FRANCESCA WOODMAN VICTORIA MIRO LONDON, ENGLAND JUNE 19-JULY 28, 2007 FRANCESCA WOODMAN TATE MODERN LONDON, ENGLAND MAY 1, 2007-APRIL 13, 2008 Francesca Woodman's reputation precedes her. Precocious prodigy, feminist case study, tragic suicide--the critical constructions of the artist since her early death in 1981 are symptomatic of the repeated display of just a fraction of the eight hundred or so photographs she produced. Often faceless, masked, or blurred to the point of nearly total indistinction, Woodman's photographic iconography of an apparently precarious self has been interpreted as a project of almost obsessive self-representation. [ILLUSTRATION OMITTED] Two shows in London dispel the limits of this narrow focus, introducing unseen, experimental work by Woodman. Emphasizing for the first time her obvious fascination with her chosen medium, Woodman is represented as an artist engaged with pushing the limits, a photographer's photographer grappling with the conditions of photography itself. Tate Modern offers a rare opportunity to view vintage prints made between 1975 and 1980, which were gifts to a boyfriend who appears alongside her in one double portrait. The handcrafted prints' lure is undeniable, their precious detail inviting the viewer into a seductive encounter. But the spurious nature of that encounter is revealed, as time and again Woodman evades photographic capture, manipulating light as the agent of her own erasure. In one untitled image from 1977 she remains obscured in a darkened corner as a shaft of falling light fails to reach her, as if too weak to expose her image. In another from the late 1970s she holds up a fragment of mirror as if rehearsing a familiar trope of feminine representation. But rather than revealing her face, the glass shard deflects light to tear deep black and searing white cuts across the surface, barring our gaze. Although recalling the contrasting tones of Man Ray's solarized technique (confirming Woodman's connection to Surrealism and the placement of her work in the Tate's galleries dedicated to its legacy), Woodman's prints are the result of careful staging rather than darkroom trickery, introducing a performative element to her photography that is sometimes overlooked. Performance is central to the newly restored Selected Video Works (1975-78) playing in a marginal balcony space separated from the main gallery. Here, the moving image is manipulated to further explore the themes of her still photography: in one fragment we see the artist's silhouette behind a sheet of paper on which her name is written in a shaky hand. Picking delicate tears in its surface, Woodman gradually reveals glimpses of her body before finally stepping through the paper, at which point the camera pans to reveal her face masked by another photograph as if obscured by the conditions of a medium she cannot fully escape. In a second video, she strips for the camera before lying on a floor scattered with white powder. She stands, leaving only her trace as a darkened imprint on the floorboards--the cast shadow that is the focus of one of the frequently reproduced photographs in the gallery next door. Drawing attention to the indexical nature of photography, Woodman's act recalls Roland Barthes's description in Camera Lucida (1982) of photography's fugitive conditions--as if tracing with her body the necessary absence on which its representation depends. Across town at Victoria Miro a similar urge to flee was in evidence, culminating in the aptly-named Swan Song series produced in 1978 as Woodman's thesis show at Rhode Island School of Design in Providence. …