I recently attended the Diane Arbus exhibit at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. I had first seen her work in the 60s and 70s. At that time, her black and white photographs of people on the edge of society startled me. I had been mesmerized by the Jewish Giant at Home with His Parents in the Bronx, who towered over his normal-sized mother and father.
     I remember being shocked by the woman in her dressing room who wore only pasties and a G-string. I wondered how she dared to expose herself to the photographer's lens—an act so bold and blatant. I had been too naïve to realize, as a stripper, she revealed herself like that for a living. Today, what we see on television makes her appear less brazen.
     Diane Arbus took pictures of transvestites before most of us even knew what the word meant. Cross-dressers, we may have called them. But we would have whispered it. And, for sure, we didn't know one.
     One of her subjects, a man with tattoos covering his body, would have been a sideshow at the State Fair or a member of a circus troupe. Now, men whose bodies are decorated with tattoos marry women like Sandra Bullock. And body art is no longer gender-specific.
     As I walked through the Arbus exhibit at the Walker last month, I was surprised by the photo of the blonde bombshell, Jayne Mansfield. In this day of breast implants, Ms. Mansfield didn't have as much to offer as she seemed to in the good old days. But, I'll bet what she had was really hers.
     Only days before, I had seen People magazine's cover photo of Pamela Anderson and what could be described as the largest surgically-enhanced breasts on the planet. In fact, they may be as large as the planet. Barely covered by the white wedding bikini she wore, Ms. Anderson made Jayne Mansfield look like a schoolmarm.
     The last pictures on display for the Arbus show were difficult to look at: institutionalized adults who would have been called mentally retarded when Diane Arbus snapped their pictures.
     All along the wall were photos of child-like women dressed as little girls. They had been shut away because society hadn't learned they might be able to attend real schools. Might be trained to work and live on their own. Might find someone to love. Who might love them back.
     I have read that Diane Arbus' photographs changed the way we look at people. She photographed subjects many consider off-limits—mankind's outcasts. "Freaks are born with their trauma," she said. "They're aristocrats." Perhaps. But why did her noblesse look so sad?
     I began this column intending to finish with something moralistic like, "What shocked us 30-some years ago wouldn't even receive a second glance today." But a friend told me I sounded judgmental. And I don't want to. As the saying goes, "We've come a long way, Baby." And that can be a good thing.
     I'll end with this instead: The best part about art is that it makes you think. Oftentimes, the thought process is painful and pervasive. But that can also be a good thing.
     Diane Arbus Revelations, Walker Art Center, through September 10th.