j a m i l a

Photographer: Peter Lindbergh

Born November 23, 1944 in Lissa - currently lives in Paris, New York, Arles

Since the 1980s, one of the most-discussed interpreters of fashion internationally. Photographs in black-and-white using a pictorial language that takes its lead from early German cinema and from the free dance of the 1920s.

Childhood in Duisburg (North Rhine-Westphalia). Employed as a window dresser for the Karstadt and Horten department stores in Duisburg. At 18, he moved to Switzerland. Eight months later, he went from Lucerne to Berlin. Evening courses at the Academy of Fine Arts. Hitchhiked to Arles in the footsteps of his idol, Vincent van Gogh. Several months later he continued through Spain and Morocco, a journey that took him a period of two years. Return to Germany. Studied Free Painting at the College of Art in Krefeld (North Rhine-Westphalia). In 1969, while still a student, first exhibition of his work at the renowned Galerie Denise René/Hans Mayer. Concept Art marked his last period of interest in art. In 1971 he turned his attention to photography. Worked for two years as assistant to Düsseldorf-based photographer Hans Lux. As of 1973, freelance photographer in Düsseldorf. In 1978, a much- admired fashion feature in Stern magazine marked the starting point of his international career as a fashion photographer. Moved to Paris the same year. Initially work for Vogue, first the Italian version, then the English, French and German and American ones, later for Marie-Claire, New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Allure and Rolling Stone. In 1992 he signed a four-year contract with the American Harper’s Bazaar in New York. At the same time he handled campaigns for Giorgio Armani, Jil Sander, Prada, Donna Karan, Calvin Klein. Portraits of Catherine Deneuve, Mick Jagger, Charlotte Rampling, Nastassja Kinski, Tina Turner, John Travolta, Madonna, Sharon Stone, John Malkovich and many others.

WS: http://www.peterlindbergh.com

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Conversations with Jesus

I’ve had a few conversations with Jesus -
or at least, with his soul;
Now and then he comes to remind me of this “quest,”
and, ensuing,
my obstinance

One.
which apparently was so stunting at first
that he couldn’t address me,
instead referring to that
face in the window of
the apartment,
all the others in the room,
even that little troll in the corner
(no doubt drawn by my temper).

Two.
No sooner did I acknowledge, I am your pen…
I believe,
and he confessed to me,
I was sent here to ask you that.

Three.
I dreamt I sprouted gigantic angel wings
and he said to me,
You now can speak the language.

Four.
The heart & blood:
God wants peace.
Read, teach, love.

My life is my book.
Not everyone is content with that,

nor the motions of human suffering,
which I expected him to transcend.

He noted my authority and its channel,
pointing at my fastidious tongue
which I refused to bite.
I laughed in his face,

he questioned my humility,

and observed,
Your awakening is going to be, interesting.

It was.

Five.
I swung opened the door.
I invested my guilt.
And in a brilliant play of reversed roles,
I grabbed my knife and began to pierce.

Blood, again?
In my lucidity I noted my misjudgment,
finding myself bent-knees on the ground.

Why must I be down here?
Can’t we just talk about this?

Leave this to me,
he advised, floating above.

Jesus is not much of a conversationalist.