How much of a guard's authority is invested in his or her uniform? When I was a crossing guard in sixth grade, I wore a white halter belt with a stop sign fixed on its back, a helmet, and I carried a whistle for emergencies. Drivers knew I was there to do a job. I suspect the Praetorian Guard protecting the Roman Caesars wore more forbidding uniforms that let citizens know they meant business and could effectively protect the emperor (except at those times they mutinied themselves). On the other hand, if I were the Queen of England I would hate to think that those men in the silly hats and tight red jackets were my first line of defense against an angry mob.

All this is a long way around to the subject matter of Andy Freeberg's Guardians, his portraits of the often-elderly women chosen to protect the artistic heritage of Russia in St. Petersburg and Moscow museums. What does it mean that they go without uniforms and wear their comfortable street clothes and simply a nametag, often as not obscured by their shawls, jackets, or relaxed posture? You don't want museum guards to be too intimidating, but perhaps the post-Soviet government has gone too far in the opposite direction. Or it could be a canny choice on the part of museum administrators. Would you ever really want to behave in such a manner that might prompt a reprimand from your grandmother?



Andy Freeberg's earlier body of work, Sentries, depicted the front desks of major Chelsea art galleries. White was the predominant color, accented by concrete floors and the hard lines of desks and walls. Of the attendants themselves we saw seldom more than the curve of the head, with a single orchid or bromeliad providing a twisted bit of color. These were stark, geometric abstractions emphasizing the intimidation factor people complain about when entering what are, in the larger picture of things, simply high-end shops.

While working on the Sentries, Freeberg says he seldom announced himself to the attendants who often were not aware the picture was being taken. At other times he was asked to leave. Guardians has none of that furtive atmosphere. You sense that Freeberg has developed a relationship with these women. They have posed for the photographer, although they seldom smile and certainly never say "Cheese." They are the living components in Freeberg's carefully composed tableaux. If they at times appear overwhelmed by the architecture or the art, they always hold their own as individuals who have agreed to sit still in the static world of the museum.




Some people come to resemble their pets, and these pensioners at times become subtle reflections of the artworks they guard. How much of this is Freeberg's doing, how much is coincidence, and how much may be intentional on the part of the women themselves is impossible to determine. Freeberg never makes these correspondences into a gag, but they provide a humorous and human subtext to his book.



In Clifford J. Levy's brief introduction, a guard at the Tetryakov Gallery in Moscow says, "What people my age usually do is sit on their benches and discuss their illnesses and problems, and it's much better to be here than to do that." Perhaps they are minor and largely symbolic guardians of Russia's artistic heritage, but in Freeberg's photographs they become an indelible part of it as well. —Charles Dee Mitchell