Everybody here / Comes from somewhere / But they would just as soon forget / And disguise And sheer humiliation / Of your teenage station / Nobody cares, no one remembers and nobody cares (REM)
Natalie Hunter‘s Staring Into The Sun was an exhibition that changed, literally in terms of the light and shadows, over the period it was at Rodman Hall. But it also changed for me and my interpretation, in terms of where I was ‘standing’ in relation to the translucent, ephemeral works (again, both literally, but also where my mental and emotional positioning was, too). So, whereas my initial interactions with that work were more formal (such as how Helios, on the windows, had different facets whether inside or outside the gallery), when I visited the last week it was on display I was thinking more of death, grieving, loss and that which is left behind, whether more permanent or that which ‘flees like a shadow, and continueth not’ (Job).
Its a variation on the amenable object, but more personal. One of the reasons I still enjoy writing about art after all this time is that works are fluid, and not only do we respond to them, but sometimes we encounter an artwork that seems to speak directly to us, in a way that doesn’t rely on language or words and thus can cut through the barriers we build. A favourite writer of mine, Margaret Laurence described it aptly as how ‘what goes on inside isn’t ever the same as what goes on outside.’
This brings us to period of adjustment, a solo exhibition by Carrie Perreault, currently on display at the Niagara Artist Centre. period of adjustment is difficult work: not solely in that the emotional engagement of the visitor is necessary to a full – if variant – experience, but that it may evoke emotions and memories on a personal, familial or social level, that may make you uncomfortable. Perhaps as much so as the young woman in the large video projection methodically, painfully and clearly regretfully ‘abusing’ the ‘other’ woman – the artist herself, sitting stoically, enduring, thinking soon it will be over until the video loops again and again and again – by smashing eggs on her head. The crack of impact is louder than you’d expect: the innards and goo stream down her hair, face, shirt and reside in her lap. But she never breaks eye contact with you. It might be described as a pleading look, but somehow you know she knows – from past experience – that we can (we will?) do nothing.
This is a re enactment of past suffering. That’s obvious to any of us who’ve ever sat in that chair. Its almost as though its a forced social ritual, that no one enjoys but must be done. Perform and display your pain for others, who might ignore it, or might even be amused, or just look away in disgust.
The exhibition can be read as four separate but interlinked works, like squabbling siblings. The prints on the left hand wall (I have always taken the weather personally, 2017, intaglio, screen print, mixed media) aren’t the first thing you’ll notice, nor will they alternately engage and repulse you, like Untitled (eggs) (2018, the aforementioned video projection – or For once in your life, just let it go (2018), a work ensconced in the alcove room at the back of the gallery. The last will aurally assault you, then as the blood begins to flow, will both enthrall and repel you. It merits its own ‘room’, though the pick pick pick leaks out into the ‘proper’ space, tainting it. period of adjustment is most affecting – and effective – when experienced alone. Perhaps you’re more introspective then. Or more vulnerable.
There is, after all, no real clear point when ‘then’ stops and ‘now’ begins: emotions and memory are insidious, you might say, that way (like a bit that keeps pushing through the ink, that bit of ‘deformity’ or ‘scar’ on the concrete….)
Over my dead body (2019) rests slab-like in the not-quite centre of the room. Concrete and mixed media, the whorls in the (mostly) flat surface allude to a grinding down, an erasure, a palimpsest that – by definition – fails, with bits of colour there and here showing through, rising to the surface, like a subconscious emotion that won’t be drowned, despite your efforts, or the efforts of others – [t]here’s a downstairs in everybody. That’s where we live. (Gaiman). Perreault’s process of creating, destroying, creating, erasing, marking and making, then concealing those marks (as in weather) are a way in which the non video works are united in this show.
The exhibition statement: Working primarily in sculpture and performance, Carrie Perreault balances resistance and restraint in onerous actions that recount long-term precarity. In making her work, she expends great effort to achieve minimal results. This isn’t about labour; she prioritizes process to reflect on systems of abuse and their connection to emotional and psychological experiences. Through gestural, often repetitive acts and narratives that resist closure, she alludes to complex trauma and its residual effects. By exploring, in a visceral way, failures, vulnerabilities, and the limits of her body, Perreault makes viewers keenly aware of their own.
I’m a firm believer in synchronicity, during my time in Niagara: Carrie and I have known each other since not long after my arrival here. During the walk through she generously gave me, the day period of adjustment opened, we spoke of family and how bonds of family bind both ways. They bind us up, support us, help us, and they are also a bond from which it is difficult, perhaps impossible to extricate oneself. (Gaiman) This conversation took place several weeks after my father’s death, and there are nothing but mixed feelings with such a ‘large death’ as that, and personal memories and experiences unique to the situation make it deeper and thicker, like the pasty, flat white silk screened ‘disguises’ and ‘masks’ that Perreault layered upon her printed work in this exhibition.
More emotional synchronicity: what we (don’t) say to our families, what they (don’t) say to us, and what we (are taught to) hide from each other. A friend talked about therapy and being asked about familial relationships and rating them from 0 to 5. She lied and said 4 (kindness over honesty). Her parent WAS honest and said 0, and she spit anger at how ‘truth’ can be a ‘favourite set of brass knuckles’ (Dunn)… . This led to a conversation about the lies we tell for the social fabric that may sometimes drown us and destroy and degrade us. Castles built in sand, words not so much unspoken as unheard, a deafness that is not physical but emotional: it wears you down like razed concrete or an egg to the head, repeated. One of my favourite biblical family quotes is Jesus’s advice to a child, regarding his parents, to ‘leave the dead to bury the dead.‘
There are aspects of Perreault’s work – eggs, obviously – that speak to [at] those of us who’ve been bullied as children and remember when we weren’t protected, and our pleas for help were not only ignored, but ridiculed: but damaged people are dangerous as we know we will survive (Hart). Further, there’s an internalizing of this treatment: we deny it ourselves, eradicating all traces (as with weather or body) or we engage in rituals we’re perhaps unaware of, on a conscious level, ignoring how we make ourselves bleed and suffer (as with For once in your life).
This is what we were taught. We’ve learned our lessons well. Look how smooth the prints and concrete are, how well disguised and ‘bland’, and how stoic and intense are the players in period of adjustment.
One of NAC’s ongoing Homecoming series, period of engagement is on display there until August 17th, 2019. This exhibition is partially accessible. There is ramp access at the entrance of the Niagara Artists Centre. The gallery is on the ground floor along with three non-gendered bathrooms, one of which is accessible. There will be an audio description of the exhibition available. If you have specific accommodation requests please get in touch with firstname.lastname@example.org