ATLAS: GLEN LUCHFORD

THE PHOTOGRAPHER SPEAKS ON HIS NEW EXHIBITION AT 10 CORSO COMO GALLERY, UNITING THREE DECADES OF ICONIC FASHION IMAGERY

By Morgan Becker

Glen Luchford doesn’t quite accept the idea that his work has achieved cult status. But from the early ’90s to today, he’s produced a range of images that turn paradigmatical beauty on its head—prioritizing gritty realism over airbrushed perfection, ambient light over what’d you expect on a studio set, in-between moments before anything posed. He’s shot iconic portraits of the likes of Björk and Madonna, and sustained a storied working relationship with supermodel Kate Moss. Glen is the mind behind unforgettable campaigns with Prada and Gucci; he’s covered Vogue, Vanity Fair, The Face; and his photographs have adorned the walls of the V&A, MoMA, the Getty, and the Guggenheim.

September 25 marks the opening of Glen’s first solo exhibition, at 10 Corso Como Gallery in Milan. Atlas, curated by Alessio de’ Navasques, unites three decades of the photographer’s oeuvre. Glen describes the show as a “visual orgy” of large-format prints and collages, bridging his love for film with a penchant for punk subculture and Italian futurism. Against the gallery’s high walls, you get a sense of the magic of his work—“always tense,” 10CC puts it, “caught between what has just happened and what is about to happen.” Glen himself speaks on the show with a sort of humble irreverence—but he agrees with his admirers on one point: “When I look at the whole body of work, I see the younger me, always wanting to go forward.”

MORGAN BECKER: Tell us about the process of choosing which of your many photographs went into Atlas.

GLEN LUCHFORD: It’s actually quite a soul-destroying process, because you imagine a vast library of images that hold up, then you begin the process of diluting, and what’s left is shockingly small. Once you’ve extracted the juice, you then have to contemplate what fits this particular space. With that being said, there were still so many images to leave out. That’s hard.

MB: What made 10 Corso Como feel like the right venue for the exhibition?

GL: Well, it’s a beautiful space. And when it was suggested that I might consider a show, it really appealed to my narcissism, in the, Oh, a show that’s all about me? How fabulous, sense. Then the reality of the work kicks in. I can see now why artists take years to do these shows.

MB: Atlas is meant as a “site-specific project,” rather than a traditional retrospective. What does that distinction mean to you?

GL: When I’m confronted with space I sometimes have the urge to mark it, like a dog urinating on a clean lamppost. I never look at my work and think, These pictures should be a show. Therein lies the contradiction. I’m far too neurotic to think anyone would want to spend time looking at my nonsense. And yet, when I’m offered, I can’t say no. An empty room with big white walls has a certain allure. It’s like a graffiti artist walking past a blank subway train. Some things can’t be ignored.

MB: How’d you choose the show’s title?

GL: To be honest I’m not a fan of titles. They always seem to me like trying to force a false importance into the proceedings. However, we needed one, and Atlas simply implies that if you visit the show you’ll experience the different points of my ADHD brain. All photographers need a point of view and a style, and love it or hate it, for better or worse, this is mine. It’s a little chaotic, but it’s how I see things.

MB: How does your process differ, shooting personally versus for campaigns and editorials?

GL: With an editorial you can do whatever you want, within the restrictions of the budget and your imagination, and with a campaign you’re there to service the client or designers. There’s simply no comparison. But to answer your question, my process stays the same. I work like most people, finding an idea either from myself or from the creative director, then bringing it to my team to help realize it. Production plays a huge role, especially with editorial, because it’s beg, borrow, and steal and you need very canny people behind you to pull it off.

MB: What do you miss about the industry of the early days of your career?

GL: I can’t remember, to be honest. Everyone thinks the ’90s were great and I just remember everyone moaning all the time about how terrible it was. I guess not having telephones on set was beautiful. My heart sinks when I look around and my team is looking at their phones, but that’s very hypocritical, because I do it too.

MB: What about the industry excites you most now?

GL: I love how fashion now is moving into film, because I really enjoy it and I think I’m quite good at it. It adds a whole new dimension to everything, the old adage of a girl or boy in a dress has now become something way more three-dimensional. In my 20s I invested years into watching films and still have a vast library in my head of shots and scenes, so I’m glad I finally found a use for it.

MB: Is there a photograph that feels like the show’s centerpiece?

GL: No, I don’t think so. I hate all my children just the same.

MB: Your work has achieved cult status. When you were getting started, whose work was cult in your estimations?

GL: I can’t see that, but you can say it to me all day long, and I’ll enjoy it immensely. When I was younger, the predominant icons were [Helmut] Newton, [Guy] Bourdin, [Richard] Avedon, [Irving] Penn—but they were working on a whole different level. There is nothing today that meets that staggering attention to detail. And to be fair, the industry has gone through its Industrial Revolution, its digitization, and it isn’t set up for that kind of work anymore. Which client will pay a photographer to spend one whole day on a single image, like Bourdin did? I certainly don’t know any.

MB: What did it feel like to look back at your work? Did you notice any throughlines you hadn’t thought of before?

GL: It’s not like the old days where you dust off boxes and you’re revisiting images from the past. I see these pictures digitally all the time, as they’re in my work feed. So it was just a matter of reducing and selecting what felt relevant to the space. If you push me to say, I’ve always been interested in the connection between Italian futurism and punk. Not the political fascist aspects, but this idea of abandoning the past and pushing into the future. I grew up in a post-war Britain that seemed to be struggling to hang on to its identity. Clinging onto the old empire and all its ghastly connotations. But punk just said, Fuck it, we’re done with that, old is out and quite frankly stupid. And I liked that.