Customer Reviews

Peter Beard: Fifty Years of Portraits

5 star:		(4)
4 star:		(0)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Peter Beard's genius stems precisely from his ability and willingness to extend the traditional concept of "portraiture" to realms heretofore untapped. His portraits, like his life, are vivid, eclectic, filled with artifacts and raw passion. Not for the timid but what art is? Think Francis Bacon with a Nikon. And Incidentally, in reply to the first reviewer who complained about this book, it's not ink he smears on his photographs, it's blood (sometimes his own). This book is a masterpiece.

Unlike another customer review, I find Beard's "reworking" of his photos to be the freshest element of his work. For those who are only comfortable with "studio" or traditional photography, a warning. Beard's work will always test your endurance, and the rewards are great if you stick it out.

Please stay in the midwest. Your milquetoast expectations in art are an insult to Beard's work, as are your criticisms.

For anyone else not looking for portraiture to skim through, the two other reviews decribe it well. The book is amazing- Peter Beard more so.

In response to Mr Zarate's mindless review I first need to give him some valuable
information. It is not red paint on Peter's photographs it is cows blood which enhance the subject he has caught on film. I seriously doubt the work of Jackson
Pollock ever entered his mind. He is an individual, an artist and perhaps it is you
that hasn't a clue.
Devon Page McCleary

The title of this book makes you think it is full of nice, full page portraits. But it is just pages from Beard's scrapbooks, and it looks like a scrap book. Torn articles and photos are pasted down, with Beard's scrawls in the corners sometimes describing what the subjects are, sometimes not. He ruins a neat photo of Mick Jagger eating a giant lollipop on a boat by smearing red paint on the photo. Beard seems to think such paint smearing on his photos (that he does more than once) will give these photos a Jackson Pollock type of value. Afraid not. This book should have been titled "Scrapbook." Then those of us who wanted nice portraits wouldn't be disappointed, and those who wanted the "wild" experience of paging through a disorganized mess that is the product of a disorganized mind, would know where to go.