Robert Mapplethorpe didn't do subtle. If you’ve spent any time looking at 20th-century photography, you know his work usually oscillates between two poles: incredibly delicate flowers and incredibly graphic depictions of the New York underground BDSM scene. But then there is Man in Polyester Suit.
It’s a photograph that, on its surface, seems almost clinical. A man stands in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. He’s cropped from the neck down and the knees up. It’s a study in textures—the scratchy, synthetic sheen of 1970s polyester against skin. But then, of course, there is the detail that made it a lightning rod for the "culture wars" of the late 80s and early 90s. The subject's penis is exposed, hanging outside the fly of the trousers.
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It’s jarring. It’s intentional. Honestly, it’s one of the most complicated images in American history because it forces you to look at race, class, and sexuality all at once, whether you're ready to or not.
The Story Behind Man in Polyester Suit
The man in the photo is Milton Moore. At the time, he was Mapplethorpe’s lover. This wasn't a random street encounter or a voyeuristic snap; it was a highly choreographed studio session. Mapplethorpe was obsessed with classical form. He looked at the human body the way a Renaissance sculptor looked at a block of marble.
Think about the suit for a second. Polyester. In the late 70s, polyester was the fabric of the working class, a symbol of "low" taste compared to the high-art world Mapplethorpe inhabited. By placing Moore—a Black man—in this specific suit and then centering the composition on his genitals, Mapplethorpe was playing with some very heavy, very loaded tropes.
He wasn't just taking a picture of a guy. He was poking at the viewer's prejudices.
The lighting is perfect. The shadows are deep. It’s technically flawless, which is part of why it’s so unsettling for some people. You can't just dismiss it as "pornography" because the formal execution is so undeniably high-art. This tension—between the "vulgar" subject matter and the "refined" technique—is exactly where Mapplethorpe lived.
Why the NEA Almost Collapsed Over This Image
You can’t talk about Man in Polyester Suit without talking about the 1989 Corcoran Gallery of Art scandal. This single image, along with a few others from Mapplethorpe’s The Perfect Moment exhibition, basically blew up the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA).
Senator Jesse Helms and other conservative lawmakers went ballistic. They saw federal tax dollars going toward what they termed "obscene" art. They didn't just want the show canceled; they wanted to gut the NEA’s funding entirely.
The Corcoran blinked. They canceled the show.
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But here’s the thing: by trying to suppress the work, they made it immortal. The "Mapplethorpe Trial" in Cincinnati (where the director of the Contemporary Arts Center was actually charged with obscenity) became a landmark moment for the First Amendment. The jury eventually acquitted the museum, deciding that the work had "serious artistic value."
Basically, the courts ruled that Mapplethorpe was an artist, not a smut peddler. But the debate didn't die there. It just shifted.
The Critique of the "Black Male" Series
While conservatives were attacking the photo from the right, many Black scholars and critics were attacking it from a completely different angle.
Look at the framing. Moore is headless. He’s anonymous. Critics like Kobena Mercer have argued that by cropping the head, Mapplethorpe "dehumanized" his Black subjects, reducing them to mere physical specimens or "fetish objects."
- Is it a celebration of the Black body?
- Or is it a colonial gaze, treating the subject like a statue in a museum?
- Does the suit represent a failed attempt at "respectability" that is literally bursting at the seams?
There isn’t a single right answer. That’s the hallmark of great art—it stays messy. Mapplethorpe himself was somewhat cagey about his intentions, often leaning into the "I just like the way it looks" defense. But you can't ignore the power dynamics at play. You've got a wealthy, white, famous photographer capturing a Black man in a way that highlights his "otherness."
Formalism vs. Reality
Mapplethorpe was a classicist. He loved the Rule of Thirds. He loved symmetry. In Man in Polyester Suit, the vertical lines of the suit jacket and the horizontal line of the belt create a grid. The central element breaks that grid.
It’s almost a joke on fashion photography. If you look at a Sears catalog from 1977, the poses are similar. The lighting is similar. But Mapplethorpe subverts the commercial "perfection" of the suit by introducing the raw reality of the body.
The suit is a costume. It’s a shell. It’s "civilization" trying to contain "nature."
People often get hung up on the shock value, but if you look at the silver gelatin print in person, the detail is staggering. You can see the weave of the cheap fabric. You can see the texture of the skin. It’s a testament to the technical mastery of the medium. Mapplethorpe used a Hasselblad 500 EL, a camera that requires a lot of intention. This wasn't a "point and shoot" moment. Every shadow was calculated.
Misconceptions About the Mapplethorpe Legacy
A lot of people think Mapplethorpe was just trying to be a provocateur. They think he wanted to start a fight with Congress.
Honestly? He probably didn't care that much about the politics. He wanted to be famous. He wanted his work to be in the same conversation as Michelangelo and Rodin. He viewed his sexual identity and his artistic identity as inseparable.
Another big misconception is that his work was "underground." By the time he died of AIDS-related complications in 1989, he was an art-world superstar. He had portraits of Andy Warhol, Patti Smith, and Carolina Herrera. Man in Polyester Suit wasn't a secret; it was a statement. It was his way of saying that the things society hides—the things we find "dirty" or "taboo"—are just as capable of being beautiful as a lily or a portrait of a socialite.
How to View the Work Today
If you’re looking to engage with Mapplethorpe’s work, don't just look at a digital thumbnail. It doesn't work. The scale and the tonal range of the physical prints are where the power lies.
The Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation keeps a very tight grip on his legacy, ensuring the work is shown in contexts that respect its artistic intent. You’ll often find Man in Polyester Suit in major collections like the Guggenheim or the Getty.
When you see it, try to ignore the "scandal" for a second. Look at the composition. Look at the way the light hits the polyester. Then, ask yourself why it still feels "dangerous" forty years later.
Is it the nudity? Probably not. We see more on the internet every day before breakfast.
Is it the juxtaposition of the cheap suit and the Black body? Probably. It’s an image that refuses to let the viewer be comfortable. It challenges the idea of what is "appropriate" for a gallery wall.
Moving Forward: Actionable Insights for Art Lovers
If you're diving into the world of Mapplethorpe or controversial photography, don't just take the surface-level "outrage" at face value.
- Study the Formalism: Look up "Silver Gelatin Process." Understanding how these photos were actually made helps you appreciate why they are considered high art regardless of the subject matter.
- Read the Counter-Arguments: Check out Kobena Mercer’s essay Reading Racial Fetishism. It’s a tough read, but it provides essential context on why some people find this specific photograph problematic for reasons that have nothing to do with "modesty."
- Compare the Series: Look at Mapplethorpe's Z Portfolio alongside his X Portfolio (the BDSM images) and Y Portfolio (the flowers). Seeing how he applies the same lighting and care to a tulip as he does to a man in a polyester suit is the key to understanding his brain.
- Visit a Permanent Collection: If you're in Los Angeles or New York, check the Getty or the Guggenheim's current rotations. Seeing a Mapplethorpe print in the flesh is a totally different experience than seeing it on a screen.
The Man in Polyester Suit remains a defining image of the 20th century because it sits at the intersection of everything we are still fighting about: who gets to be seen, how they are seen, and who gets to decide what is "art." It’s a reminder that a photograph is never just a photograph. It’s a mirror. What you see in it says as much about you as it does about the man in the suit.