In defence of Terry Richardson: How he’s just like me (and probably you too)

Last week, my favourite lady blog, Jezebel, shared a link to a photo that infamous sleaze and noted fashion photographer Terry Richardson had posted on his Tumblr account. The photo was of Richardson’s shrink. It was interesting that writer Jenna Sauers would do this, as earlier this year, she had almost single handily started an awareness campaign against Richardson’s questionable work practices, which included getting models to do things to him on camera.  As a result of Sauers’ unwavering efforts to unearth the fashion world’s dirty, but unsurprising secret, several people who’d worked with Richardson anonymously came forward with stories of him pressuring models into doing not so good things (that, more often than not, involved his peen). However, I couldn’t help but wonder if Sauers had posted the shrink picture in a mocking way or to show that Richardson was, in fact, human.

To sound cliché, I admire Richardson as an artist. He creates a simple but compelling aesthetic that’s somehow all his own. His images are often overtly sexual and leave me feeling unsettled. (Just Google him if you’re not familiar.)  This proves to me that he’s doing his job as an artist, because he makes me feel something.

But buddy is fucked up. I remember reading an article about him several years ago where he talked about how his mother would abandon him at an absurdly young age in her huge Woodstock home for days at a time. There, he would be completely alone, during thunderstorms, paralyzed with terror.

As someone who follows him on Tumblr, I was surprised to see that Richardson often posted photos of himself at his therapist’s office. He’s never hid the fact that he has issues — which  is why I strangely relate to him.

I recently made a choice to give up some vices that have been a big part of my life for a long time and that have only been delaying my growth. One of those vices includes fucked up men. Aside from a few harmless, casual and brief hook ups, I’ve been doing really well. That is, until I recently met someone who quickly made me revert back to my old habits. Basically, he had me at: “I’m really, really flawed.”

The first time I met this fellow, he confessed to me that he was an oversexed womanizer – albeit one that loves women, as opposed to the mother-issues, hating kind. (Though I’m not sure which one is worse.) Instead of setting off alarm bells, this set off wedding bells — in my daydreams, because the best part about pursuing a womanizer, is the possibility of being that one special lady who reforms him and wins his heart.  Sad stuff, right? Just like Richardson, I’m happy to admit I’m in therapy (and just like Richardson, my issues are deeply rooted in childhood).

I started reverting to the patterns that I do when I fall for messed up men.

First, I gave this fellow a moniker, Pizza Naan, which I use when I talk about him to my friends. (He’s part Italian and part Indian.) I do this as a way of dehumanizing him so that when it inevitably ends badly, I can always laugh. (Other nicknames have included Sweaty Diabetic and Standard Douche.)

Second, I started giving him power, even before we’d had a proper hangout. Half an hour before he came over for the first time, I was freaking out to a friend about how nervous I was. “I just feel completely worthless,” I blurted, surprising even myself. She was stunned and sternly told me never to let a man have that kind of power over me. Of course she was right.

Third, I don’t act like myself when I’m around him. When I recently had Pizza Naan over, I found myself giving in to his argument that people are more likable when they’re drunk, despite the fact that I’m trying very hard to live it up as a sober person. I guess it was my attempt to make him like me more. Exhausting, right?

Fourth, he’s such bad news that he inspires me to write. About him.

The thing is, Pizza Naan is not completely evil, which is why I was drawn to him in the first place. He’s likable, funny and warm. He’s upfront with who he is and like myself and Richardson, he is very clear about the fact that he has issues. He claims he tells this to all the women he gets involved with.

“All we can really do is take responsibility for our side of the street,” he told me.

He’s right. It’s up to me to decide how much power my vices have over me.

And while it’s one thing to acknowledge that, it’s quite another to act on it and try to change. Which is apparently what Pizza Naan, Terry Richardson and I need to keep working on.

Be Sociable, Share!

•