Thursday, August 25, 2016
“…the continuum between art and life…”
I can’t imagine a more suitable book for a Newfoundland road trip than Thoughts on Driving to Venus: Christopher Pratt’s Car Books (The Porcupine’s Quill, 2015), which I picked up earlier this month at The Rooms in St. John’s, where the author was born. In 1997, Pratt decided to record “a stream of consciousness series of words and one-liners responsive to the things flashing by” (1). He made these notes while traveling around the island with his second wife in search of source material for his art. I paced myself, reading a bit at a time between lecture preparations; as Pratt writes, “Working holiday! Aren’t they all?” (2). Heading north from the capital city to the Viking settlement in L’Anse aux Meadows over 1,000 kilometres away, then back south equally far to catch a ferry to Nova Scotia, I glimpsed stunning scenery through my peripheral vision—as in the photos shown here.
And now for a few more observations about reading this book in situ. When the hassles of traveling echoed those of a famous artist (needing gas, caffeine, a restroom, etc.), I kidded myself into seeing them as charmed. Mundane details suddenly seemed worthy of recording for the sake of posterity. For example, my inlaws, my husband, and I ramped up our efforts to watch for moose on a ‘moosey lookin’ night’ after I read that Pratt spotted 65 of them in a single day. I don’t typically share personal details in blog posts unless they relate directly to the subject matter at hand, but Pratt made me rethink this approach. Would it interest my blog readers to learn that I sometimes write posts from a hotel bathroom in the wee hours of the night to avoid waking my husband so he can be rested to take photos the next day? Maybe yes, maybe no. A writer must decide what to edit out, much like an artist, and I strive to be as economical in writing as I am in traveling. What Pratt does so well is reveal the continuum between art and life, making it all seem valuable.
As a result, I was surprised to read Pratt’s revelation that his wife feels nothing has meaning. In a sense, this perspective is reinforced by his lack of an intended audience (he wrote these entries for himself, so there is only occasional introspection); the absence of a narrative arc; and the fact that the entries are excerpted, by curator Tom Smart. Evidently, publishing the entirety of the journals would have been unrealistic, as Pratt writes, “…I have enough notes and ideas for several lifetimes…” (4). At the same time, the fact that he revisits areas, including Burgeo Road—where he started the first car book—creates a Vonnegutian Slaughterhouse-Five effect of the human condition consisting of a series of relived moments. This interpretation was probably spurred on by the fact that Pratt described himself as “King of the Curmudgeons” (5).
Pratt aficionados will appreciate that the artist addresses his work throughout the book, albeit briefly in each instance. He lists artistic influences, describes his technique, comments on the pressures of being a commercial artist, reveals insecurity about his talent, and expresses concern about his productivity in his senior years.
Here’s to many more trips around the sun for the artist.
Gros Morne (1st and 2nd images), Signal Hill, St. John's (3rd image)
(1) p. 103
(2) p. 68
(3) p. 27
(4) p. 112
(5) p. 146
Sunday, July 10, 2016
“…the value of practice-led research…”
Kudos to the Baltimore Museum of Art and curator Kristen Hileman for highlighting the research process in a unique fashion. They have done so in relation to Sarah Oppenheimer’s permanent installation at the BMA.
As context, the New York-based artist worked directly with and in the museum’s architecture using materials associated with contemporary buildings, like reflective glass. My first impression of the commissioned works, W-120301 (2012) and P-010100 (2012), was that they seem to respond to qualities of mid-20th Century styles like hard edge painting and minimalist sculpture. I appreciated the museum’s use of the term ‘intervention’ to describe her work because W-120301 looked at home in a stealthy kind of way. For example, as I moved around the intervening work, the light shifted and cool blacks became warm blacks and vice versa, complementing Ad Reinhardt’s nearby, mostly black-on-black Abstract Painting No. 19 (1954).
Around the corner from W-120301—past an exhibition space that currently features a photo show called, On Paper: Picturing Painting—visitors can view Oppenheimer’s preparatory work, namely architectural drawings and models. Also in the room is an assortment of texts that informed her work. From a librarian’s perspective, it’s fantastic to see the research of texts being given equal attention as other preparatory work. The reason I say that is that convincing studio students of the value of practice-led research is an ongoing challenge. I tell students that taking the time to research ideas for studio projects can prevent redundancy (read: avoid the production of work similar to existing work), lead to more nuanced work, and give them a broader context for speaking about their practice. All in all, it’s a tough sell and a tough slog.
The BMA’s presentation of the texts in question is noteworthy. A sign inside a translucent stand reads, “It is almost impossible to identify what drives the work of a single artist. [paragraph break] Here you will find a selection of books that have influenced Sarah Oppenheimer’s thinking and other books related to ideas in her work.” Stools beneath the table holding the books encourage perusal of the texts, while stickers discourage the removal of the texts.
For those interested in Oppenheimer’s work but who aren’t in a position to visit the BMA in person, here is a modest bibliography that captures the full assortment. (To access full citations, please see a source like WorldCat).
• Bergson, Henri. Matter and Memory.
• Eisenman, Peter, Giuseppe Terragni, and Manfredo Tafuri. Giuseppe Terragni: Transformations, Decompositions, Critiques.
• Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Space.
• Lynch, Kevin. The Image of the City.
• Peltomäki, Kirsi. Situation Aesthetics: The Work of Michael Asher.
• Rossi, Aldo. The Architecture of the City.
Additionally, there is a portfolio of articles described on the cover as excerpts from the artist’s research into cognitive science. The articles within are:
• Radvansky, Gabriel A., Sabine A. Krawietz, and Andrea K. Tamplin. “Walking through Doorways Causes Forgetting: Further Explorations.” The Quarterly Journal of Experimental Psychology 64.8 (2011): 1632-45.
• Sinai, Michael J., Teng Leng Ooi, and Zijiang J. He. “Terrain Influences: The Accurate Judgment of Distance.” Nature 395(6701) (1998): 497-500.
• Warren, William H. Jr., and Suzanne Whang. “Visual Guidance of Walking through Apertures: Body Scaled Information for Affordances.” Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance 13.3 (1987): 371-83.
Without spending much time with the texts, a visitor can gain a greater appreciation of Oppenheimer's work. For instance, by reading the titles alone, I can now add situationism to the mid-century movements that pertain to her work and see her work as purposefully jarring.
Next to the books and articles, there is a mobile device containing interviews, such as a Q&A with the artist. In it, she speaks about wanting to inject a quality of the unknown in her work. With ambiguous work, a text-based entry point is always appreciated, and the reading area functions in this way. The reading area, in other words, creates balance by hinting at the known.
A few years ago, I developed a project proposal for artist files to be collected and preserved along with a selection of books (one from each artist who contributed a file on his or her own work). The original title was to have been, “Artist’s Advisory” as a riff on the library term of reader’s advisory—effectively, ‘if you like author X, try reading author Y.’ Multiple entry points would enable the user to encounter new authors or new artists, meaning that each file or book would go from being an end in itself to a means to an end. This project tested the Derridean notion of the end of the book. It sided with dancer-choreographer Twyla Tharp, who writes in The Creative Habit that the person you will become in five years depends on two factors, "the people you meet and the books you read" (p. 110). And it also sided with curator Hans Ulrich Obrist, who takes an even firmer stance by insisting that encounters with books can have a bigger impact than encounters with people (p. 202).
Though I was fortunate to partner with a gallery, I wasn’t fortunate enough to witness my project take flight. The BMA’s reading area, therefore, was like delayed gratification.
Obrist, Hans Ulrich, and April E. Lamm. Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Curating but Were Afraid to Ask. Berlin: Sternberg Press, 2011.
Tharp, Twyla, and Mark Reiter. The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life : a Practical Guide, 1st ed. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2006.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
“I never knew why I was so angry.” ~ Robert Houle
On February 25, artist Robert Houle engaged in a powerful dialogue with his friend and sometimes collaborator, Barry Ace, at Carleton University Art Gallery on Algonquin territory. Together, they have faced such challenges as needing an alternate venue because their work was considered demonic (shout out to SAW Gallery, who stepped up).
Ace described Houle as “an incredible writer” and introduced each of his images with an excerpt of his writing. Houle, in turn, has found inspiration in texts. For example, a former girlfriend sent him thirteen poems while he was studying at McGill University, which spurred on a series of abstract paintings later exhibited at the Royal Ontario Museum. Also, the Anishinaabe Saulteaux artist decided to address the residential school system as a result of reading Ruth Teichroeb’s Flowers on My Grave: How an Ojibwa Boy’s Death Helped Break the Silence on Child Abuse (HarperCollins, 1997). The book is about the Sandy Bay residential school system, to which Houle himself was subjected for over a decade (fortunately, Houle was able to return home on week-ends, preserving his culture in the process). The author contextualized the suicide of 12-year-old Lester Desjarlais. Houle, who knew many of the people in the book, decided, “I wanted to express it. It [art] was the only way I could let it go.”
His family members are also survivors, with his father having been one of many First Nations children malnourished systematically. When he showed the works about the residential school system to his family, they were deeply affected, to the extent that the university where the works were being shown offered access to psychologists, but they explained that they took comfort in family.
Family has played an important role in his artmaking. When Houle was a young artist, his mother said, “Don’t paint anything you don’t know.” That advice continues to resonate with him.
Houle didn’t participate in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, because he feels that reconciliation is a “Christian ethos.” However, he did note that the commission is “part of our collective healing as Indigenous peoples in Canada.” History doesn’t always reveal pleasantries, but it helps him understand who he is, he says. And that sentiment can obviously be scaled to the nation.
Now, Houle says, “I’m not angry [anymore].” At the same time, he stressed the importance of understanding that the residential school system constituted “cultural genocide” and that it was a deliberate effort to eradicate First Nations culture. He has decided that his final exploration of the residential school system will be in the exhibition, Ritual and Ceremony, at the Art Gallery of Burlington this fall.
He also feels liberated. Houle explained that his whole life has been about being torn between what he is and isn’t allowed to do, and he relishes the freedom he experiences now. He says with pride, for example, “I am known as Blue Thunder,” evident in subtle queues like blue eyeglasses.
Back in 1981, Houle embraced liberty more overtly. He was the first Curator of Contemporary Indian Art at the Canadian Museum of Civilization, but he realized he “had to run away” because he disagreed with the museum’s approach to ‘artifacts.’ For example, he was disturbed by witnessing an ethnochemist open and examine a medicine bundle, which is “a living thing.” He realized it wasn’t the place for him. Off to Amsterdam he went, amid controversy. There, he studied Mondrian diligently and “flirted” with the Dutch artist’s style. Ultimately, he found Barnett Newman to be a better match for him, a connection that Ace described as organic. “Bingo!” Houle said. “I had found my spiritual god—small ‘g.’”
For all his accomplishments, such as being awarded a Canada Council for the Arts residency in Paris and receiving the Governor General’s Award in Visual and Media Arts, Houle is notably modest. He clapped at the end, although he had done the heavy lifting for the evening, and he referred to a striking abstract red and black Parfleches work (which alludes to spiritual maps derived from buffalo hides) as “just a painting.” Also, he claimed his memory was fading with old age, yet he regaled the audience with a solid two hours of anecdotes.
Image: Sandy Bay, 1998-1999, oil, black and white photograph, colour photograph on canvas, Masonite; from wag.ca/art/collections/canadian-art/display,contemporary/54875
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
“Books belong to everyone.” ~ Debora Grace
display in the MOCAD’s Mike Kelley Mobile Homestead in Little Library Originals: A Collision of Art, Literacy and Community from January 15 to April 24. The panellists were Barbara Barefield, Kelly O’Hara, Ndubisi Okoye, Eno Laget, and Debora Grace. Also included in the exhibition are Loretta Bradfield, Mary Fortuna, Jesse Kassel, Rashaun Rucker, John Sauve, Mitchell Schorr, Pam Shapiro, and Fatima Sow. Each artist’s contribution is unique, but the freestanding micro libraries tend to be painted in cheerful colours that invite readers to take a book/leave a book.
After installing an LFL in front of her own home, Kozlowski found that it sparked conversations among passersby—not just about reading, but about their lives. Inspired by the degree of interaction, she established Detroit Little Libraries, sought crowdfunding on her birthday, enlisted the help of local artists, and arranged for stewards to oversee basic maintenance. 150 LFLs were placed in various locations around the city—outside faith-based organizations, health care centres, and schools (ranging from elementary to college), to name a few. Areas with limited access to reading materials continue to be a high priority as more LFLs are installed. Ideally, the current amount will double before long.
Impressively, the city’s first LFL was made using reclaimed materials from local abandoned houses. Detroit is now experiencing “a lot of hope,” in Kozlowski’s opinion, making this a suitable time for the project. “It’s a very joyful thing to be involved in,” Kozlowski says.
There are challenges, like volunteers bowing out, exposure to the elements, vandalism, and book supplies running out because people encounter LFLs spontaneously or they lack the means to leave a book. At the same time, the success stories clearly outweigh the challenges. The mayor, the city, and countless citizens are supporters of the project.
Barbara Barefield is no stranger to the rejuvenating potential of the arts, having brought a musical series to Palmer Woods with her partner. Although she hadn’t painted in quite a while, she applied her graphic design skills in promoting musical performances to her LFL. Her intention was to capture the magic of reading that she experienced as a child. She believes reading is how we foster language, creativity, and thinking.
Eno Laget, referring to the city’s challenges, said, “We all know something’s wrong.” He shared that 47% of adults are functionally illiterate*. He hopes that LFLs can represent the “beginning of conversations to break down barriers.” When asked to participate, the street artist said, “I was all about it.” He pointed out that there is an extensive history of Detroit artists using found objects, which lends itself to the LFL project. In his case, he painted on a donated newspaper box, making for a coincidental tie-in to his background in the publishing industry.
Debora Grace said she “couldn't think of a better way to...build Detroit back up” than creating a LFL. She read frequently to her children, and when she was a child, her mother joked that she ate books because she read voraciously. Reading is “like swallowing universes,” she says. People need to “learn to get cozy with books,” she believes, because they carve out a path for the future. To reinforce this connection, on her LFL, she depicted W.E.B. Dubois, the first African American PhD graduate from Harvard (incidentally, I love that Harvard College Library highlights facts like this). Grace believes that reading is a “major game-changer,” demonstrated by the fact that sources of inspiration like songs, films and religious texts all start with the written word. “Books belong to everyone,” she insists. Given her pursuit of education as a vocation, she is bound to inspire many a reader.
If you can’t make it to the exhibition, check out Kozlowski’s tour on YouTube.
*To learn more about literacy in Detroit, please see “Nearly Half of Detroit’s Adults are Functionally Illiterate, Report Finds,” Huffington Post, 5 July 2011.
To learn more about Little Free Libraries, please see my Artist in Transit post from November, 2012 (http://artistintransit.blogspot.ca/2011/12/big-thumbs-up-for-little-free-library.html) or the Little Free Library website.
Images of O’Hara and Okoye’s LFLs are from http://detroitlittlelibraries.org/art-literacy-community/
Sunday, December 20, 2015
“the ultimate disruptor” — Jill Birch, Canadian Art
The final presentation by the final speaker in the forensics-themed Canadian Art Encounters: International Artists Series took place on December 11 at Innis College, University of Toronto. Initially—as my campus’ post-strike return-to-class schedule was being negotiated—it looked like catching Taryn Simon’s sold out talk would mean taking an overnight bus from my alma mater to my current institution to get back in time to deliver a lecture. Even though that didn’t transpire, the effort would have been worthwhile and apropos, to hear from an artist whose work resists simplicity. Each series typically takes Simon four years to prepare and produce, resulting in piles and filing cabinets of paperwork, such as records of correspondence stemming from extensive negotiations with stakeholders. “It’s not fun,” she said flat out, when asked a leading question about enjoying the archiving impulse.
Though thought of as a photographer, Simon sees her work as anchored in photography, text, design, video and most recently, performance. The range of the New York-based artist’s collaborators/subjects are as impressive as the international scope of her exhibition record at age 40: she partnered with the late programmer Aaron Schwartz in creating imageatlas.org to explore the “idea of a universal visual language” that reveals how concepts present in different countries; she has photographed Pussy Riot members, Masha Alekhina and Nadya Tolokonnikova, for Vogue; she has taken portraits of Indian men who are very much alive but who have been declared dead to change the outcome of land inheritance; she has photographed Americans who were wrongfully convicted, usually by misidentification, in poignant settings like the place of arrest or the alibi location; and she has documented art and confiscated goods at the CIA and US Customs at JFK Airport, respectively. It’s no wonder Jill Birch, CEO and publisher of Canadian Art introduced Simon as “the ultimate disruptor.” As Salman Rushdie writes in relation to Simon, “one of the arts of great photography is to get yourself into the place” where “dangers—physical, intellectual, even moral—may await.”(1) The occasional impenetrable barrier underscores how amazing it is to have broken through so many other barriers. Simon shared that she was unable to convince Disney to allow her to photograph “all the ugly innards of the city” like holding cells and garbage being transported through tunnels. She admits that the rejection letter from them is better that any photo she could have taken, since it became fodder for her art.
Simon gave an overview of work featured in the new survey text, Rear Views, A Star-forming Nebula, and the Office of Foreign Propaganda (2015, Tate Publishing). She also spoke about an additional series, Paperwork, and the Will of Capital: An Account of Flora as Witness, which was shown in the 2015 Venice Biennale. The series is an example of her research process embracing tangents and her semiotics background coming to bear. Her starting point was researching George Sinclair, a horticulturalist interested in the survival of grasses. Then she ruminated on Egyptian burial practices; the present day flower industry of the Netherlands—the “Amazon of flowers,” where any flower is available anytime; and Dutch ‘impossible bouquets’ painted in the 17th Century over several months as each flower came into season. From there, she began looking at flower arrangements in the foreground of “nationalistic bombastic” photographs documenting the signing of contracts by the likes of President Ronald Reagan. She had the arrangements analyzed by professionals and recreated them, shooting them against the same background colour(s) as in the original scene. Simon describes the arrangements in her images as castrated, as “silent observers.” Also included are reproduced texts from the agreements as well as botanical pressings in a “race against time” to see if they will outlive the photographs. She observes that by revisiting contracts from the past, it’s possible to see initiatives that didn’t take hold, and conversely, to see roots of trends that remain strong today.
Simon observes that she is drawn to problems that don’t have a solution or an answer, to “something that keeps circling on itself” where there’s an “inarticulated noise…that moves in many directions.” While reflecting on all that she has exposed, from racial profiling to the smuggling of the date rape drug GBL to the dangers of nuclear waste to the cultural pressure for hymenoplasty to the inbreeding of animals to the systematic poisoning of animals to gallery censorship, I began feeling bewildered by society, and John Lennon’s “Happy Christmas” started going through my head. Here’s to attempting to “impose order on the bloody chaos of history,” as Rachel Donadio wrote of Simon earlier this year in the New York Times (2), to being a “valuable counterforce” as articulated by Birch, and to striving for a better world next year—if we want it.
If you missed Simon’s presentation, check out her TED Talk at https://www.ted.com/talks/taryn_simon_photographs_secret_sites?language=en.
(1) Rushdie, Salman. Foreward, An American Index of the Hidden and Familiar, 2008, Steidl, http://tarynsimon.com/essays-videos/docs/An%20American%20Index%20of%20the%20Hidden%20and%20Unfamiliar_Salman%20Rushdie.pdf, 1(qtd.)-4.
(2) Donadio, Rachel. “In Taryn Simon’s Paris Show, a Look at How a Hidden Hand Organizes Reality.” The New York Times, 18 March 2015, http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/19/arts/design/in-taryn-simons-paris-show-a-look-at-how-a-hidden-hand-organizes-reality.html?_r=0
Monday, November 16, 2015
“…there is equality in Victorine’s sexual intimacy with Manet…”
In preparation for a conference presentation, I’ve been thinking about Édouard Manet’s painting, Olympia a lot, in the context of researching a recent appropriation of it (Margaret Sutherland’s Emperor Haute Couture from 2011, featuring former Prime Minister Stephen Harper nude). And, in my studio practice, I’ve been contemplating how trying it is to pose convincingly for erotic art, even when it’s purposefully ironic. Thus, I was keen to read Paris Red (2015, W. M. Norton & Company) by Maureen Gibbon, which is a fictional exploration of the development of Manet’s infamous painting. The author took inspiration from academic sources and has captured—if briefly—important details of this turning point in modern art, such as the proliferation of erotic photographs; the controversy of realism in painting; and Manet’s belief (stemming from his training) that art should reflect its time rather than rehash the past.
In the introductory chapter, the reader is introduced to the narrator and protagonist, 17-year-old Victorine Meurent (aka. Trine); her roommate, Denise (aka. Nise); and an exotic stranger they meet on the street who wines and dines them. The stranger turns out to be Manet, then 30 years old (he is never actually referred to by either his first or last name, and oddly, it is the book jacket that confirms his identity). We learn immediately that Victorine is artistic and fearless, an obvious match for the avant-garde painter. She has the self-absorption characteristic of adolescents, evident in this chapter through her mentioning seven times to the reader her green boots, which were given to her by a prostitute. The entire book is written from Victorine’s point of view. As a result, the only break from the patterns of adolescent thought and speech is dialogue spoken by Manet and occasionally, his coterie, a photographer whose studio they visit, her parents, and her boss (before she quits her job). Parallel sentences and sentence fragments are frequent and seem melodramatic; for example, she muses, “Only then does he give me back my hand. So I can use my knife and fork. So I can use my hand to eat” (p. 56).
The first ninety or so pages centre around Victorine and Denise trying to decide whether or not they will have a ménage à trois with Manet; even so, the transformation of the relationship into a twosome feels like a fait accompli from the get-go. Ultimately, Victorine trades her roommate, who had been like a sister to her, in for a lover who rents her a place of her own. She also gives up her trade as a silver burnisher to become his model. Although Manet dominates her world, she is never at his mercy. She exercises agency in modeling for an artist friend of his, Alfred Stevens. Also, there is equality in Victorine’s sexual intimacy with Manet demonstrated by, for example, the absence of jealousy and by their shared participation in her birth control. This equality is echoed by their professional interactions in the studio, where he welcomes her opinion and offers to buy her her own supplies when he realizes she’s been using his discarded tubes of watercolour paint. Naturally, there are liaisons that blur the lines between sexual and professional; for instance, he sketches her face while positioned between her legs, and she caresses herself to get the position of her hand just right in Olympia. Unfortunately, before being witness to their erotic egalitarianism, the reader must plod through passages like their initial lovemaking, in which he tips her breasts like bottles, tugs, sucks, and comments, “I like how they feel in my mouth” (p. 93). If this section were longer, it might be a contender for the bad sex in fiction award (yes, this is a real thing in the literary world).
This book is heavy on fantasy, and I don’t mean that in an erotic way. Doubt has been cast on earlier assumptions that Manet and Meurent were more than colleagues. For example, as V R Main observes, Stevens was her lover (in Paris Red, they only share a close-mouthed kiss) but Manet probably wasn’t, given that his life was cut short by syphilis while she lived to be elderly, suggesting that she did not contract the then incurable disease (1).
Their romantic involvement, if unlikely in real life, is essential to building momentum in the story because it effectively functions as foreplay for the creation of Olympia. 65 per cent of the book passes before they begin work on it. The painting is described but not named outright, much like the character of Manet. Also like him, its identity is only known conclusively through the book jacket. For the purposes of the story, the name of the artwork is not as important as the identity of the model in the foreground. Victorine recognizes herself on the canvas. She sees that Manet has painted her with dignity, yet he avoided sanitizing her. In realizing that fact, she realizes her own potential.
(1) Main, V R. “The Naked Truth.” The Guardian. 3 Oct., 2008. http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2008/oct/03/women.manet
Thursday, August 6, 2015
“...young women assume dolls’ attributes in social media selfies and vie for celebrity status.”
Sarah Thornton, “Canada’s hippest academic” (1) stated in her talk at the ROM last fall that artists’ freedoms intensified with Duchamp’s urinal sculpture, Fountain (1917). In its wake, “contemporary art made belief a central concern”—belief that an object is art because the artist says so, and that the artist has the authority to say so. Thornton elaborated that maintaining that authority is not easy, and branding is key.
Laurie Simmons, about whom Thornton writes in the book, 33 Artists in 3 Acts (Norton & Company, 2014), has always addressed belief in one way or another. She has been photographing constructed realities, such as dollhouse interiors, throughout her career. Recently, her attention has turned to life-size Japanese sex dolls, cosplay, and Doll Girls. In the latter subculture, which is the focus of How We See, her current exhibition at the Jewish Museum, young women assume dolls’ attributes in social media selfies and vie for celebrity status.
The way I see it is that belief in the artist’s skill is paramount. The viewer must believe that what is presented in the gallery has greater cultural worth than image search results on the Internet for ‘Doll Girls.’ Otherwise, why pay admission? Pristinely printed 70 x 48” images that tower over the viewer and command attention in an ornate room certainly fit the bill.
Simmons’ head and shoulder portraits feature models with eyes drawn on their lids. Eyelashes are drawn above, and in one work, they are even affixed. With the lids closed, the upper lashes thicken and accentuate the lower lashes. As a security guard mentioned when I struck up a brief conversation, many people do not immediately notice this trickery. In fact, when I was there, one visitor was most concerned with comparing a model to Miley Cyrus. Only in person is it evident that the texture of the eyelids mimics canvas as much as it looks like skin. On occasion, there is evidence of the artist’s hand (2) on the lid, such as a slight angle interrupting the smooth curve of the iris, acting as a clue to this intervention. I like that she has also lined the models’ lips, which I have always found to be a bizarre strategy. Arguably, it calls the larger world of cosmetics into question, rather than just the Doll Girls subculture.
Simmons’ interest in beautification is longstanding. Thornton writes that as a child, she had memorized the names of lipstick and nail polish colours. Perhaps it’s because I have Thornton on my mind, but Simmons’ work strikes me as something of a sociological survey, in that judgment seems to be withheld in the depiction of the Doll Girls. This may be because Simmons doesn’t consider herself to be an ardent feminist (for more on this, see my post on this blog from October 2010 about her artist talk at the International Center of Photography). I’m aware that I’m projecting my own feminist values when I see elements of the women’s white clothing (3), such as the word ‘no’ on the collar, as signs of protest.
In the arc of art history, rationally, the portraits shouldn’t feel disturbing. A connection could be made to ancient white marble statues that appeared to have blank eyes, but which we now know were painted in polychrome. In Western painting, there is a long tradition of women not meeting the viewer’s objectifying gaze. Early daguerreotypes featured subjects with their eyes closed because of the dreadfully long exposure time needed. And then came the surrealists, who were fascinated by the act of sleeping and capturing it in images. All the same, Simmons six portraits read as disturbing. Maybe it’s that their vacant stares make they feel like robots. Maybe it’s that they have warm backgrounds in colours reminiscent of lava lamps, underscoring a sense of artificiality. Maybe it’s that Simmons, who I think of as giving life to the inanimate, has stolen some of the figures’ humanity and their dignity seems not to have suffered.
How We See made headlines when fellow Pictures Generation colleague Richard Prince nabbed one of Simmons’ images from her popular Instagram account, printed it and exhibited it as his own (as is his way). This brings us back to Duchamp’s urinal. Given that the original was lost, is Alfred Stieglitz’s documentation or the replica any less believable as Fountain than the original?
The exhibition end date has been extended to August 16.
(1) Webb, Ann. Introduction to presentation by Sarah Thornton, “33 Artists in 3 Acts.” Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, ON. 20 Oct. 2014.
(2) The makeup artists are Landy Dean and James Kaliardos. Simmons, Laurie. “Laurie Simmons,” Artforum. 11 Mar. 2015 http://artforum.com/words/id=50603
(3) The designer is Rachel Antonoff. Hering, Deirdre. “The Lifeless Eyes of Laurie Simmons’s Human Dolls,” Hyperallergic. 22 July 2015 http://hyperallergic.com/224074/the-lifeless-eyes-of-laurie-simmonss-human-dolls/