Drawn by Reality - Encapsulated in Life

Messy Reflections on the Art of Denial

Angela Plohman

All dressed up and ready to go, our constructed selves stalk the streets of this social world, comfortable in their suits held together by tiny threads of ‘should’, ‘have to’ and ‘appropriate’. Occasionally they wander off into the unstable territories of our emotional geographies but, quickly noting their mistake, run in the opposite direction, much the same as when we see someone we are desperate to avoid. Meanwhile, our (supposedly) true selves squirm uncomfortably in the confines of a space that seems to be getting smaller by the moment, somewhat irritated by this custom-made other that seems to have overtaken its host. Identity exists between these manifestations of the real, as we are pulled back and forth, back and forth between what is and what should be. Ours is a palpably contradictory world, one that begs our truths to be told while at the same time advocating our falsehoods for the sake of self-preservation.

Appropriate bodily and emotional responses, laid out on the map of suitable social behaviour is (consciously or unconsciously) defined in all facets of our waking life. The museum space has not escaped these regulations, and human interaction with art has systematically been defined by distance and a desire to be told exactly what we are supposed to be understanding. But where is the messiness of our emotional selves located within this space? While the museum may have been conceived as a space for manner reform in the nineteenth century [1], there is in fact room for an aesthetics that does not actively deny a more confronting form of participatory pleasure. As noted by sociologist Pierre Bourdieu in his work Distinction, this denial is in fact nothing less than “the refusal to invest oneself and take things seriously” [2]. While Bourdieu is referring to the more traditional notions of aesthetics propounded by Immanuel Kant in particular, his comments easily remain valid in the current climate of new artistic interactive spaces, haptic experiences and media environments. Despite the fact that current trends in art criticism proclaim a more sensual way of participating, my position is that this theory has yet to meet practice on the side of the visitor in a concerted way.

The exhibition Drawn by Reality – Encapsulated in Life is not ‘just another’ collection of works that allow us to step back, safe in our detachment. The works considered here counter the tendency to enforce a distanced and regulated (visual) reception of art and challenge the viewer to become more than a passive receptacle for the content they proffer. Together, as they stretch our comfort zones and challenge how much we can handle in terms of emotional capacity for self-reflection, they transform the framework of the exhibition into a sensual, emotional, and political space to be inhabited. Artistic impulses can knead their way into our bodies, past the armour of the constructed self, and starkly remind us of our desire to have our cover blown. Artworks that have this capacity to affect (infect) will inevitably leave traces that lead us back into the cramped quarters of the ‘real’, reminding us of their reason and clarifying their purpose so clearly, like a gift, as if to say ‘this is for you, please use it, digest it, and deal with it.’

They have to get into the crisis to be able to go on

Rick Buckley’s work Progress/Regress is rather repulsive. Besides treating the viewer to an excess of saliva, a set of impossibly garish teeth and rather monstrous facial hair, the work intensely invades the aural space of the gallery with a frenzied cackle that immediately incites a sensation of discomfort. As the laughter snowballs slowly into hysterical emissions at a pitch that defies understanding, it is clear that we want it (need it) to stop. The work simply progresses onwards, ignorant of our disgust, giddily egging us on. While a common reaction to the piece must be to laugh nervously along, the inevitable stomach churning effect of the audio/visual combination takes precedence. Quietly, the memory of an uneasy chuckle in an awkward situation creeps into our bodies, or maybe the sensation of the nervy laughter that accompanies our own personal, stressful moments. Soon, this mouth doesn’t seem so foreign, as it projects our own inadequacies and discomfort back at us, highlighting how the shrouded materiality of our bodies, our ‘window-dressing’, so easily betrays our internal realities. The desire to open our mouths and laugh loudly along, releasing these sounds in chorus in the gallery, is a temptation but it is most surely deflected by the proper norms of behaviour whispered continuously in our ear by our trusty reformed self. The hilarity eventually slows once again, and relief spreads through us as we are given a reprieve.

In his book The Anatomy of Disgust, William Ian Miller notes that one form of this emotion is related to Freud’s notion of disgust as a defence mechanism. However, unlike Freud, Miller contends that disgust is not only there to control our wanton desires, but the “damlike barrier” is in fact there to heighten our sense of pleasure [3]. We are drawn to Buckley’s piece because it affects, because it repulses and because we are engaged beyond what is correct or appropriate, and there is indeed pleasure in that. However, just because Buckley’s piece is ‘disgusting’ does not make it automatically successful in collapsing the boundaries inherent in art reception. What is interesting is that Buckley’s dialogue with us on a level that first attracts in a violent way, subsequently opens up a space for interaction that is beyond detached contemplation. By playing with our inner struggle between external and internal manifestations of self, Buckley incites corporeal and emotional responses within us that are instinctual, complex and that do not allow for a state of disinterestedness to overtake the experience.

...what?..who?..no!..she!..SHE!..

In Neil Jordan’s cinematographic interpretation of Samuel Beckett’s Not I, the stream of words, the urgency of the dialogue, the unbearable speed at which Mouth spews the story of her life, captivates from the first word. Julianne Moore’s mouth is so seductive and recognizable, yet after only a few minutes we easily forget it is her, and can only see this disembodied Mouth rambling on endlessly, desperate for reprieve, frustrated at being misunderstood.

The story is sad, the tale of a woman now in her seventies, speaking as if for the first time about a life unfulfilled, a lonely, awkward existence of someone deprived of the act of speech. But as she goes on, the struggle to possess this story and this life is made clear, as Mouth systematically denies any ownership of the tale, unable to admit that she is she. An unseen and unheard auditor in the background challenges her continually throughout the piece, but Mouth remains steadfast in her belief. It can’t be, these descriptions so unfitting, this life lived so different from her own understanding of the situation. She fights it, repelled by the facts, understanding only what she believes to be true. She is not Mouth. That would be too much, too heavy, too terrible to comprehend.

Our perceptions of (our) individual identity are always changing, unavoidably so, and are socially and culturally moulded to fit our specific situations. Mouth, the unforgettable star of Not I, exemplifies our desperate desire for this flexibility, but also makes clear the unsettling repercussions of our denial of the real; the I that is often overshadowed by these constructed others. It is so easy to adopt the look, the history and the composure of an acceptable life lived, but what is frightening about these masks is the recognition that we may not be living at all. This awareness shakes us to the core, making it impossible to walk away unchanged, needing a language to be able to describe what just happened.

I don’t understand anything

Buckley’s mouth, Mouth’s hysteria, both blatantly celebrate their existence on the periphery of the acceptable. When confronted with these works, it becomes apparent that an aesthetic category such as the beautiful (with a capital B) is insufficient. As defined by Edmund Burke and Kant in the 18 th century, the beautiful is in essence a feeling that incites gentle admiration (not awe), rejects excess (of course), and if ‘correctly’ appraised or identified (visually, from a distance), symbolizes good taste and reflects consensus (which is what we seem to be looking for when we read those explanatory panels at exhibitions). Although I (and others) would argue that such a categorization is volatile, reflecting the dynamic act of passing judgment, it remains that it is still presented as one of the most universal qualifiers upheld in the art world today. The beautiful for Kant, as Bourdieu reminds us, is linked to pure taste, which is “nothing other than a refusal, a disgust – a disgust for objects which impose enjoyment and a disgust for the crude, vulgar taste which revels in this imposed enjoyment” [4]. Kant however, also had a melodramatic side, and a need to give these ‘lower’ sensations an equally disputable qualifier.

The sublime does deal directly with what overwhelms, repels and puts us at a loss for words. More specifically, it has been identified as a feeling related to self-preservation. At the time of its definition, it was very much bound up in nature, and in moments or forces that were completely beyond the control of the individual. Contrary to the satisfactory emotion of the beautiful, as Kant stated in his Critique of Judgement, there is usually a moment of repulsion or fear that precedes the actual emotion of the sublime. Thus for him, this is not a positive pleasure, but a negative pleasure. The sentiment lingering after Buckley’s Progress/Regress, and the kind of emotional shock of awareness left behind by Not I exemplify this feeling, demanding a different level of commitment to the experience and relationship to the artworks. Investment is paramount. While it may be difficult for the mind to reasonably understand, what negative pleasure arouses in the individual is, in my opinion, the thrill of losing control.

I’m most open when I play open

Many writers have been inspired by the sublime in the quest to define a new, liberating, more dynamic and less restrictive space for the body (and our emotions). The exhibition Drawn by Reality – Encapsulated in Life also draws on this history, offering an emotional and sensual wake-up call if we are brave enough to deal with it. Although not as endangered as one may physically be in front of a steep cliff or raging storm (imagine the work of Caspar David Friedrich, the 19th century Romantic painter of the sublime in nature), our emotional borders are threatened by these works, the cracks in the facade of our constructed selves are amplified, revealing the rawness on the inside.

The experience of the viewer, so often dependent upon some sort of universal consensus on quality, could in fact be free from the restraints of collective appreciation if, instead of pretending experience, he or she is given a chance to live it. Society’s fear of letting go, of taking off the armour of so-called respectable behaviour, is in fact irrational. Pleasure of the body, of the gut, of emotion in front of a work of art is claimed to be ‘low’, ‘uncultured,’ ‘natural’ (and not in a good way), while pure taste supposedly reflects this (small) upper class of people who apparently ‘get it’. But who is really getting it, and what is it? Rather than blindly clinging on to outdated qualifiers or, in protest, seeking aisthesis, which is essentially the denial of aesthetic experience altogether, we should in fact be cultivating pleasure in the realization that there are thankfully moments when we are simply out of control.

In his book The Birth of the Museum (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), Tony Bennett suggests that the museum was in fact not only constructed as a space to order objects, but also as a space in which to order people.
Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1984): 34.
William Ian Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998): 113.
Bourdieu 488.