It's Not You It's Me--Draft

 

Disclaimer: it must be said: the first time I laid eyes on Jean Pierre Tassert’s Love and Friendship, the inexcusable phrase “It’s not you, it’s me,” made an immediate appearance in my noggin. One cannot always help these things. While those words were not intended to dismiss that smooth Flemish tableaux, my trite pop-culture banter appears to do so all the same. This clash of time lines, between current and classical, speaks directly to the temporal existence of the art object. We cannot help but approach works from our own point in time, society, and experience no matter the context/no matter how hard we (attempt to) grasp hold of context. As old meanings are shed, new meanings emerge. However with this piece it feels as if/though old intentions match (my) modern interpretation. In this way there is merit to be found in the flippant and focused alike.

Tassert’s masterful marble duo (deliciously rounded and smooth as all get out) is composed of two figures with a small altar between/separated by a small altar, all atop a marble base about calf/hip height. The figure to our left is Love, a pudgy little cherub: cupid-esque with a fierce and flowing look upon his chubby little face. His wavy hair streams back(ward) wildly. With little/stubby wrists defiantly crossed, Love’s eyes are flaming orbs (captured in stone) beneath a furrowed brow. They flash over and upwards toward a towering figure of extreme placidity. Upon the altar lay a stack/quiver of arrows, still aflame. These arrows are broken, the result of time or intention I know not.

The right most form looms calmly over Love and the viewer alike; a small smile splayed upon her well shaped lips. Lids hang low over the warm and uncritical downturned glance of Friendship, un-singed/un-tinged by the wattage of Love’s burning/smoldering frustration. The kindling of Love’s gaze will not catch. Her breasts are bared as with/much akin to common depictions of Venus though this partial nudity is not to be taken as an invitation. COMPARE VENUS TO FRIENDSHIP HERE--OR MAYBE AFTER THIS PARAGRAPH One smooth hand rests lightly upon a tall-upright staff on her left (our right) side. Tendrils of ivy curvy in curly cues around the length/at the top of the staff. The other nestles/lays/is laid amongst the ruffled fringe/swaddling cloth encircling her cleavage. There is an “aw, how sweet” sort of loving condescension to this gesture. Her stance and expression are akin to/that of a parent towards a child, with a sort of “mother knows best” stance/stature. The child rages against the unyielding abd patient parental force. Love pushes, Friendship is simply waiting/simply waits for the tantrum to end/pass. When the balance of love and appreciation shifts and hearts diverge, the aforementioned emotional power structure will emerge/can also emerge/emerges/is struck. Stubborn lovers try to hold fast, begging and pleading in heated/angry denial of the inevitable (after all, breaking up is hard to do). Despite the heartbroken party’s best attempts/efforts the breaker will not budge. His/her internal awareness/knowledge (stance/needs/desires--or lack there of) creates/can create stoic/quiet/calm/wordless/serene certainty/ weight and certainty/serene and unchanging certainty. The ventricular decision’s been made. “But, certainly, we can still

be friend?”

god of desire erotic love --cupid

love beauty sex fertility military victory enticement seduction--aphrodite

Playing with Barbies--Draft!

Playing at Pagan’s House (working title)

A Review of Chaltin Pagan’s Off With Her Head (draft)

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Just under a year ago I found myself completely encircled by Barbies for the first time since ascending past my single digits. Well, paintings of Barbies to be exact. It was the unveiling of the university's MFA exhibition (class of 2012); Chaltin Pagan's collection of moderately sized paintings inhabited Hamilton Hall’s spacious foyer (home to University of the Arts' Hamilton Gallery). This space is sizeable; capable of dwarfing almost anything. Pagan's unassuming little rectangles did not cave to the cavern, however. While the room may have appeared sparse at first glance, the wide berth provided each composition was both purposeful and necessary. This sort of spacing provided an opportunity for the sort of intimacy from which Pagan's work greatly benefits.

It was Untitled Green and Blue that first drew me in. The panel had been on a section of wall to left of a doorway silently challenging passersby to pause for just one moment. A moment was all it took to reel in this unsuspecting viewer. Eyes slid left as the feet attempted to stay the course, moving with determination towards some unremembered location. A soft glow appeared to radiate from this understated little rectangle and feet were forced to pause to allow for deeper ocular investigation. Closer inspection revealed three Barbie heads lying with hair fanned out upon a blue and green background, two separate fields of color meeting in a diagonal slash. The heads are clustered at the center of the composition; a brunette Barbie head with brown eyes and a light brownish tan complexion is placed in the upper left corner of the grouping (her neck bulb is exposed). To her right, a Ginger-Barbie lays with chin angled out towards the right side of the frame. Who should stare out at us from the center of said cluster (and composition) but that prototypical blue-eyed wonder. Cozily nestled between brunette and redhead, her definitive blonde locks curl out in soft waves and ringlets--those sapphire eyes pierce us with their assurance. Her smiling mouth seems to pull upwards ever so slightly at the left corner. The diagonal fields of green and blue meet at very middle of her golden noggin.

There is a calm confidence to this expression, which provides an excellent juxtaposition to our pensive little brunette (BB). BB's eyes tilt up towards the right corner of the composition, her full lips unsmiling. Where Traditional Barbie (TB) appears untroubled, BB seems wistful. Her mouth is slack and there is something about the eyes and the placement of the eyebrows that support this air of melancholic dubiety. The positioning of the head also serves to distort BB's expression. One can only assume the smooth, blemish-less sources from which Pagan drew were nothing but blue skies, puppy dogs in purses, and shopping. These tiny, vinyl features have most likely been manipulated. While the flared ginger locks of our Redheaded Barbie (RB) provide a vibrant compliment to the deep azure background on which they lay, the true drama of Untitled Green and Blue lies in the exchange between TB and BB. Our redhead's face is mostly covered by thick bangs and is angled in such a way that we are given an abbreviated glimpse of her expression. What we can see of her face is not particularly telling. Her lips are ever so slightly pursed (though smiling) and just one of her eyes is visible. It feels as though RB is off in her own world, a land to which we are not given access.

Perhaps the source of TB's confident appearance stems from a sense of her own superiority as prime, the dominant female amongst her plastic counterparts. Back in my doll playing days, there was Barbie and there were Barbies. Barbie was blue eyed and blonde haired. While there were different versions of Barbie, gussied up in a variety of themed outfits and professional guises; there was but one Barbie. Brunette Barbies, redhaired Barbies, racially diverse Barbies: these dolls came with separate names and identities (Midge was my personal favorite). While Midge was and is a Barbie, she is not and could never be Barbie. In this way, I'd argue a system of superiority was inadvertently created. Midge would always be the slightly less important, possibly less attractive counterpart to Barbie. Midge's very existence is contingent on Barbie. These friends and relatives all play a collective miniature second fiddle to the toy line's namesake. I would argue this Toyland dynamic has the capacity to reverberate out into the land beyond dolls. Don't make me quote from The Bluest Eye, people. While TB's blonde dome rests in a state of ease and security, the status of her slightly darker counterpart seems somewhat more precarious. Ghetto-large heart shaped earrings further accentuate BB and TB's differences, vaguely hinting at issues of class and ethnicity. As a result BB finds herself that much farther from the sole plastic power source in this particular Mattel-o-verse: Barbie. In this world differentiation and individuality is not empowering for all is subsumed by Barbie.

Where Untitled Green and Blue set me thinking on social hierarchy in the Barbie-verse and beyond, Off With Her Head has a far more sinister tone, conjuring thoughts of murder and betrayal. Two nude TB’s stand in profile, the figure on the left (TBL) faces the right side of the frame in full while the rightmost figure (TBR)’s face angles slightly out toward the viewer. TBL’s left arm is extended out towards TBR. Composed of two separate panels hung flush, this slender plastic appendage makes the journey from left panel to right. The composition is dramatically lit; each figure throws a stark umber shadow upon a richly hued background (the burnt sienna surface all but glows). Lighting, placement, and title all work to fashion the beginnings of a story; one of peril and pursuit. It feels as though TBL approaches her unsuspecting twin with the darkest of intentions. Is a bloodless decapitation on the horizon as the title would suggest? Though each figure is relegated to a separate panel, TBL has bridged the gap. Her arm reaches to TBR for some unknown purpose, she appears to be closing in. The figures’ faces hold the usual semi-vacant expression. They flash their familiar and unthreatening smiles, seemingly ignorant of the dim scenarios in which they’ve been engaged. It is this aspect of apparent guilelessness that unravels the murderous yarn I’d begun to weave. The scene is reset, imagined threats removed.

This juxtaposition serves to highlight Barbie’s servitude as well as her autonomy. As we assert our narrative powers upon these figures, some aspect of their countenance refuses to be consumed. In this way Pagan’s Barbies act as unique tools for our usage, both indentured and impervious. They are able to retain their identity despite their servitude, an identity subservient to branding, granted. Her subjects are bestowed with a certain level of respect by way of technique and execution.  This process [egg tempera] involves great care and concentration. Each composition is composed of a collection of thin but visible brush marks combined with small areas of smooth serene spaces. The spacing and density of the mark making create a sense of breath and mobility. Though static by design, these paintings quietly hum with life. Pagan’s surfaces remain relatively smooth despite the depth of her markings. Moderate sizing and the artist’s delicate touch work to create a glowing aura of intimacy and regard. The aforementioned artist statement connects Pagan’s choice of materials to Christian icon painting. Such lofty associations have the capacity to lend weight to the lowest of subjects (and the lowest of brows). There is also a wonderful link to between the life-giving/sustaining aspect of the egg yolks utilized to depict her barren, inanimate subjects.

How do these interpretations square with the show’s intended purpose? While I’m sure at times my mental meandering may have strayed the course I believe this sort of pull towards deviation to be an intrinsic aspect of this work. What are dolls but springboards for our narratives? We approach them as three dimensional blank pages, unfurled for our usage. Pagan has focused one set of narratives upon these figures; her positioning and play set me off on my own narrative tangent in turn. If dolls can accommodate several sprawling storylines, couldn’t these egg-based surrogates possibly follow suit? While Pagan has set the stage through the usual means (composition, paint handling, etc) her reach ends there. We may be playing with her Barbies at her house but Pagan has left the room (perhaps to get us a juice box). In this space viewers may venture forth on their own imaginative excursions but they (like me) remain tethered to that which is actual and present: marks on a surface. In this way the narrative power is returned to Pagan and Barbie time and again.

Traces of Poe: A meditation on two particular tales

For as long as I can remember, my thoughts of Poe have always stretched to include young cousin-wife Virginia Clemm. Such gossip-centric details do not color and cloak the reputations of similar figures with equal force or consistency; I’ve no comprehension of Melville’s personal life for instance. This inability to separate the Personal Poe from Professional is not unique: Poe’s romantic life has long been a point of fascination to even the most general audience. Why should this be? Though unconventional by today’s standards, first cousin pairings were not uncommon at the time (the age difference does stand out however). I believe the cause for persistent prying transcends a tendency towards sensationalism, the glossy tabloid-esque obsessions of today. These glimpses of a marriage, the circumstances of Clemm’s life and death offer us rare insight into Poe’s inner emotional life when taken in conjunction with his writing. This makes her essential to gaining a greater understanding of Poe’s work as well as his mental state. Two short stories in particular stand out in this regard.

While preparing for What Remains: Traces of Poe (an art installation I mounted in conjunction with a colleague), I listened to audio books of Poe’s work in order to fully saturate my artistic focus with Poe-ness. As luck would have it, audio renditions of Berenice and Eleanora appeared almost side by side. When taken in close succession, these tales create an interesting juxtaposition. While Eleanora and Berenice involve a somewhat similar set of circumstances each is executed in a completely different key. Our respective narrators’ romantic lives hold certain traits in common (as does Poe): all three fall in love with his respective first cousin(s) all three cousin-lovers fall deathly ill. It is here where the similarities end and these stories diverge.

While Berenice is easily pegged as a classic gothic tale (to this untrained critic), full of madness, obsession, horror, and a bit of premature burial for good measure, Eleanora is not so easily classified. Though the narrator claims madness, the tale is no dark and broody slog through the dim corners of one’s mind. It reads as a bittersweet song dedicated to love, loss, and moving on. Yes, there are trappings of the supernatural as well as some cyclical thinking from a deeply devoted narrator, but these bits are not pervasive. Where Berenice is dark and claustrophobic, Eleanora is fresh and free moving (aerated and unbound) much of the action takes place outdoors in the idyllic “Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.” Where Berenice’s Egaeus’ obsession sends him spiraling further downward into the muck and mire of madness (towards a grotesque end), Eleanora’s unnamed narrator (UN) is able to let go and move on with seeming success. Egaeus is fixed in his despair.

Berenice involves cousins unalike in temperament, Egaeus (our narrator) is “ill of health and buried in gloom,” while his cousin is “agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy.”

“Hers, the ramble on the hillside/mine the studies of the cloister.”

Though UN alludes to similar leanings in his love (“artless and innocent as the brief life she led among the flowers”), he is not separated from her as Egaeus is from his Berenice; he joins Eleanora on her romps through the valley. Their love is realized amongst trees and flowers, star shaped blooms burst forth as if answer to their passion. When Eleanora passes seasons change to note the loss. Egaeus’ love is stifled, trapped behind closed doors from beginning to end. When Berenice is forced inside by illness; she deteriorates, unable to survive in Egaeus’ preferred habitat. As her health recedes, Egaeus becomes distraught and takes refuge in the once was. He proposes marriage though he can hardly stand Berenice’s state of diminishment. “Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origins in the ecstasies which might have been.” A debilitating fascination with past-tense perfection bubbles up forcing him to execute monstrous deeds. In a trancelike state, he moves to possess her last remaining attribute. His obsession is total.

UN’s devotion does not move beyond the verbal (he is not consumed as Egaeus). Despite his vow to “[Eleanora] and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any daughter on Earth,” upon moving to the city he meets Ermengarde. “What was my passion for the young girl of the valley in comparison for the forever and the delirium and the spirit lifting ecstasy of adoration with which poured out of my whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?” Though he’d sealed his vows with an invocation of damnation from the Alimighty (should he renege), our man marries Ermengarde all the same. This new love overpowers any fears of this self-administered curse; it is just that strong. What fate should befall this impetuous lover? Utter torment? Ghostly harassment and all matter of punishment from a slithery nether realms? No, no--freedom is his fate. “Soft sighs in the silence of night,” bring word of his destiny from on high: “sleep in peace. For the spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in taking thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons which shall remain known to thee in heaven, of they vows to Eleanora.” With these stories laid side by side, it would seem acceptance is to be rewarded while stubborn stagnation is worthy of punishment.

These stories appear to have been concocted in conjunction with key points in Poe’s own romantic life. Berenice was written the year Poe was married (1835), Eleanora the year Virginia fell ill (1842). While it would (most likely) not be accurate to take the relationships depicted in Berenice and Eleanora (respectively) as direct representations of Poe’s own life and marriage, they do offer a window into Poe’s stance on love. It stands to reason these feelings could easily be applied to Poe’s own romantic life.

Egaeus worships his cousin’s vitality, so too did Poe worship Virginia’s youthful blush. After consumption hit, Poe wrote in a letter to a friend (according to Wikipedia): “...each time I felt all the agonies of her death- and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more deeply and clung to her life with more deliberate pertinacity.” Just as Egaeus became lost as illness struck, so too did Poe: “But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Written seven years before Virginia’s own sickness, Berenice seems a bit portentous in a way, though Poe’s own “insanity” could not contend with the addled mind of Egaeus. In all his grief, Egaeus took to his pliers while pen and paper served to channel Poe’s passion. In fact his construction of Eleanora in 1842 reads as a sad but phenomenally healthy act of meditation, a lesson in letting go. Though UN devotes himself to the dead in a fit of passion and grief, time and experience allow him the chance to reconsider. In the end, he chooses life (and Ermengarde). Poe himself made some efforts in this regard: he had taken up a few extramarital correspondences of an intimate nature during Virginia’s illness, supposedly with her encouragement and blessing according to one such pen pal.

When he passed away in 1849, Poe had been engaged to remarry. Were she to be his Ermengarde, we may never know. Definitive answers are rarely available where both death and art are concerned. After passing some time with these stories, mulling and milling about at easel and keyboard respectively, I feel as though I’ve struck flesh, bone, and perhaps just a snippet of understanding. Caricature is rendered corporeal and the pedestal has given way to personhood. As a maker of things, things to be viewed and consumed beyond my grasp and life span (possibly)--those feelings of connection and understanding that bubble up from the artistic ether feel all the more valuable. It gives me hope for my own creations. To be understood (even just a little) can be magic.