I almost saw my breakfast again this morning when I came across this article, so I was glad to have Colin Pantall point out this antidote, which rightly talks about the "soft, luxurious, creamy air of contented image-pampering Vanity Fair ladles out so generously" and, in passing, trashes the latest Annie Leibovitz "documentary", calling it "embarrassingly emollient hagiography".
PS: Just to make this clear, I really didn't like the first article because of its main points - the supposed "changing relationship between photographer and subject" and the especially the statement that "While the early VF photographers were adept at peeling back [...] the onion layers of fame so that you know, almost, what kind of person, say, DH Lawrence was simply by looking at Nickolas Muray's photograph of him, their successors - Herb Ritts, Mario Testino, Annie Leibovitz - have buckled at the knee in the presence of their subjects."
