New York

Bruce Weber

Robert Miller Gallery

You don’t see many good bodies in art anymore, many healthy, powerful, heroic bodies. Good bodies are sort of taboo. Arnold Schwarzenegger is okay the way he is, but made out of marble he’d be a Nazi.

Let’s face it, the Nazis sort of queered fit and handsome for art. Expressionism, the stuff they trashed, gave shapes to the lyric “everything is beautiful in its own way.” “In its own way” is the catch phrase there. If something is beautiful not in its own way, then one way it can be beautiful is in a classical way, and that’s no longer thought beautiful.

Bruce Weber doesn’t care about this stuff. He likes What he likes, beautiful people. He’s into the romance of the body. He is not Leni Riefenstahl, nor will he be unless we bomb the hell out of somebody after the Olympics. Weber is the artist of the body beautiful, of how it got that way, of what it is and what it does.

Bodies are intimately

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