There is a particular thrill in meeting Cindy Sherman over FaceTime. Here is the face that has been the blank canvas for hundreds of characters over the decades, now under a radiant late September glare. The artist “meets” me from her Hamptons home, fresh from opening a survey at the Fondation Louis Vuitton in Paris and an exhibition of new photographs at Metro Pictures in New York this past week.
To have a virtual rendezvous with the artist who has continuously deconstructed and rebuilt identities is to come face to face with the emblematic expression that has delivered both the most gruesome and delectable ranges of human emotion and pierced our perceptions of truth—a concept that social media has shifted dramatically in recent years.
Every time I plunge into a rabbithole of Instagram grids or pose for an intricately-angled selfie, I ask myself, “What would Cindy Sherman think?”