeville embraces the photographic approach, not so much as part of the fashion industry, but rather as an expression of theories of the image, such as those proposed by Philippe Dubois and Siegfried Kracauer. Both men attribute to photography a capacity to record “an out-of-time death” and to offer “a world displaced from reality...a world of the dead, in its independence from humans.” By photographing a subject, the snapshot freezes the living, condemning it to an immutable form. The subject dies precisely when the photograph is taken, yet its image remains, preserved in a space-time detached from the reality of the living. The otherworldly ambiance of Deborah Turbeville’s photographs becomes an act of execution designed to keep these fashionable forms in frozen time. The mystery behind this enigmatic approach, along with its underlying motive, has yet to be unraveled.
Before delving into this investigation, it is worth examining Turbeville’s collaboration with Japanese fashion label Comme des Garçons in 1980. Here, too, the depiction of death – or perhaps spectrality – is present. In this visual narrative, space plays a starring role. Turbeville had spotted a neglected spiral staircase in Paris’s historic Galerie Vivienne and incorporated it into the work she did with the label. Turbeville’s monochrome, eerie aesthetic meshes harmoniously with Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo’s stylistic approach. In this series, Turbeville explores a variety of framing techniques, including the use of panoramas to open the space and set the sequence. The sinuous lines of the staircase banister, both sharp and sweeping, disturb and reinforce the composition. Light and shadows evoke a cinematic shot, deconstructing the image to produce interstices from which ghost-like figures seem to emerge. Frequently used as a cinematic motif, the spiral staircase here serves as a décor to illustrate the mood of the characters, a latent threat, or a scene of ambush. This eerie atmosphere inevitably recalls a famous scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo. The filmmaker describes vertigo as a state in which all things seem to be swallowed up in a vortex of terror. In the film, Madeleine is seen rushing up the spiral staircase of a church to escape her own demons, plagued by feelings of confusion and dread. In the subtle staging of Turbeville’s series, there’s no written script, no guidelines traced in black ink on a blank page. She preferred, as always, to let the mystery float. Turbeville herself emphasized that this enigmatic, elusive atmosphere “contributes to the mood of the stories, never fully explained (...)". We are thus invited to explore this scene through our "own interpretation".
In this regard, Deborah Turbeville embraces the photographic approach, not so much as part of the fashion industry, but rather as an expression of theories of the image, such as those proposed by Philippe Dubois and Siegfried Kracauer. Both men attribute to photography a capacity to record “an out-of-time death” and to offer “a world displaced from reality...a world of the dead, in its independence from humans.” By photographing a subject, the snapshot freezes the living, condemning it to an immutable form. The subject dies precisely when the photograph is taken, yet its image remains, preserved in a space-time detached from the reality of the living. The otherworldly ambiance of Deborah Turbeville’s photographs becomes an act of execution designed to keep these fashionable forms in frozen time. The mystery behind this enigmatic approach, along with its underlying motive, has yet to be unraveled.
Before delving into this investigation, it is worth examining Turbeville’s collaboration with Japanese fashion label Comme des Garçons in 1980. Here, too, the depiction of death – or perhaps spectrality – is present. In this visual narrative, space plays a starring role. Turbeville had spotted a neglected spiral staircase in Paris’s historic Galerie Vivienne and incorporated it into the work she did with the label. Turbeville’s monochrome, eerie aesthetic meshes harmoniously with Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo’s stylistic approach. In this series, Turbeville explores a variety of framing techniques, including the use of panoramas to open the space and set the sequence. The sinuous lines of the staircase banister, both sharp and sweeping, disturb and reinforce the composition. Light and shadows evoke a cinematic shot, deconstructing the image to produce interstices from which ghost-like figures seem to emerge. Frequently used as a cinematic motif, the spiral staircase here serves as a décor to illustrate the mood of the characters, a latent threat, or a scene of ambush. This eerie atmosphere inevitably recalls a famous scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo. The filmmaker describes vertigo as a state in which all things seem to be swallowed up in a vortex of terror. In the film, Madeleine is seen rushing up the spiral staircase of a church to escape her own demons, plagued by feelings of confusion and dread. In the subtle staging of Turbeville’s series, there’s no written script, no guidelines traced in black ink on a blank page. She preferred, as always, to let the mystery float. Turbeville herself emphasized that this enigmatic, elusive atmosphere “contributes to the mood of the stories, never fully explained (...)". We are thus invited to explore this scene through our "own interpretation".
In this regard, Deborah Turbeville embraces the photographic approach, not so much as part of the fashion industry, but rather as an expression of theories of the image, such as those proposed by Philippe Dubois and Siegfried Kracauer. Both men attribute to photography a capacity to record “an out-of-time death” and to offer “a world displaced from reality...a world of the dead, in its independence from humans.” By photographing a subject, the snapshot freezes the living, condemning it to an immutable form. The subject dies precisely when the photograph is taken, yet its image remains, preserved in a space-time detached from the reality of the living. The otherworldly ambiance of Deborah Turbeville’s photographs becomes an act of execution designed to keep these fashionable forms in frozen time. The mystery behind this enigmatic approach, along with its underlying motive, has yet to be unraveled.
Before delving into this investigation, it is worth examining Turbeville’s collaboration with Japanese fashion label Comme des Garçons in 1980. Here, too, the depiction of death – or perhaps spectrality – is present. In this visual narrative, space plays a starring role. Turbeville had spotted a neglected spiral staircase in Paris’s historic Galerie Vivienne and incorporated it into the work she did with the label. Turbeville’s monochrome, eerie aesthetic meshes harmoniously with Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo’s stylistic approach. In this series, Turbeville explores a variety of framing techniques, including the use of panoramas to open the space and set the sequence. The sinuous lines of the staircase banister, both sharp and sweeping, disturb and reinforce the composition. Light and shadows evoke a cinematic shot, deconstructing the image to produce interstices from which ghost-like figures seem to emerge. Frequently used as a cinematic motif, the spiral staircase here serves as a décor to illustrate the mood of the characters, a latent threat, or a scene of ambush. This eerie atmosphere inevitably recalls a famous scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo. The filmmaker describes vertigo as a state in which all things seem to be swallowed up in a vortex of terror. In the film, Madeleine is seen rushing up the spiral staircase of a church to escape her own demons, plagued by feelings of confusion and dread. In the subtle staging of Turbeville’s series, there’s no written script, no guidelines traced in black ink on a blank page. She preferred, as always, to let the mystery float. Turbeville herself emphasized that this enigmatic, elusive atmosphere “contributes to the mood of the stories, never fully explained (...)". We are thus invited to explore this scene through our "own interpretation".
Deborah Turbeville pushed the boundaries of her laboratory process even further, producing a series of prints that form part of her L’Escalier series. She also constructs a collage in the form of film and contact sheets, irrevocably conjuring up the quest for a cinematographic narrative. The idea of a storyboard unfolds, one shot after another, like fragments of a story waiting to be deciphered. Turbeville skillfully balances close-ups – which bring out the captivating anguish in the faces of her models – with half-ensemble shots, gradually tightening in on the surrounding space. Yet one of these images seems to suggest the presence of a ghost, an ethereal entity roaming the staircase of the Galerie Vivienne. Turbeville uses the staircase as a theater of ghostly activity, a space where phantoms endlessly return, time after time. But for Turbeville, it also serves as a theater of spectrality, a place where ghosts continually return again and again. The question remains: where do they come from? And what story do they want to tell? The mystery lingers, like a veil that will probably never be lifted, leaving room for interpretation and imagination. But as we investigate further, an intriguing perspective emerges, suggesting that these mysterious ghostly apparitions could reveal the origins of their presence and the mysteries enveloping them.
MUUS Collection proudly sponsored this publication. To purchase Deborah Turbeville: Hidden Under Layers by Maeva Dubrez, please visit this website.
Deborah Turbeville pushed the boundaries of her laboratory process even further, producing a series of prints that form part of her L’Escalier series. She also constructs a collage in the form of film and contact sheets, irrevocably conjuring up the quest for a cinematographic narrative. The idea of a storyboard unfolds, one shot after another, like fragments of a story waiting to be deciphered. Turbeville skillfully balances close-ups – which bring out the captivating anguish in the faces of her models – with half-ensemble shots, gradually tightening in on the surrounding space. Yet one of these images seems to suggest the presence of a ghost, an ethereal entity roaming the staircase of the Galerie Vivienne. Turbeville uses the staircase as a theater of ghostly activity, a space where phantoms endlessly return, time after time. But for Turbeville, it also serves as a theater of spectrality, a place where ghosts continually return again and again. The question remains: where do they come from? And what story do they want to tell? The mystery lingers, like a veil that will probably never be lifted, leaving room for interpretation and imagination. But as we investigate further, an intriguing perspective emerges, suggesting that these mysterious ghostly apparitions could reveal the origins of their presence and the mysteries enveloping them.
MUUS Collection proudly sponsored this publication. To purchase Deborah Turbeville: Hidden Under Layers by Maeva Dubrez, please visit this website.
Deborah Turbeville pushed the boundaries of her laboratory process even further, producing a series of prints that form part of her L’Escalier series. She also constructs a collage in the form of film and contact sheets, irrevocably conjuring up the quest for a cinematographic narrative. The idea of a storyboard unfolds, one shot after another, like fragments of a story waiting to be deciphered. Turbeville skillfully balances close-ups – which bring out the captivating anguish in the faces of her models – with half-ensemble shots, gradually tightening in on the surrounding space. Yet one of these images seems to suggest the presence of a ghost, an ethereal entity roaming the staircase of the Galerie Vivienne. Turbeville uses the staircase as a theater of ghostly activity, a space where phantoms endlessly return, time after time. But for Turbeville, it also serves as a theater of spectrality, a place where ghosts continually return again and again. The question remains: where do they come from? And what story do they want to tell? The mystery lingers, like a veil that will probably never be lifted, leaving room for interpretation and imagination. But as we investigate further, an intriguing perspective emerges, suggesting that these mysterious ghostly apparitions could reveal the origins of their presence and the mysteries enveloping them.
MUUS Collection proudly sponsored this publication. To purchase Deborah Turbeville: Hidden Under Layers by Maeva Dubrez, please visit this website.
Deborah Turbeville pushed the boundaries of her laboratory process even further, producing a series of prints that form part of her L’Escalier series. She also constructs a collage in the form of film and contact sheets, irrevocably conjuring up the quest for a cinematographic narrative. The idea of a storyboard unfolds, one shot after another, like fragments of a story waiting to be deciphered. Turbeville skillfully balances close-ups – which bring out the captivating anguish in the faces of her models – with half-ensemble shots, gradually tightening in on the surrounding space. Yet one of these images seems to suggest the presence of a ghost, an ethereal entity roaming the staircase of the Galerie Vivienne. Turbeville uses the staircase as a theater of ghostly activity, a space where phantoms endlessly return, time after time. But for Turbeville, it also serves as a theater of spectrality, a place where ghosts continually return again and again. The question remains: where do they come from? And what story do they want to tell? The mystery lingers, like a veil that will probably never be lifted, leaving room for interpretation and imagination. But as we investigate further, an intriguing perspective emerges, suggesting that these mysterious ghostly apparitions could reveal the origins of their presence and the mysteries enveloping them.
MUUS Collection proudly sponsored this publication. To purchase Deborah Turbeville: Hidden Under Layers by Maeva Dubrez, please visit this website.
