December 11–18, 1997

20 questions

Max Aguilera-Hellweg

Interview by a.d. amorosi

Photographer Max Aguilera-Hellweg has captured everyone from politicians to celebrities to street-dwellers on film, but his new book, The Sacred Heart: An Atlas of the Body Seen Through Invasive Surgery (Bulfinch), might just be some of his most breathtaking work yet. In it, he dives into the deeply magnetic realm of operating-room photography, moving voyeuristically through cranial-facial surgery, penile implants, mastectomies and eye surgery to reveal more than just flesh. Aguilera-Hellweg finds the soul and sexuality behind pulled-back skin, taut muscle and crimson tissue. His fascination has gone even further as he has given up photography to enter the field of medicine. On the phone from his home in New York, the 41-year-old pre-med student excitedly describes his work.

When did your interest in medical photography begin and are you prone to illness?

I was assigned to photograph a neurosurgeon for Savvy magazine in 1990. As a photojournalist, I left any preconceived notions at the door. It was as if Cape Canaveral had called me 15 minutes before launch and said they had a seat for me on a flight to Pluto. It was that phenomenal. As for my health, it's funny. I had a horseback riding accident right before taking those first photos. Before that, I had my tonsils out and surgery on my arm. A couple years later, when I began this whole thing, I had viral meningitis. Up until that I had no interest in medicine. If someone called me and told me tomorrow that I'd be photographing a neuro and it would make me want to become a doctor, I'd say I don't think so.

Has it changed the way you interact with the world in general?

Totally. The way I'm talking to you right now I don't take for granted. I live each day to the fullest and appreciate that I'm this phenomenal machine, [my body] is functioning.

Shooting slick celebrities and the inside of the human body are very opposite subjects. What have you learned from working with each?

I can't stand celebrities. I rarely photograph celebrities compared to my colleagues. Most of my assignments dealt with real people. In a lot of my stories, I've dealt with what I call dark, psychological subject matter. I slowly began to appreciate that the photographs were secondary. I was having tremendous experiences. It was like being Walter Mitty or Gump or Zellig. I found myself in amazing situations and the camera was just my passport. I got to spend an hour alone with an 18-year-old mass murderer in a cell. Few people would want to do such a thing, but it was a unique experience. Not that I was interested in any kind of perverse way about what this fellow had done. But to be that close to that kind of evil—to look at it eye to eye—is unique. These things have rubbed off on me. The wealth of experiences that I have had has given me a perspective on the human condition.

You mentioned perverse. Has your work been considered offensive or has anyone tried to censor it?

I use "perverse" defensively. You know I was part of the Mütter Museum [calendar] and the censoring going on with that. The current management thinks [the calendar] prurient and perverse. I was reviewed in the LA Weekly and they said that looking at my photographs was tantamount to cannibalism—I was a pornographer and that I sexualized the body. If anything, I have total respect for the human body. I'm in awe of it and its majesty. The dark, psychological subject matter I photographed—the operating rooms, everything—there's no prurient interest; it's what I was exposed to. In seeing the darkness of the world, I have seen the light.

Did you start off looking into the big questions of what and where is one's soul or sexuality?

No, but it's where I wound up. The questions I had most often were: Who am I? and Where do I reside? In my heart? In my brain? If I had my limbs amputated would I still be me?

Which photo is most dear or most painful?

None gave me pain. Not in the least. These are life-enhancing or life-saving experiences. My favorite picture is Moan Lisa—it's a woman having reconstructive cranial-facial surgery. Her genetic disorder caused the bones of her skull to grow abnormally. In the photo they're removing her face. I call it the Moan Lisa because it's the epitome of a portrait, a woman, the most classic. It goes directly to the heart of those questions of self: If you take my face off am I still me?

Have any of your subjects seen your photos?

Very few. I couldn't qualify their responses. I strived hard to get permission to be in hospitals. It's difficult, what with exclusivity laws and environments of sterilization. Some situations took years. I had to maintain the patients' anonymity. The names in the text have been fictionalized, the identities obscured.

Can you recall what the first experience was like?

Walking into the operating room was like no other experience. Looking inside the spinal cord, looking inside the body. I was so in awe. Even the word awe is tame. I was compelled to experience over and over again. I started talking myself into operations on the pretense of doing a book I had no intention of doing. The pictures were secondary to me having the experience. After 10 operations the book became an earnest actuality. From my very first surgery I knew that I wanted to be a doctor. I want to be around this for the rest of my life.

You're in pre-med at Columbia. Are you really hoping to become a doctor?

What am I doing taking organic chemistry? Nobody takes biochemistry or calculus for fun. The thing about being a photographer is that you're forever a voyeur, outside experience. When I photographed the president of the United States I thought, "I wanna be president." When I photographed wars I thought, "I wanna play war games." When I photographed doctors I thought, "I wanna put on the Band-Aid, I wanna go in there." I want the direct experience—to get truly inside.