Last week end, I went to see an exhibit of 56 pictures, taken from the 2,200odd Bert Stein took during what became the two last sittings Marilyn did.
And, well, I must confess I miss my words here. I had seen fac-simile of there pics over the years, in various magazines. I knew Stein was the last photographer to have caught Marilyn's appearance before she choose (but was it really a choice of hers?) to head for a better world. The pics appeared in Vogue a few days after she….
Actually, there were two sittings, since Vogue magazine's editors thought the first one were far too… underdressed for their readers. So Bert went for a second try; and after he was done with the glossy, "dressed" sitting, he had all the assistants, dressers, make-up-artists leave the scene and he remained alone with her. Alone, just Marilyn, himself, and the camera (anyone who did some naked act knows what I'm talking about: the camera is a person in this bizarre triangle... the model, the photographer, the camera…). What happened next is just… pure bliss… Marilyn was just… so sexy. Sensuality, womanhood, femaleness oozing from every inch of her skin. It's one ting to look at pictures in magazines; it's an entire different business to glare at those in real, life-size pictures.
And I was taken flabbergasted. It really struck me in the belly, like a well-aimed punch. Not because of her beauty. Not because of the neatness of the pictures. I've seen better pictures of naked women. I know of better photographers. But what we have here is the unique, exclusive, special, account of the gathering of a desire (Bert Stein's) and the need-for-love (Marilyn's). Such instants only happen once, and he was there, ready, camera at hand. And 44 years afterwards, we are still here to witness what happened between them. We may be called voyeurs. But actually we aren't. Merely witnesses of a unique moment of desire, lust and modesty (remember the camera…).
Beyond the veils, the jewels, all the artifices, I was really moved by one single detail, the most intimate detail she let Bert Stein, and all Vogue readers, see. The scar she bores right under her ribcage (she had her gall bladder removed just weeks before –and while I write this, I wonder how odd, un-star-like it is to mention Marilyn Monroe's gall bladder. Silverscreen stars have no gall bladders, do they?.). Indeed, this scar is so touching; it brings MM so close to us. She may be so sexy, so glamorous, so wanton, so stunning; she bears this scar nevertheless. A scar that brings her so close, so near to us, poor mortals….A scar that I wished (if only, she died before I was born – just an other oddity of her bene- or malevolent spell over mankind).