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Following Diane Keaton's recent passing at the age of seventy-nine, many tributes have rightly celebrated her exceptional talent as an actress, recognized for her vibrant vulnerability and graceful, sometimes flustered, portrayals. However, her artistic contributions extended beyond the stage and screen. Keaton was also a candid memoirist, a skilled designer, a pioneer of androgynous fashion, and a devoted single mother. Among these varied pursuits, her substantial impact on photography, a medium she cherished throughout her life, often receives less attention.
Some time ago, a discerning friend introduced me to Keaton's inaugural photography collection, Reservations, published in 1980 by Knopf, a work that has since become a personal treasure. Like all truly remarkable photobooks, it seems to possess an almost mystical quality. Encased in a striking flamingo-pink cover, this monograph showcases forty-five monochromatic images of desolate hotel lobbies and grand banquet halls across the United States. These photographs were captured during the 1970s, likely while Keaton toured the country to promote her acclaimed New Hollywood films such as The Godfather, Annie Hall, Looking for Mr. Goodbar, and Reds, which began production in 1979.
When attempting to articulate the raw authenticity of Keaton’s acting, critics frequently resort to the common phrase “lived-in.” Her photographic compositions, by contrast, present a stark divergence. These images of uninhabited, starkly observed interiors reveal a photographer with a “powerful, direct vision and an incisive, unwavering gaze,” as eloquently stated in the book’s jacket description. The publication conspicuously omits any mention of her acting career, and rightly so, as Reservations transcends mere celebrity indulgence. It stands as a profound exploration of American desolation, anticipating the thematic landscapes later explored by Todd Hido to great acclaim. Keaton masterfully uncovers a subtle, poignant humor in the awkwardly placed furnishings, artificial greenery, ornate wallpapers, ersatz backgrounds, peculiar lighting fixtures, and the conspicuous wiring trailing down pristine walls. Each scene is captured with a deadpan objectivity—a term first used in the 1920s to describe the comedic style of Buster Keaton—and illuminated by a harsh flash that imbues the surfaces with an ethereal quality.
Undoubtedly, the unmistakable presence of the other Diane—Arbus—resonates within the unsettling directness of these visual narratives. Keaton, like Arbus, favored Rolleiflex cameras, though she was likely less particular about her choice of film. One photograph, particularly reminiscent of Arbus’s style, features two rather cheerless Christmas trees positioned atop a pair of tables at the Ambassador Hotel, a historical landmark whose demolition Keaton passionately opposed as a member of the Los Angeles Conservancy. The subsequent fate of several of these hotels, either succumbing to demolition or transferring to international ownership, imbues her photographs with a poignant sense of elegy. This sentiment is perhaps most vividly expressed in an image depicting a phalanx of stacked chairs within the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria, or a photograph of a solitary dining table, adrift in an expanse of plush carpeting at what was then the Fontainebleau Hilton in Miami Beach.
Keaton's engagement with photography spanned a broad spectrum of interests. In the late 1970s, she forged a friendship with curator and writer Marvin Heiferman, who was then associated with the Castelli Graphics gallery in New York. Their collaboration yielded several significant books and exhibitions, including Still Life: Hollywood Photographs (1983), Local News: Tabloid Pictures from the Los Angeles Herald Express (1999), and Bill Wood’s Business (2008), the latter showcasing the work of a Fort Worth studio photographer whose ten thousand negatives had resided in Keaton’s personal archive for two decades.
“She possessed an extraordinary insight into images,” Heiferman recounted. “We would delve into archives, sharing laughter and pointing out fascinating discoveries, exclaiming, ‘Wow, isn’t this peculiar?’” He noted that her refined taste played a pivotal role in sparking renewed interest in commercial and vernacular photography. Keaton was an ardent collector and a frequent visitor to flea markets on both coasts. Her ultimate dream, as she once shared in an interview, was to acquire every photography book ever published. “My aspiration is to acquire an old warehouse, convert it into an expansive library filled with image-centric books, and make it accessible to the public.”
In 2007, Larry McMurtry, a friend of Keaton’s, penned an essay in The New York Review of Books, drawing attention to her writings on photography. In a subsequent letter to the editor, Janet Malcolm, of all people, gently admonished the Lonesome Dove author for neglecting to acknowledge Keaton’s own photographic endeavors. Malcolm lauded the “haunting sorrow” present in her Reservations images, asserting that they “solidified her standing in contemporary photography” and “serve as a compelling counterpart to Keaton’s illustrious acting career.” While Diane Keaton’s definitive position within the photographic canon remains a subject of discussion, it is a prospect she would likely embrace with indifference. Though long out of print, Reservations and her other photographic works persist as enduring testaments to the ceaseless creativity and unbridled spirit of an artist who embraced numerous identities throughout her life, all of them authentically her own.



