The Suffering of Carlos Nunez

Carlos Nunez is 28, lives in Los Angeles, and photographs naked women. Mostly. Sometimes he hangs around at the beach—and photographs naked women. Takes a quiet walk through the woods—and photographs naked women. Sprints down California streets with all his equipment—and photographs naked women.

The range is, let’s say, focused. The man has found his subject and committed to it with something approaching monastic devotion, which either makes him a genius or someone who stopped developing artistically around age nineteen. Probably both. The work itself is good—clean, sun-warmed, California-saturated—but you’re not watching a mind wrestling with its material. You’re watching a very lucky person do a very pleasant job with tremendous consistency.

What I find harder to explain is why, from where I’m sitting—a pseudo-web-designer refreshing RSS feeds past midnight—his existence still reads as somehow less satisfying than it looks. Maybe repetition hollows things out no matter the subject. Maybe even naked women become furniture eventually. I don’t know. I’ll probably never find out. In the meantime I’ll go back to my tabs and spend another twenty minutes with his outdoor pool series.