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COPYRIGHT 2006 All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of The Condé Nast Publications Inc.
Jessie Mann has chiselled shoulders and dark eyes set deep in their sockets. She is twenty-five and looks pretty much the way she did when she was three and eight and twelve, and her mother, Sally Mann, was taking photographs of her that, depending on whom you asked, were either exploitative obscenities or innocence incarnate. The photographs showed her as a ferally beautiful river kid, her body crusted with mud or wreathed with night-blooming cereus or hanging naked from a hay hook. Over the past four years, she has been posing again, for a new collection of portraits by the photographer Len...
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