She enters the scene from the left. Her face anchors the image at the upper left like a staple fastening a stack of paper. The profile of her body creates a vertical column on the edge of the image that accentuates its vertical orientation. Her extended arm divides the upper and lower halves. Her hand dissolves into the objects behind her outward gesture, fading into soft edges and abstract shapes. Her breast suggests surgical augmentation, capped with a small triangular pink nipple. Indiscernible shapes and reflected light balance the weight on the opposite side of the photograph.
Is she a dancer peeking out at an audience before going on stage? Is she searching for someone after a performance? Will the bold makeup preserve her facial features under intense artificial light? Is she in a theater, a nightclub, or a private room? She appears to be the sole figure isolated in a mysterious space. We wonder: “Who is she?” One of David Levinthal’s strategies is to keep the viewer “uncertain, on edge” about the possibility that the objects he photographs could be stand-ins for the “real thing.”[1]