We don't have a particularly varied vocabulary for types of artist in English. It's all just art, or, at least, what we designate as art is. And that's just it, since it's all in the perception. What should a professional artist make of that, then? Where does their art end and where does it begin? Does it seep into their everyday existence, intentionally or not? Should they even let it? D and H inhabit a work of architectural art, repurposed by them as both living space and workspace, and thus as a third, insidiously influential element in their relationships. Or is that just their relationship? Where does their art end and where does their life begin? Exiled in their secluded London abode, ventures outdoors have a startling effect on them, be that to inspire dangerous contemplation, or to engender psychological shifts. Nature, crudely imported to ornament the manufactured landscapes which have run it to virtual extinction in the city, beckons them out, feebly, yet threateningly to their eyes. As D burrows ever deeper into her mind, pursuing both contentedness and creativity, she finds herself increasingly attached to these artificial interiors, clutching at rocks, melded to walls, fearful of all that is natural and necessary in human life - sex, sensitivity, space. She wraps herself in coils, and cultivates an addiction to rigour and routine, defined by the harshness of manmade structures, interspersed with unsettling acts of strange spontaneity. Joanna Hogg is neither explicit nor implicit in her storytelling, which seems to lack purpose and the sensorial impact it possibly strives for, yet reimburses itself with its immense intelligence. Exhibition is a cryptic commentary, less straightforward than it intends you to notice, and maybe its aforementioned purpose and impact lie in its indirectness, its sombre refusal - or inability? - to reach out and pull you in. You've got to make that effort too. Her art wouldn't exist without you, after all, since it's all in the perception.
No comments:
Post a Comment