If you follow art at all you already know that Cindy Sherman takes 
pictures only of herself, but she always insists she doesn’t make 
self-portraits. True enough—it would be more accurate to say that for 
the past 35 years, she’s been producing a portrait of her times as they 
flow through the finely tuned instrument of her baroque psyche. Again 
and again in her spine-tingling retrospective at the Museum of Modern 
Art (MoMA) in New York City—it runs there from Feb. 26 to June 11, then 
travels to San Francisco, Minneapolis and Dallas—you also discover she’s
 made a portrait of you.
Growing up in a New York suburb, Sherman loved to play dress-up. In 
1977, when she was 23 and just out of Buffalo State College, she started
 playing it with a vengeance. For three years, she photographed herself 
in costumes, wigs and settings that drew from the deep pool of movie 
images in which we’re all immersed from childhood. In what eventually 
grew to a series of 70 “Untitled Film Stills,” she took on the role of 
career girl, housewife, siren and woman on the verge of a nervous 
breakdown. Six years before Woody Allen got there, she became the Zelig 
of the collective unconscious, the heroine with a thousand faces.