HELMUT NEWTON
Afterimage by Nina Strand:
There’s a still in the film about Yves Saint Laurent—he’s in his studio at 5 Avenue Marceau, sketching a dress. I can’t remember whether I saw it in the nine-minute film about his life, shown in a small projection room at the Musée Yves Saint Laurent, or in the one projected on the wall as I stood in his studio, completely awestruck to be in the very room where he created those empowering vêtements. He draws with such ease and precision, and it’s clear how deeply he believed in the power of clothes to transform a woman.
I'm at the museum with my friend, whom I’ve known since high school. We’d just come from the Palais Galliera, where she said she could spend hours, showing me the hand-sewn garments and explaining how long they took to make, pointing out the sewing needles still resting on the late designer’s desk. I’ve never been especially interested in the history of clothing—but that’s about to change. We don’t know it yet, standing here at YSL, but by the end of the day, luck will take us to Atelier 1900 – Cygne Rose, where we’ll meet la propriétaire, who we later learn is also involved with the Musée de la Femme. There, visitors can explore the lives of 18th- and 19th-century women through antique dresses, costumes, textiles, and accessories.
Right now, in this room where Yves actually worked, I can’t help but think of Helmut Newton’s photograph of a woman standing in a Marais street, wearing Le Smoking—shot for a Vogue series. That image became iconic, inspiring a revolution in the social codes of its time. Newton and, certainly, the designer both imagined a detached, powerful, liberated woman—wearing a tuxedo once reserved solely for men.
The fact that one day in Paris—a fashion metropolis—showed me how the lineage of women’s clothing is interwoven with the history of liberation has transformed me.
On the Afterimages:
Objektiv Press celebrates 15 years this April. Founded in 2009 as a gallery in journal format, Objektiv began as a biannual publication dedicated to lens-based art. After a decade of exploring this format, we transitioned to a more book-like publication—inviting a single writer to fill the pages with their real and raw opinions on various trends within the medium.
Since 2020, we’ve invited a range of voices—photographers, critics, curators—to reflect on their relationship with photography through longer essays. Our aim is to deepen our content and continue exploring the development and role of film and photography, both within the art world and in society at large.
From Objektiv’s very first issue in 2010, we’ve asked a wide range of people to describe the image they can’t get out of their minds. Afterimages is an ekphrastic series about that one image that lingers behind your eyes—the one that won’t let go. We invite artists and writers to reflect on an image they can’t shake. This column has been part of Objektiv since the beginning, originally titled Sinnbilde in Norwegian. As the sea of images continues to swell, the series asks: which visuals linger and take root in today’s endless stream? Much like a song that plays on repeat in your head, these images stick. Whether it’s a billboard glimpse, a newspaper portrait, a family photo, or an Instagram reel—we’re drawn to those fleeting moments that stay with us.
We encounter so much each day—what does it do to us? According to Phototutorial, by 2025, humanity will take approximately 2.1 trillion photos. In the Western world, we may snap 20 photos a day, while the average person, immersed in a media-saturated environment, is likely to see between 4,000 and 10,000 images daily.
Several contributions offer fresh perspectives on these visual imprints, inviting valuable reflections on what photography can be, and how we interpret images today. Art criticism is subtly woven through many of the texts. Most people responding to our question about afterimages have found visuals that echo their thoughts or emotions. Many texts explore seeing oneself through an image—literally and metaphorically. This includes self-portraits, mirror images, or how an image can stir something deeply personal or existential. Old photographs, childhood memories, grandparents, and lost moments are recurring themes. The image becomes a vessel of time—or frozen time.
One afterimage emerged when an art historian fed a sentence from The Songs of Maldoror by Comte de Lautréamont into an image generator: “...like the random collision of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissection table!” The output included an umbrella and a sewing machine, but also an unexpected object: a medical chair, draped in what looked like a surgeon’s gown, with a metal bowl on top. It had taken the thought a step further.
Many contributors share reflections, ekphrases, and use images as gateways into something personal:
A gallery owner describes a photo she would love to own—of a drink on a plane taking her away from daily life.
An artist reflects on the unsettling image of Pogo the Clown, and how a clown can appear so evil.
An author discusses a photo of a sick Helmut Newton, which we couldn’t publish. Instead, we photographed the book where the image appeared and referenced it.
The Danish Minister of Culture recalls an image of a public servant buried under a mountain of documents.
An author reflects on a photo from Utøya, July 22nd. We did not publish the image at his request—the description alone was haunting enough: lifeless bodies.
An artist speaks of the sisters from Gaza, captured in a video still, the eldest carrying the youngest.
A photo editor remembers an image of a son setting out to sea for the first time since his father drowned—an image that continues to haunt him.
I believe this series has lasted fifteen years because we need space to talk about everything we’ve seen—and to process our impressions. It endures, too, because it is democratic. All images are welcome.
Many texts dwell on what is no longer there. Loneliness and longing often emerge—sometimes more than you might initially notice. These images act as mirrors: we don’t just see their subjects, but also our own grief, dreams, and anxieties.