In two recent posts linking to stories about two very different photographers, there may have been an implied answer to the question raised in the first and repeated in different words in the second.  Art critic Peter Schjeldahl– who has a good track record of mixing  insider knowledge, smart observation and common sense — weighs in with his own answer:

Starting in 1982, Sherman countered a popular clamor to discover “the real Cindy,” as if she were the latest shtick-wielding show-biz celebrity.

Poised between disgust and hilarity, the works in these series don’t feel like photographs, passively recording slices of reality. They feel like paintings, infused with decision throughout. Some people find cruelty in Sherman’s recent series of wealthy dames fighting losing battles with age. They’re right. But a particular cruelty pervades all her art—along with a wafting compassion that falls some degree short of reassuring.

If you are a subscriber to The New Yorker click the image above to go straight to the article.  If you are not a subscriber, you can still click through and have one of those pay per view experiences; or you can maybe still find it on a news stand nearby.  As a bonus on the website, with this blog post you can link out to some earlier items and get a bit more perspective on this remarkable photographer…