Dropped in to see this today, entirely unprepared for the rawness of the experience. Leibovitz’s book, upon which the exhibition is based, draws together commissioned and personal works from 1990 to 2005, including a lot of material from her family life and friendship with Susan Sontag, whose illness and death feature prominently. There’s beauty and grace here but there’s also sadness, frailty and fear, wrapped in Leibovitz’s own humble, careful and generous descriptive text. Two portraits in particular, of Leibovitz’s mother and the photographer Richard Avedon, dealt with their respective fears of aging, of beauty’s collapse and ultimately of death, candidly yet with a gentle kindness; a photo of a freshly-dug grave (I assumed Sontag’s, from the positioning) just whacked me hard in the pit of the stomach. A two-wall chronological mélange was a little too much to take in, indeed the curation as a whole seemed a little jumbled, but still Leibovitz’s directness and power shone through.