For decades the great Cindy Sherman has photographed herself in a dizzying variety of costumes, moods and sensibilities.
Snooty society matron? Check. Naïve ingénue? Check. Nightmare-inducing circus clown? Check again and again and again.
In all her photos the question that bleeds through is, who am I? What makes Sherman's work so essential is that it also demands the more troubling question, who are we?