Hand-signed by the artist, with title, date, and edition number inscribed in ink on an archival label affixed to the reverse side of the mounted photograph
Edition of 7 — 76.2 x 58.4 cm / 30 x 23 in
Edition of 7 — 111.8 x 86.4 cm / 44 x 34 in
Copyright The Artist
We stand directly in front of a skier posed against a deep oxblood wall, close enough to count the stitches in the Fair Isle cap. There is no slope, no snow, only that saturated field of red from which the glossy scarlet puffer swells forward, filled to bursting. The setting is nowhere and the gear is exact: pom-pom beanie, blue gloves closed on two poles, a strip of pale-blue trouser below. Into this outfit Wegman has fitted a Weimaraner’s grey head, calm and entirely serious.
The comedy runs on precision rather than exaggeration. Human arms fill the sleeves and the gloved hands grip the poles at a plausible height, so that the composite body reads as one continuous figure until the eye reaches the dog and stalls. Everything is chosen: the red of the jacket set a shade brighter than the red behind it, the small oval badge on the shoulder, the amber eyes meeting ours with a dignity the costume ought to undo but doesn’t. The animal wears absurdity like tailoring.
Wegman has staged his Weimaraners in human roles for decades, and the pictures endure because the tone never tips into mockery; the dog is always the straight lead, never the butt. The archival pigment print carries the tonal range with real refinement, from the wet black of the nose through the soft grey muzzle to the hard sheen of the down jacket. His work sits in major museums and in the wider affection of people who know these dogs by name. Here the joke is warm, and it wears very well.
We stand directly in front of a skier posed against a deep oxblood wall, close enough to count the stitches in the Fair Isle cap. There is no slope, no snow, only that saturated field of red from which the glossy scarlet puffer swells forward, filled to bursting. The setting is nowhere and the gear is exact: pom-pom beanie, blue gloves closed on two poles, a strip of pale-blue trouser below. Into this outfit Wegman has fitted a Weimaraner’s grey head, calm and entirely serious.
The comedy runs on precision rather than exaggeration. Human arms fill the sleeves and the gloved hands grip the poles at a plausible height, so that the composite body reads as one continuous figure until the eye reaches the dog and stalls. Everything is chosen: the red of the jacket set a shade brighter than the red behind it, the small oval badge on the shoulder, the amber eyes meeting ours with a dignity the costume ought to undo but doesn’t. The animal wears absurdity like tailoring.
Wegman has staged his Weimaraners in human roles for decades, and the pictures endure because the tone never tips into mockery; the dog is always the straight lead, never the butt. The archival pigment print carries the tonal range with real refinement, from the wet black of the nose through the soft grey muzzle to the hard sheen of the down jacket. His work sits in major museums and in the wider affection of people who know these dogs by name. Here the joke is warm, and it wears very well.