While boring, bullshit pearl clutching granny mags like W and Vogue distance themselves from Terry Richardson after many women have come forward with their tales of sexual assault in photo shoots with the flannel shirted shutter God, New York Magazine proves that they’re an avant-garde, First Amendment rock-star party by publishing an article defending dick-swinging (no, literally, he swings his dick into models' faces while they’re attempting to pose for him) Uncle Ter.
“Is Terry Richardson An Artist or a Predator?” the brave headline demands, as if to say, “Choose, bitch, right now because I’ve got a dick to your head and an assistant snapping pictures. Don’t make me pull the trigger.” Edgy, man, like when the lanky, John Waters without running water-esque photog had Miley Cyrus take off her clothes and straddle a wrecking ball. It just makes you think, you know?
In the interview, Richardson laments the fact that on the Internet “people can just do whatever they want, say whatever they want.” It’s not like when you have a nineteen-year-old model who can’t pay her rent strip naked and you’re free to just go to town on her while you snap pics and she puts herself into a dissociative trance to endure the humiliation. No, on the Internet, people just do whatever they want. It’s scary.
In the article, after the intrepid journalist is finished describing the size of the great Terry Richardson’s penis and listing the ingredients of the, no doubt equally legendary, sandwich the visionary had for lunch (It was on an English muffin! Subversive! Brilliant!), he gets around to mentioning the dozen or so untrustworthy, whiny chicks Richardson may or may not have assaulted on camera, taking pains to evince the fact that no one can really know what happened. It’s not like there’s any witness testimony or photographic evidence.
“People do things, and then they have regrets, and that’s also nothing to do with me,” Richardson insisted, as his interviewer, ostensibly filled almost to gushing with integrity, nodded him on, massaging the tape recorder in his sweaty palm.
Hey, if those dozens of women didn’t want Terry Richardson to slap them in the face with his highbrow, incendiary penis, they shouldn’t have dared come to his photo shoots with faces and the expectation that they’d do their jobs without having to give the photographer an impromptu hand job or participate in an orgy. I mean, what is this, a Sears catalogue?