Flicking through the instant dreams of Maripol’s Polaroid photography

Reliving memories can offer us a simulation of being closer to our loved ones and correspondingly help us address the ailments that come with lockdown-induced loneliness. It is in these times, in an era of distance, that being tethered to the tangible can incite a memory with greater intensity. Therefore grasping printed photos can feel more comforting than simply scrolling through the media gallery of your smartphone.

Few know the power of the physical copy of a photo more intimately than Maripol. Dubbed ‘The Queen of Polaroid’, the photographer, artist, film director, fashion designer and stylist established herself in Manhattan’s creative golden age shooting the likes of Jean-Michel Basquiat, Grace Jones, Andy Warhol, Keith Haring and Madonna to name a few. The vast majority of these images have remained unpublished for 40 years, but as a testimonial to an era which represented living life “on the edge”, she has decided to finally reveal them. We spoke to Maripol about her memories, hopes and dreams from her time in the city that never sleeps.

At the age of 20, you moved continents to come to New York City. Whilst this is a much more common reality for the twenty-year-olds of today, I imagine that at the time, to move across the world was a potentially daunting experience. How do you look back on your early moments in NYC?

Well at first, I thought I was going for three months. I never knew I was going to stay. The initial moments in New York were full of hopes and I considered myself a ‘new pioneer’! 

Whilst the early days were certainly full of excitement they also had their difficulties. We were lucky that we had an Italian grocery store close by because the owner gave us store credit with a tab (I guess because my boyfriend was Italian) which meant we could eat but not sure if that would happen now.

We ate very simply as well—you could eat cheap at the little corner diners and the food was very American. Also, Woolworth had these stores all over New York City, where you could eat well at the deli counter—simple things like chicken soup and BLT.

And you could find the best things in Woolworth. I reminisce running around the aisles, it was like a dime store. One day, I discovered these white nurse shoes and started the trend of wearing rubber shoes like they were early rock ‘n’ roll shoes.

We would also go to the museum because it was free. You could get into the Met for 25 cents. Spending time there really influenced me too.

I think that’s really how my love of making fashion pieces and photography started. I ended up having to make my own clothes and accessories out of necessity. I didn’t have money to buy clothes or to style the pictures, and I didn’t like the stuff in the stores anyway.

‘80s NYC has garnered a quasi-mythical reputation for being one of the contemporary art’s most defining creative incubators. What was your experience like embedding into the city’s artistic community?

So the ‘80s was four years after we arrived, and we had moved downtown. We used to have these art parties: I would dress in see-through black mesh with a musical instrument that used to light up when Walter Steding played the violin, he was a musician friend. People would be throwing beer out of the window and the cops would come and open the door and I would tell them… we didn’t mean to do it. We had this narrow loft and it was a big open space; just one bedroom at the end and there were no doors in the bathroom. We had our inaugural party there and I remember afterwards there were black marks from people’s boots all over the white paint that we had to repaint. It was so crowded. I remember Lou Reed asked me “please, please, show me the way out”.

We didn’t invite all these art scene people—I’m not sure how they found out! I ended up embracing the parties as a great way to create. We had punk bands playing in other lofts and everybody was there. We lived on the edge, really.

We weren’t the kind of Europeans who came to New York just to make money and buy real estate; they called them Euro Trash. We were artistic photographers and impresarios and because of that everybody in the art scene loved us and embraced us. To this day, all my friends from then are still my friends now (although lots of them have since left [NYC]).

Looking back at the types of collaboration occurring between artists in those years, there is an impression that they occurred far more organically than the collaborations we see today. Would you say that the concept of art collectiveness has become diluted at the expense of capitalism?

Completely. It felt very organic and a lot of the time, was born out of necessity and circumstance too.

For example, when you were making a film, and then you don’t have money to pay for the DP, so you’d ask your friend to fill in. Then that person forgets to put the tape in the camera and we’d been shooting for one hour in the freezing cold and would have to reshoot it because they forgot the tape! But you don’t get mad at them, instead, you exchanged your services so that you’d do the sound or the styling or the photography on their next project.

Berlin’s club culture comes with a presiding no-photos-on-the-dance-floor policy, encouraging clubbers to be free and live in the moment, but this means that capturing moments of euphoria in Berlin clubs is a tricky process. What kind of difficulties did you encounter shooting inside clubs?

My son is a DJ and he loves Berlin. I’ve been myself fairly recently. I know that there are clubs there that would have been open all night long [had it not been for COVID-19 restrictions] and I’m feeling for them right now that everything is closed.

I know that people left New York in the late ‘80s to go to Berlin but I’m not aware of the no-photos-on the-dance-floor policy. If they have that policy, it’s probably because of iPhones and social media and people want privacy—clubs can be pretty hedonistic, so I can understand that.

Personally, I didn’t really encounter any difficulties shooting in clubs. Although I know at the Mudd Club that the owner was so upset at what everyone was getting up to in the bathroom that they ended up taking the door away!

My Polaroid camera was not threatening and there weren’t that many of us to shoot in the clubs. Although at Studio 54 Ron Galella would shoot everybody so much that even Jackie Kennedy had a court case against him preventing him from getting close to her.

One of the most noticeable qualities of your photography is how comfortable these immensely revered public figures are under the gaze of your lens. Do you think it’s still possible for a photographer to develop an authentic rapport with the subject of their imagery when fame is involved?

First of all, people were not as famous when I shot their picture back then so it felt quite natural.

With that said, it’s still possible to have these moments of connection, especially with big celebrities. For example, recently I was part of a show at a museum in Melbourne’s NGV called 76 Pictures. The day before I was leaving they asked if I had a picture of Jerry Hall to add, and I just so happened to. I sent them the image file, and they added the photo to the show.

Then they invited Jerry’s daughters Georgia and Lizzy to come to the show, and we posed in front of the photo of their mother and I got to know them. Georgia said, “my mum’s moved to LA and it’d be great for you to come to our house to shoot us three,” but then a lockdown was imposed a month later.

If you go to runway shows, you see all these gawking people who know they’re going to be photographed. I don’t have much respect for the paparazzi of Hollywood or that culture of taking pictures purely for money or status. I was not capitalising on the Polaroid photos I took back then—I didn’t do anything with them for 40 years. For me, it was more as a testimony to that moment in time.

As the predominant medium of image-making has shifted from analogue methods to digital photography, do you think we have lost the ability to appreciate the process of taking a photograph?

Yes, I think so. But a lot of young people are going back to analogue because they’re fed up with digital. There is a lot of love and interest in Polaroid because of that. The kids are grabbing it because it’s an object that they can hold and appreciate.

I recently sent the link of the Vogue coverage of my Dior project to a friend of mine and he sent me a really beautiful long text, that I had to share with Dior. Saying that Polaroid photography is so beautiful because it is a physical representation of a moment in time, a memory you can hold in your hands.

I’m a digital photographer as well and honestly, I don’t do much with them. Maybe they’re going to come out later like my Polaroid photos did. 40 years later! Maybe, I should bury them in a safe and when I die I write a note that says from 2000 on!

The first Polaroid camera you ever had was a gift, which had a tremendous impact on your life. Given that we’re approaching the Christmas holidays, how do you approach the selection of a gift for your nearest and dearest’?

I have a son, and I know what he likes and the transformation he went through during Covid going from a DJ without a job and being unable to travel. He’s interested in a lot of mystical things now—kids today generally have a different vision. So I think choosing the perfect gift for people you love is about getting them something that is from the heart, that you know will mean something to them.

And if you choose something that is based on your heart and your instinct it can make a real difference to them—just like my Polaroid SX70 did for me.