A second earlier the tongue was still behind her teeth, and a second later it will be gone; Weber has caught Patricia Arquette in the flick between two composures, tongue pressed to her upper lip, eyes cutting to something off to her left. The platinum bob sits like a helmet, its blunt fringe scissored high on the forehead. It is the expression a portraitist waits an hour for and gets by accident. She is mid-thought, or mid-dare, and the picture keeps her there.
She holds an unlit cigar upright near her shoulder, thumb-ring catching a spark of light, a prop she has not decided whether to use. The black camisole and its thin straps read less as lingerie than as costume, downtown swagger worn with ease. Weber, who built a grammar of American glamour out of skin and attitude, lets the shoulders and collarbone carry the sensuality while the mouth keeps its mischief. Behind her a soft grey wall holds only her shadow, a second Arquette, blurred and watching.
Weber came up defining the look of the 1980s, the Calvin Klein years, when he taught fashion to breathe like Americana; by the early nineties he was turning that warmth on actors, treating a movie star as he would an Adirondack swimmer, without deference. This gelatin silver print keeps his tonal signature intact, the greys running from her lit cheek into the dim wall. It is a portrait that refuses to flatter and flatters anyway, performer and person trading places. You want to know what she said next.
A second earlier the tongue was still behind her teeth, and a second later it will be gone; Weber has caught Patricia Arquette in the flick between two composures, tongue pressed to her upper lip, eyes cutting to something off to her left. The platinum bob sits like a helmet, its blunt fringe scissored high on the forehead. It is the expression a portraitist waits an hour for and gets by accident. She is mid-thought, or mid-dare, and the picture keeps her there.
She holds an unlit cigar upright near her shoulder, thumb-ring catching a spark of light, a prop she has not decided whether to use. The black camisole and its thin straps read less as lingerie than as costume, downtown swagger worn with ease. Weber, who built a grammar of American glamour out of skin and attitude, lets the shoulders and collarbone carry the sensuality while the mouth keeps its mischief. Behind her a soft grey wall holds only her shadow, a second Arquette, blurred and watching.
Weber came up defining the look of the 1980s, the Calvin Klein years, when he taught fashion to breathe like Americana; by the early nineties he was turning that warmth on actors, treating a movie star as he would an Adirondack swimmer, without deference. This gelatin silver print keeps his tonal signature intact, the greys running from her lit cheek into the dim wall. It is a portrait that refuses to flatter and flatters anyway, performer and person trading places. You want to know what she said next.