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 15 — 61 x 76.2 cm / 24 x 30 in
Copyright The Artist
Two copper pom-poms cuff the front ankles, matched puffs set just above the slim grey paws, and it is these small flourishes, more than the enormous auburn mane, that name the fiction: this Weimaraner has been styled as a poodle. The detail carries the whole conceit alone. Read the anklets first, and the vast wig snaps into place as show-ring grooming, a silhouette assembled entirely for the camera.
The directed picture, fashion staged as art, is the native register here, and it fits Wegman exactly. Everything is production design: the black velvet backdrop and draped plinth that dissolve the body into shadow, the single amber eye left uncovered so the animal can meet us directly through its costume, the copper curls tumbling into a beard beneath the muzzle. He builds the character rather than catches it, and the poodle he manufactures is more convincingly a poodle than any actual one, precisely because a straight face sells it.
Since the 1970s Wegman has used his Weimaraners as deadpan players, and the comedy depends on total commitment from both sides of the wig. The archival pigment print renders the two textures against each other with almost tactile clarity: the frizz of the synthetic curls, the short sleek nap of the real coat, the wet pink of the nose. Held in major museums and adored well beyond them, this is portraiture that knows it is theatre and refuses to wink. Penny holds her pose without flinching, and the joke becomes a kind of grace.
Two copper pom-poms cuff the front ankles, matched puffs set just above the slim grey paws, and it is these small flourishes, more than the enormous auburn mane, that name the fiction: this Weimaraner has been styled as a poodle. The detail carries the whole conceit alone. Read the anklets first, and the vast wig snaps into place as show-ring grooming, a silhouette assembled entirely for the camera.
The directed picture, fashion staged as art, is the native register here, and it fits Wegman exactly. Everything is production design: the black velvet backdrop and draped plinth that dissolve the body into shadow, the single amber eye left uncovered so the animal can meet us directly through its costume, the copper curls tumbling into a beard beneath the muzzle. He builds the character rather than catches it, and the poodle he manufactures is more convincingly a poodle than any actual one, precisely because a straight face sells it.
Since the 1970s Wegman has used his Weimaraners as deadpan players, and the comedy depends on total commitment from both sides of the wig. The archival pigment print renders the two textures against each other with almost tactile clarity: the frizz of the synthetic curls, the short sleek nap of the real coat, the wet pink of the nose. Held in major museums and adored well beyond them, this is portraiture that knows it is theatre and refuses to wink. Penny holds her pose without flinching, and the joke becomes a kind of grace.