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A. M. Homes: What does the concept of a retrospective mean to you in terms ofreevaluating where you are artistically and where you want to go?

Catherine Opie: I really feel that it’s a celebration. That a museum such as theGuggenheim wants to look at 20 years of my work just seems an incrediblecelebration. It also feels like the closing of an entire book and a chance to open upnew avenues of where I want to take the work. There have been moments whenI’ve been completely afraid of doing this show, but I think that fear is an interestingthing. And it will be thrilling to finally see the work installed together in waysthat I’ve been planning for years in my head. I have the feeling that I’m going toexperience a lot of emotion when I’m finally standing in those galleries.

AH: In many ways, I think of your work as your interior life. And it’s not justlike a little of your interior life.

CO: No, it’s a lot. And I do wonder how it will be received. Because we’re in apolitical year, and I don’t necessarily think that the world is less homophobic thanit was the early ’90s, when I was making portraits of my friends. Well, maybe itis a little less. The California Supreme Court—a Republican court—did just votethat gays and lesbians should be able to get married. And I don’t think that wouldhave happened 15 years ago.

AH: Right.

CO: At the same time, we’re so far behind. Which makes it interesting thatI’ve never been censored so far. For example, when I did that show of Polaroidsof Ron Athey at Thread Waxing Space right after Giuliani tried to censor the“Sensation” show in Brooklyn. And Robert Gober got censored in Los Angelesbecause of putting the pipe through the Virgin Mary. I’m curious to see if thatcomes up in any way with my Guggenheim show.

AH: When you think about getting censored, does it affect the making andconceptualizing of your work for you?

CO: No, actually it doesn’t. There are motifs that I’ve employed within mywork—certain kinds of art-historical strategies—that have kept me from beingcensored, I think. If you look at my Self-Portrait/Pervert [1994], the goldbackground and the way that it’s set up make it so formal and familiar—it’s a verydifferent strategy than if it was shot in my home, right after a play [S&M] party.I think taking my work out of the documentary and putting it into anotherformal language has really helped me.

AH: Is gay marriage an issue for you now that you are raising a child withsomebody? Are you married?

CO: We’re domestic partners, and we will get married, but not so much for us.For our son, Oliver. I want him, as a six-year-old boy, to be able to stand up, withour daughter, Sarah—Julie’s daughter—and watch his two moms get married.

AH: Your cover for this issue of Modern Painters, which is their election issue,revisits a piece that you did a long time ago, right?

CO: Yeah. Although I’m still doing Polaroids, like a funny piece I recentlydid of Barack and Hillary debating each other. But I only have two cases ofPolaroids left. And I predominantly use them for the TV, because I think the ideaof the manipulated media, through the unmanipulative ability of Polaroid, is areally nice thing to bring together.

AH: In terms of the state of our state—this being an election year—what areyour thoughts?

CO: Gosh, I’m terrified. Hopeful, but with pessimism. If Barack wins, Ithink it’s going to be really healing for the country in relationship to the Europeanalliance. And we need that: we’ve become a rogue country, and we’re broke.

AH: It’s amazing to me, for a democratic country, how not governedby the people we are at this point.

CO: That’s what’s driven me crazy over the past eight years: thistouting of democracy. That’s what I look at in the “In and Around Home”series [2005]—and by doing Purple Finger, and works like that, withthe Polaroids. Because how can we say that we’re bringing democracy toa country when the ability for us to run a democracy at home has beenobliterated?

AH: As a woman artist, and as a lesbian artist, can you talk abouthow your experience is different from what you perceive as the averagewhite guy?

CO: I’ve been incredibly fortunate—people follow what I do.There’s only a few areas in my life where I feel pissed off about being awoman artist—for example, in publication. In spite of the amount ofwork that I’ve made, there’s no solid history of monographs behind thosebodies of work. If I were a male artist, that would be different. But Iactually feel enormously fortunate—how many women at 47 years oldhave a midcareer retrospective at the Guggenheim?

AH: What’s interesting is that the show that’s up there now is theLouise Bourgeois survey. And you’re following that at a time whenmajor museum shows for women are still rare.

CO: I was so excited to find out that the Bourgeois show wouldstill be up while I was installing mine. It’s beyond cool. And maybe itsends a message to other museums.

AH: So much of your early work was from the point of view of anoutsider. And now you’re becoming an insider. How does one reconcilethat shift? How does that affect your sense of self? I think of myself assomeone who, no matter what, is perpetually on the outside.

CO: I think that’s a good place to be, because the fault of a lot ofartists is that they get comfortable with who they are in relationship towhat they make. And I’m not that comfortable. There are certain motifsthat I follow throughout my work, no doubt. Since the icehouses andsurfers, I’m gonna remain fascinated, for some time, until I figure outthis horizontal, segmented, panoramic landscape. But I hope that Ialways follow what I’m truly interested in. ’Cause I don’t really seephotographs that look like mine anywhere else.

AH: For all of us, obviously, our work is very personal. But I lookat yours and your exploration of gender and of S&M culture, as you’vegrown up and aged. And now, as a parent, those interests shift. I can’tdecide if one can be a parent and still be into S&M. [Laughs]

CO: I’ve been thinking about that. Because my best friend has twokids, and it’s still a very big part of her life. After I had Oliver, we wentout to her house where she has a chicken coop that’s [an S&M] playroom.And I was making some really cute woman ride around on atricycle, while I was hitting her with a cat o’nine. And it just seemed soodd to have somebody ride around on a tricycle.

Then again, the young daughter of good friends of mine, RenéePetropolis and Roger White, came over, and we were going through theproofs for the Guggenheim catalogue. I had once photographed the girl:she’s part of the children’s portrait. We got to the self-portrait of thecutting on my chest, and I explained to her why it was important for meto make this piece. And she got it. Then she went home and told herparents that she had this incredible experience of me explaining thephotograph to her. The next day, at a cocktail party, her father walkedup to me and said, “That was the greatest gift you could have ever givenmy daughter.”

AH: That’s what’s so interesting about your photographs: theimportance of honesty—to your work and to your life. I think that’swhat people have to deal with when they look at the work. Some peoplewould say it’s in-your-face, but I don’t think it is. It’s about clarity andputting something forward that is very direct and very available.

CO: I was thinking, actually, about the portrait of your daughterthat I did in 2006. That sequence of images of her dancing for me.How is it to live with that piece?

AH: It’s so great. [Laughs]

CO: Because a lot of the portraits that I’ve done are almost toohonest to live with, I’ve found. Recently, I did a commission of this fairlywealthy family down in Orange County. And when I showed thedaughter the portrait, she couldn’t even speak. I just said: “Well, take ithome with your family and sit with it.” I could tell that it was just toohonest for her. But I can’t do anything else. I’ve tried—for magazinesand editorial stuff. But my work always comes out being a bit too real.And I think that it’s this realness that interests me in photography—it’swhy I’ve maintained the documentary status. Even though I may playwith that definition, I want it to be about a real realness, and one thatalso reflects history, to an extent.

AH: It’s psychological realism. Which is, in some ways, the mostdifficult thing.

CO: Reality’s become so conflicted by the idea of reality television.What is real, at this point? How do we redefine it? Who begins to act orperform in public, or in front of a camera, in a specific way that is only aperformance of real? I try to take apart language in these different ways.And often my taking apart language happens through my makingimages of it. I’m doing the same thing with masculinity right now, withmy high school football-player images. They’re the largest prints I’veever made: 48 by 64 inches. And they’re shot during football games;I’m calling them “football landscapes.” Because I’m really interested increating an iconic definition, like I did with the “American Cities”series [begun in 1997]. And, for me, after cities, the next place to go forthe American landscape is the football field. It’s the iconic place wherewe hold so many of our dreams—so much of our American identity.Especially young male Americans. But I didn’t want to shoot collegefootball or pro—it was about the high school football player for me. It’salso about the fact that I have a six-year-old son. Who do we expect oursons to be?

AH: Right, right.

CO: When you look at the portraits of boys that I made in the pastyear, you can’t help but think of them as soldiers. The other day, I waswatching Generation Kill on HBO, because I’m a popular-culture girl.And then I went online to these Flickr photo sites, where I looked atimages by young soldiers who are documenting the war. They’re theimages we don’t get to see. And I was looking at a photograph by thisguy, Jake, taken before he went to war. And it’s Jake Wood, the footballplayer. And it’s exactly what I see in the faces of these kids—the oneswho don’t want to be football players, but also ones who perform beinga football player—when they come before my camera. They’re sweet;they’re very real.

AH: That’s what’s so interesting about high school kids—thatthey’re on the cusp of something. Their bodies are still very much inprogress.

CO: From freshman to senior is a totally different thing. I lovelooking at the little freshman-sophomore football players, compared tothe junior-seniors. It’s such a beautiful thing to have unfold before you.So I don’t take it lightly that I have permission to be there. I’m not makingfun of these boys. I’m not interested in making fun of anybody, ever.

AH: I think that’s a big piece of it: nothing you do compromisesthe integrity of the person in front of your camera. Even if it presentsthem in ways that aren’t beautiful, in the classical sense, or in ways theymight not wish to be seen, it’s never degrading.

CO: I just think we’re humiliated too much on a general basis, asa culture. There’s too many possibilities for humiliation.

AH: What does the word transgressive mean to you?

CO: I think that whenever something is transgressive, automatically,five years from now, it’s just not transgressive anymore. It’s oneof those historical terms. As history gets revealed, each person’sthreshold for what is transgressive gets pushed back a little bit further.I think, in a certain way, it’s transgressive just to try to live your lifethe way you actually want to live it. [Laughs]

AH: And what about pornography?

CO: I like pornography. But being a mom, I’m horrified by childpornography. I have never done a naked, full-frontal photograph ofOliver. I’ve probably self-censored revealing something like that to theworld. Although I’m glad that Sally Mann did what she did. But it’s aninteresting thing when it comes to children. I’m not against it at all, butI know, politically and personally, what making nude photographs ofmy son would mean on a public level. And I’m not interested in goinginto that territory. Would that be transgressive of me? I don’t think itwould be transgressive—I think it would be stupid.

AH: What’s interesting is that somebody would deem a nudephotograph of a child pornographic.

CO: It becomes something that people make dirty. Theywouldn’t just think like: Oh, look at that beautiful photograph of herson nude, the most natural thing in the world. I saw what happenedto Sally Mann. I saw how she went back to the landscape. And if Iwas a writer, I would talk about the fact that Sally Mann had to gofrom that work to a return to landscape.

AH: But it’s also interesting that part of that shift was theprogression of her children. They got older and either didn’t want tobe photographed or, in the case of one, really did want to be photographed.Which, again, is a fascinating psychological thing. Hersubject matter changed. In some ways, she went as far as she could go.But it will be interesting to see what happens next. She sent me, along time ago, this huge picture of her and her daughters, naked ona rock, peeing.

CO: That sounds beautiful.

AH: She had written on it: Photo not washed. Will probably turna fabulous piss yellow. It’s a wild picture of them, in a very celebratorystance. Any new work?

CO: Yes, and I have a new author that I’m playing off: RebeccaSolnit. I really like how she writes about landscapes. And that’s whatI’m thinking about: landscapes. I recently did a body of work inAlaska called “The Blue of Distance,” which refers to her writings.

AH: What is it about her evocation of distance that catches you?

CO: It’s the way that she describes landscape in terms of thehorizon line, which is similar to what I was playing with in my icehousesand Alaska images. She’s able to talk about distance in termsof a spatial relationship. Often, people don’t talk about the horizon inrelationship to space; they talk about it more metaphorically. It’sespecially pertinent to these time-based pieces that I’m playing withnow. Instead of being one-off shots that I put together as a horizon,I’m creating these works in direct relationship to time. Generally, Ithink I’m influenced by what’s surrounding me, or what’s in the media.Going off to Alaska last summer, I had no anticipation of making abody of work that would become an exhibition. It was supposed tobe a theater piece at this teeny, lovely theater in Juneau calledPerseverance. I was going to make a series of landscapes, and thentry to find a writer to work with, who in a Rebecca Solnit kind of waywould make a very esoteric play in relationship to everything—fromqueer politics to getting stoned to the beach. These shifting landscapesof light that I did in sequence were supposed to pass behind the actors.But then the theater fell apart the week I was there photographing theart—both directors quit—and I took 1,200 photographs in 10 days.

AH: In Alaska?

CO: Yes, I photographed eight hours a day. I started sequencingpassing moments on a boat, using these subtle shifts within thelandscape to create this metaphor for ideas of time and nature. Onepiece is called “The Edge of Time,” which is a sequence of nine photographsthat follows a cliff edge. It’s a very confusing piece to look atbecause your eye goes back and forth. You know that you’ve just seen alittle bit of this landscape in the previous photograph. But, then,perspectivally, it doesn’t match up. As each segment gets revealed, moreof a new segment gets revealed. Because it’s not a true panoramic; it’soptically confusing. I think that works well metaphorically, and they’refun to make. I actually started enjoying making photographs againlast year. I was tired of it, and I finally found my footing. I’m interestedagain. [Laughs] Which is a good thing, seeing as that’s what I do. 

Catherine Opie: American Photographer” is on view at the Guggenheim Museum, New York, through Jan. 7. 

"Photo Op" originally appeared in the October 2008 issue of Modern Painters. For a complete list of articles from this issue available on ARTINFO, see Modern Painters' October 2008 Table of Contents.