It takes a second to find the second dog. You're looking at the gown — that big white bow flopping over the bust like a present someone couldn't be bothered to wrap properly, the black tulle pooling out into a skirt the size of a small marquee — and you're looking, of course, at the face, which has the long-suffering patience of a creature who has been to a great many parties and enjoyed none of them. And then there's a shape in the dark netting, low down, a whole other animal crouched inside the dress, peering out through the mesh like a stowaway. That's the title doing its quiet work: Underwear. The thing under the wear. The joke is so dumb it's almost profound, which is roughly the territory Wegman has made his own.
What gets me is the dignity. Anyone can put a dog in a frock. The trick is the bareness of the shoulders above the gown, that strip of skin where dog stops and couture begins, photographed so straight you half believe in it. Wegman shot this on the 20x24 Polaroid — the room-sized camera, one of a handful ever built — so what you're looking at is the only one. No negative, no edition, just this single enormous instant print, signed at the foot, the orange bleed at the borders proof of the chemistry that made it.
I keep coming back to the hidden one. Everybody dresses up; somebody is always underneath, watching, not invited, faintly resentful. You stop laughing and feel oddly understood, which is more than most fashion photographs manage.
It takes a second to find the second dog. You're looking at the gown — that big white bow flopping over the bust like a present someone couldn't be bothered to wrap properly, the black tulle pooling out into a skirt the size of a small marquee — and you're looking, of course, at the face, which has the long-suffering patience of a creature who has been to a great many parties and enjoyed none of them. And then there's a shape in the dark netting, low down, a whole other animal crouched inside the dress, peering out through the mesh like a stowaway. That's the title doing its quiet work: Underwear. The thing under the wear. The joke is so dumb it's almost profound, which is roughly the territory Wegman has made his own.
What gets me is the dignity. Anyone can put a dog in a frock. The trick is the bareness of the shoulders above the gown, that strip of skin where dog stops and couture begins, photographed so straight you half believe in it. Wegman shot this on the 20x24 Polaroid — the room-sized camera, one of a handful ever built — so what you're looking at is the only one. No negative, no edition, just this single enormous instant print, signed at the foot, the orange bleed at the borders proof of the chemistry that made it.
I keep coming back to the hidden one. Everybody dresses up; somebody is always underneath, watching, not invited, faintly resentful. You stop laughing and feel oddly understood, which is more than most fashion photographs manage.