'A shiny ghost stops me at the edge'

Jennifer Caroline Campbell has a poetic response to Lotus Laurie Kang's artworks in a show at the Chisenhale Gallery. 

Photos Jennifer Caroline Campbell

Lotus Laurie Kang's multidisciplinary practice lets the process lead the way forward. Her work utilises a fine-tuned sensitivity to materials and their liveliness. The work often carries on developing beyond the conventional finishing point, and so, just like us, it is in a state of perpetual becoming. Her current installation at Chisenhale Gallery, In Cascades, is her first institutional solo exhibition in Europe, and I hope it is the first of many. Here is my response to it:

 

Slow sun bathing through glass panes. 

Writhing shapes in the sand.

My body moves the air, nudging the glossy slithers that hang from a perforated, gleaming grid. 

Thin slices of remembered light, still forming. 

A sunset in a darkroom, repeated. 

I might fall into the seams, like the silver bits. 

Lined up twists of kelp, anchovies and cabbage. 

I keep moving, looping.

A shiny ghost stops me at the edge. 

Two rigid mice, clinging and gone. 

Or a mirrored twin. 

I turn back in like a ball bearing.

My reflection licks just above the floor. 

Edges breaking. 

Small hard spheres hug through a slippery surface, gripping and ready to let go of the curling film. 

 

Jennifer Caroline Campbell

June 2023

 

Lotus Laurie Kang, In Cascades 

Chisenhale Gallery, London E3 

2 June – 30 July 2023

It Started with a Kiss

Jennifer Caroline Campbell discovers a hidden LBGTQ+ history embedded in carnival ephemera at Auto Italia in east London.

It all changed with a kiss. That is, according to scattered whispers, local gossip and anecdote. It was 1974 and carnival season in the plurinational South American state of Bolivia. A glamourous Las Chinas Morenas performer named Barbarella approached dictator Hugo Banzer Suárez, and gave him a kiss. The fragments of this story, the context that lead up to it, and its legacy, have been carefully gathered by David Aruquipa Pérez, a Bolivian artist, archivist and activist. He has worked with London based, Quechua-Spanish artist, Aitor González Valencia, to present this vital piece of history in an exhibition titled Barbarella’s Kiss at Auto Italia. The main focus of the exhibition is a collection of 41 photographs, which are laid out in minimal orderly fashion in brightly colored glass-topped vitrines. All from the pre-digital era, these photographs show their stories in their physical features as well as what the lens has captured. One is torn at the edge because it was hurriedly snatched from a photo album before a conservative relative could see it. In another a man’s face has been scratched out. Others are curling and scuffed on their white borders and one appears to have been reproduced as a postcard. 

 

Looking down into these crystalised moments is like glimpsing snatches of a temporary world, one that is brought into reality by the will of the performers. It reminds me of when I first saw the Casa Susannaphotographs, a collection of snap shots taken by cross dressers who regularly met up (and dressed up) in a particular house, during the 1950s in upstate New York. Although the context is very different, both collections of photographs have a snow-globe quality. To me they are like windows onto a contained realm, where temporary and communal freedom crackles and darts between glances, body language, fashion language and fake eye lashes. 

 

Both collections work to undo the willful forgetting that has been imposed on the rich history of non-conforming gender diversity, a history that the dominant narrative has only just begun to acknowledge. Both document a particular way of performing for the camera and an embodiment of temporary identities. But the spaces that these activities took place in are very different. The Casa Susanna photographs were, until their rediscovery, private. They were made of and for the guests at the Casa Susanna house and their small community. Rather than a by-product or even an intentional document they were instead a way of constructing a self. When discussing the Casa Susanna collection, professor of philosophy and cross-dresser Miggi Alicia Gilbert said ‘When you can’t be who you want to be, whenever you want to be it, then those images are a reassurance. They’re a recognition that say yes, I can do that, I can be that person as well as the one I happen to be now’. 

 

The photographs on show in the Barbarella’s Kiss exhibition feel more haphazard. The La China Morenaperformers were not allowed access to photography studios and appear not to have had a safe space to play in, like the Casa Susanna regulars did. Their posing is fierce, provocative, laced with political action and deep routed local beliefs about the plurality of identity. The way the performers hold the space in front of the lens somehow reverses that often exploitative power dynamic, where the person behind the camera has all the agency. Barbaralla and company are not subjected to the camera, they demand its attention.

 

Many of the snapshots were taken by photographers who would then sell them to the festival goers. In this sense these photographs become mementos of the festivities, and perhaps the novelty, of a carnival day. But there is a certain power contained in these mementos that lives on beyond the day of celebrations. The Barabrella’s Kiss exhibition made me think about how a temporary and elevated arena can provide a vital space for reimagining. In Ursula K Le Guin’s essay A Non-Euclidean View of California as a Cold Place to Be (1983), she refers to Robert C Elliott’s idea of participatory festivals as temporary utopian intervals, that sit outside of daily time. She talks about them summoning the ‘dreamed-of golden age of equality’ into the present lived world. This imaginative transformation, she says, prevents utopian thinking from forming into that ever-promised future, that dangerous rationalist dream that so easily becomes totalitarian. 

 

In some of the photographs the performers are wearing traditional masks to protect their identity. In the later ones, the backdrops become more rural as the Las Chinas Morenas performers are forced out of the urban festivities, following their persecution after the fallout from that legendary kiss. Another change that happened after the kiss is that women were allowed to perform at the street carnivals, when previously they had been excluded. What is allowed within the confines of a carnival day is different from, yet has a real effect on, what happens outside of it. A line from Le Guin’s essay hangs in my mind: ‘the exiles from paradise in whom the hope of paradise lies’.

Jennifer Caroline Campbell

 

 

Barbarellas Kiss is at Auto Italia until the 11 June 2023. 

Listening to Kesha's Gag Order

Rosemary Cronin feels the magic as she listens to a new album by American singer and songwriter Kesha

I’m not sure if anyone else noticed the tiny white feather fall in front of the screen when the DJ pressed play on Kesha’s new album, Gag Order. I was at a listening party hosted by Dazed, and what felt straight off sermon-like unfolded into even more of an unexpectedly spiritual experience. 

The lyric booklets were lined on the benches, like prayer books on pews and we were bathed in red light. Kesha’s former works are not reflective of this reverence; instead she became known for her bubblegummy, brash and bold dance-pop hits like Tik Tok and Blah Blah Blah. But a quick read into her journey through stardom tells us that the ride has been bumpy, fast, furious and full to the brim with massive highs and crashing lows. 

 

Like many women in the music industry, Kesha has been on a rollercoaster, turned back-to-front and upside down; and like a lot of her female counterparts the chaos has mainly been caused the men that have driven the career. Kesha’s visual creative collaborator for this album, Brian Roettinger, seems to have riffed off that energy but instead is a safe pair of hands to work with, and knowingly, respectfully works with the ethos of the singer’s new work. All the typography for the visual identity around the album echoes the mayhem of what the muse has been through; the typography laid out back-to-front, upside down, mirrored unexpectedly whilst still being recognisable. Perhaps we are used to our female musicians carrying this lived experience?

 

Everything is stripped back; from Kesha’s lack of makeup in the videos to producer Rick Rubin’s use of Kesha’s own voice notes together with Sunday service organ-esque keys as recorded elements within the finished album. There’s a lot of self-flagellation within the lyrics ‘You don’t wanna be changed like it changed me’ (Eat the Acid) and ‘There’s a fine line between what’s entertainin’ and what’s just exploiting the pain’ (Fine Line) and to real push the sacred envelope ‘it’s time I’m comin’ down off of the cross’ (Fine Line). At the mid-point we are gifted a Ram Dass interlude, with Kesha revealing that after being in treatment for bulimia she was given a copy of Dass’ seminal ‘Be Here Now’ and has carried it with her ever since. 

 

The album ends with the song Happy that samples a recording of a wizard friend (who doesn’t have a wizard friend nowadays?), saying ‘Sometimes you think you’re doing the magic and sometimes the magic is doing you’. At the launch party Kesha was there in an immaculate white dress with matching white kitten heels. With a radiant glow shining over her, she’s not been reborn, but there is a graceful vengeance in the album that has clearly rebuilt her over years of trauma, and she feels like she is carrying magic. 

 

Although there is this spiritual side to the work, there are still tracks that are clearly made to end up as remixes on dancefloors. Kesha probably knows that these songs will be diced and spliced, chopped and changed – but this time it feels like she’s more in control than ever. 

Rosemary Cronin

Keisha, Gag Order, is available from all the usual music streaming platforms

 

Up Close and Impersonal with Joseph Yaeger

Alex Michon goes ‘eye-sight’ seeing, getting close to some canvases which on close inspection reveal a magical painterly alchemy.

 

Visiting the Joseph Yaeger exhibition was a timely reminder about how paintings should be seen up close, in reality, and not just experienced in digital reproduction. His show at The Perimeter was a revelation, since being in front of them and seeing the way the paint was applied created a completely different reading from an initial view of the images online.

 

From those digital glances the paintings appeared to be very photo-realistic, kind of old school ‘proper painting’ which I found a bit meh! But when standing in front of them I discovered a curious incongruous messiness, a blurry ricky-tickiness which my painter friend explained was known in the vernacular as ‘painterly’. They were nothing short of magical. Some strange sloppy alchemy was at play, so that if you stood further away they seemed to hyper-realistic and intricately painted, while in close-up they revealed themselves to have a strange sort of splodgy unfinishedness which nevertheless made up a composite whole. What read as a shadow on a face when viewed a few meters away, up close was nothing short of a thin daub! They reminded me of standing up close to some of Goya’s paintings where a hand would appear as a kind of sketchy afterthought but when viewed from a distance was a perfectly acceptable rendition of a hand.

 

Yaeger is obviously a highly accomplished painter, but the paintings show that he treats accomplishment with the disdain it deserves. His paintings achieve their power by what seems like any means necessary. It reminded me of a Joan Didion quote where when describing her writing style, she said ‘Grammar is a piano I play by ear’. Yaeger appears to paint by instinct, with ‘appears’ being the operative word as there is obviously a sure tried and tested technique here. 

 

Now this is not some kind of luddite call to arms for technical perfection and I cannot remember any other exhibition which has left me waxing so lyrical about the artist’s painterly methods (save perhaps for the aforementioned Goya) but here the magical mash up between subject matter and application gelled into a kind of road to Damascus moment of the joy of looking.

 

The title of the exhibition Time Weft hinted at some kind of temporal intention, yet the paintings’ narratives seemed disjointed, snatched glimpses from moments which had some kind of untold relevance.  The artist states that ‘The imagery I use is a protracted search to better understand myself; playing or putting on roles that might clarify an interior that is sort of naturally hidden, even from myself.‘ There is certainly an element of filmic masquerading going on in the painting of a woman shielding her eyes, a man peering through oversized glasses, a hand holding out a pill.

Didion, whose works I had been discussing with my friend on our way to the show, cast a ghostly shadow over my reading of the images. There was an undefinable just out of reach Americana quality to the paintings (Yaeger is American) and like Didion’s prose they seemed coolly detached whilst at the same time emotionally resonant.

 

Yaeger, I found on further research, is being touted as a new art star in the art firmament. No matter, the paintings are a joy to behold, stories which need to be seen viscerally from the distance of a few inches back and then studied again to appreciate their subtle sleight of hand enchantments. 

Alex Michon

Joseph Yeager: Time Weft

The Perimeter

London

Until 18 February 2023

The Less than Familiar Cezanne

Cathy Lomax takes another look at Cezanne's paintings

 

I find it hard to look at Cezanne landscapes and still lives. All those apples, oranges, green fields, and blue skies merge into what has become a horrible cliché. I have seen them so often my eyes are bored. I know this is sacrilege and that Cezanne is a genius, but over-exposure can be a terrible thing. So it was with little excitement that I went to see the latest iteration of the Cezanne blockbuster at Tate Modern, and I was only there because as a Tate member it was free.

Madame Cezanne in a Red Armchair, c.1877, oi on canvas

 

What I discovered is that I love his portraits. The hints of smudgy red, the pleasingly undetailed grumpy faces of his models shadowed in blues and greens. Madame Cezanne in a Red Armchair, 1877 is a stunning painting. The complete lack of consideration for the humanity of Mme Cezanne who is merely part of the composition is fascinating – the blue bow, the greens in her striped skirt, the enveloping red of the armchair, the checkerboard shadows on her face, the gold green of the wall – all are perfectly balanced. I have seen Madame Cezanne before, notably at a show of Cezanne portraits at the National Portrait Gallery in 2018, but some of the other works with figures are new to me. For instance The Murder (which comes with a trigger warning) which shows two men violently attacking the prone body of a women, the limbs of one of the murderers are brightly illuminated against a subfusc deep blue/green sky. It’s dark and nasty, more Manet than Cezanne. 

The Murder, 1870, oil on canvas

The portrait of Black Academie Suisse model Scipio (which was owned by Monet) is, unlike Mme Cezanne, bathed in humanity. The caption describes how Cezanne would have been familiar with debates around enslavement, and it’s easy to read the seeming exhausted Scipio, his long lean back turned out as he rests his weary head against his arm, as a political comment. At a quick glance it would be easy to mistake this painting for one of Lynette Yiadom Boakye’s enigmatic portraits of fictitious Black subjects. 

Scipio, 1867

Alongside this masterful spare portrait are some fussy small works depicting boxy female nudes. The most interesting of these The Eternal Feminine, 1877, has a loosely painted women, with red blobs for eyes, lying naked on a bed, surrounded by men – there could be photographers amongst the crowd, but a bit of research reveals them as writers, lawyers, and a painter. 

The Eternal Feminine, c.1877, oil on canvas

My favourite works are two versions of Portrait of the Artist’s Son. The first from 1880 shows the boy against a background of Cezanne’s characteristic undulating blue scrubbed with swatches of green. This colour is reflected in the shadows on the face. The rather lumpish shape of the figure is balanced by the flattened curved top of an armchair which is rendered in shades of aubergine. 

Portrait of the Artist's Son, 1880, oil on canvas

The second Portrait of the Artist’s Son, 1881-2, is unfinished. The boy’s head is tilted towards the left, his eyelids lowered. The dark blue/grey background is scratchy, and the whitish primer shows through. Either side of the head are untidy patches of aubergine/brown which recede to allow the face to stand out. The patchwork of colours that make the face are comprised (in common with other Cezanne works) of short diagonal brush strokes. The portrait is tender and moving. 

Portrait of the Artist's Son, 1881-2, oil on canvas

All the works I have described are hung on a brownish/purple wall – a colour snatched from Cezanne’s use of a similar aubergine-like tone in the paintings of his son. And it works beautifully.

 

I guess the moral is to look rather than assume you know an artist’s work! 

Cathy Lomax

January 2023

Cezanne

Tate Modern, London

until 12 March 2023

A Darkling Dive into Dystopian DIY Remembrance

Cathy Lomax and Alex Michon are haunted by the art and socio-political British culture (and disappointed by the omissions) in The Horror Show! at Somerset House.

Leigh Bowery, Hooded Cape Ensemble, 1988

In the week in which the death of Terry Hall of The Specials was announced, we went off to see The Horror Show! at Somerset House. Billed as a ‘Twisted Tale of Modern Britain', this blockbuster of a show explores how ‘ideas rooted in horror have informed the last 50 years of creative rebellion’, and there is a lot to absorb in this multi-layered ghost train ride of shapeshifting schlock-horror aesthetics. From the now familiar dernier cri of punk to the darkly fantastical works of 2019 Turner Prize winner Tai Shani; ghosts, ghouls, mysticism, and mayhem feature as a continuing rebellious thread throughout various landscapes of the dark re-imaginings of artistic psyches. 

Tai Shani, The Neon Hieroglyph, 2021

So here we have punk icon Jordan, painted by the underrepresented 70s painter and Duggie Fields contemporary Luciana Marinez, next to a Diamond Dog Bowie. Elsewhere there is a wall of large-scale images of Bat Cave clubsters in their gothy new romantic get ups, and a succession of outrageously attired drag artists sashaying down the stairs in Dick Jewell’s film Descending a Staircase which was shot at the seminal Kinky Gerlinky club night. 

Luciana Martinez de la Rosa, Jordan, 1977, pastel on board

 

The show is in three parts, Monster, Ghost and Witch. Monster is the punky, gothy, drag queeny, Leigh Bowery section. Ghost, as the gallery blurb states, ‘marks the collapse of hyperinflated 80s culture… defining a turning point in time between the dawn of a digital age of faceless audiences and invisible cyber wars’. So this is where Tricky’s trip hop meets the situationist sub-texts of Laura Grace Ford who reimagines London as a haunted house in her large-scale installation. Witch, the exhibition’s final act, celebrates the emergence of a younger generation often placing their work alongside their antecedents –Juno Calypso, for instance, is offset by Jane Arden. Each section is introduced by panels of engaging text which underscore the work with pertinent sociopolitical and metaphysical musings.

Juno Calypso, A Dream in Green, 2015

Jane Arden, Vagina Rex and the Gas Oven poster, 1970-71, designed by Alan Aldridge

 

However as is so often the case in an ambitious show of this size there are shortcomings and omissions, and the interesting countercultural perspective was, for us, almost inevitably haunted by the phantoms of those who were not featured. We particularly missed the visceral multi-faceted work of Delaine Le Bas whose outsider perspective has often called out racism, hierarchy, and refugee and women shaming. The same applies to the horror-inflected films and performances of Paul Kindersley, with their current-day queer eye. And surely the very British DIY filmmaker Andrew Kotting, whose films include Diseased and Disorderly and Their Rancid Words Stagnate Our Ponds, would have been a perfect fit. As would something of the English art folk horror investigated by Michael Bracewell in the The Dark Monarch, a show he co-curated at Tate St Ives in 2009.

 

It is obvious that the curators worked hard to create a non-hierarchical overview of the influence of spooky stuff to scare the nation. But the bones of those skeletons still left in the unopened cupboard continued to rattle around our brains and as we exited the gift shop we couldn’t help but think of Terry Hall’s plaintive voice singing ‘this town is coming like a ghost town’… a line that links the now and then so perfectly but like the majority of post-punk was sadly absent from the gallery.

Cathy Lomax & Alex Michon, 2022

Entrance to The Horror Show! at Somerset House 

The Horror Show!

Somerset House, London

27 October 2022 - 19 February 2023

 

Feelings For Fenella

Alex Michon visits an exhibition of paintings of the British actress Fenella Fielding and finds herself in a thoughtful frame of mind.

 

Contemplative – that was the curious feeling that overcame me when I visited Fenella Fielding: Actress, an exhibition of paintings at Gallery 286. Fielding, who is maybe best known for her role in Carry On Screaming! (1966), was also a serious actress with a deep husky voice and sensual demeanour. In the exhibition Fielding stares out at the viewer from a variety of portraits by the artists, Natalie Dowse, Sal Jones, Cathy Lomax, Jeanette Watkins and Fionn Wilson (who was also the show’s curator). Each of the artists had captured a different fascinating facet of Fenella in all her 1960s film star glamour. It was therefore disconcerting that I should feel contemplative. It was as if the paintings were thinking at me! Or perhaps it was that the actress was trying to reveal some unknown secret from her past through paint. 

Natalie Dowse, Do You Mind If I Smoke 1, 2021, oil on linen, 40x40cm

 

Natalie Dowse’s dreamy tight closeups are enigmatic and sort of sorrowful. I read in the show notes that Dowse played an audio copy of the Fielding’s book Do you Mind if I smoke? over and over again whilst she was painting. Ah and there it is! Dowse describes this as ‘a contemplative experience’. So perhaps I have inadvertently picked up on this at the show.

Sal Jones, Devastating Darling, 2021, oil on canvas, 60x50cm

Sal Jones writes that she had ‘wanted to paint (Fenella’s) voice’ – her presence, her humour and style.  In Devastating Darling she has used a montage of images of the actress infused with the glamour of 1960s fashion. The added text with its tongue in cheek humour captures the effervescent nature of Fenella as we would like to remember her, all high camp and knowing sexiness. However in amongst the glamour, Jones has included typical 1960s ‘hospital colours’ and as she writes ‘bed textiles’, as some of the images are taken from the film Doctor in Clover. I love the idea of ‘hospital colours’ and ‘bed textiles’ as they summon up all the slap and tickle, of the hospital Carry Ons which serve as incongruous signifiers of a heartfelt socialist dream of a fully funded idealistic Nation Health Service.

Cathy Lomax, Shadow, 2020, oil on linen 40x60cm

Cathy Lomax’s portraits are inspired by two inspirational visits to Fielding’s flat where Lomax was struck by the actress’s vast collection off wigs and makeup products particularly numerous boxes of false lashes. Lomax used the makeup as the starting point ‘layering images, just as makeup is layered on the face’. In Shadow, the fake eyelashes are particularly prominent, a flesh-coloured circle highlights the eye, an eyeshadow palette has become a searchlight on Fenella’s face. Her melancholic side gaze belying the performative made-up-ness of, as Lomax states, ‘actorly femininity’. Fenella does not look at us, instead she looks to the side, as if weary of masquerading. Here the actress looks as if she is longing to be in one of those Russian plays where everyone goes off to the country and is very bored! 

Jeanette Watkins, A Day With Cecil Beaton, Ready or Not, 2022, linen on cradled panel, 30x30cm

 

Jeanette Watkins has painted the actress from a society photograph taken by Cecil Beaton. Her Fenella is the least glamorous. Fenella peeps from behind the frame of her arms which are covering her head. The tones of the painting are muted and subtle and it seems to catch Fenella off guard, un-actressy. There is a touch Bloomsbury intelligentsia about the portrait and it perhaps hints at a more serious side.

Fionn Wilson, Fenella as Collette 1970, 2022, heavy body acrylic on canvas, 60x50cm

Fionn Wilson’s portraits are the most theatrical. Momentary vignettes that are powerful and dynamic. In one Fenella stares out from the painting wearing a black and white Pierrot-like spotty collar. She is holding an old-fashioned phone, her face is framed by her lustrous black hair, her thick black lashes circle her troubled eyes. The painting is like a silent mime, with Fenella as a trouble pierrette enacting a tragedy we can only imagine.

Alex Michon

 

 

Fenella Fielding: Actress 

Gallery 286, 286 Earl’s Court Rd, London SW5

9 November – 18 December 2022