No one can accuse David LaChapelle, a hot fashion and celebrity photographer, of being sleaze-challenged. His lurid color photographs, sort of Dali-filtered-through-Warhol with a lot of Diane Arbus thrown in, were mostly done on assignment, for Details, Paris Vogue and The New York Times Magazine, among other publications. They involve kinky sex, junk foodies, steroid musclemen, surreal daydreams and, above all, the campily maimed.
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