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Venus looks back

It’s the look - the look in her eyes. It’s not a stare but it is direct. It is perceptive, even penetrating. It shows her to be a conscious being capable of scrutinizing the world as the world scrutinizes her. She does not smile. She demonstrates no need to mollify us. She knows she is looking and she knows that she is being looked at. She knows that the camera is the gateway to a subsequent anonymous audience of countless lookers whom she cannot see but knows will be there, looking at her in the future. She knew you would look. She knows that the looking will never stop. It’s part and parcel of the work that day, on those rocks, in that bathing costume, under that sky, in front of those waves. 

 

This photograph was taken nine years ago. Her life has moved on. The look declares that there is a difference between looking and knowing. They are not the same thing. The image and the person are never identical. Yet, that is the Barthesian magic of photography. It freezes a moment, and often an individual, for eternity and allows an unconnected person - you, dear viewer - to make up a story and feel a personal connection with this image, this subject, this scene.

 

So what draws you in? The composition is balanced even though she stands not in the exact center of it. The harmonious palette of cool blues, greens and grey of the rocks, sea and sky foregrounds her and complements the warmth of her skin, the red in her hair, the gold of her bathing suit, the coral of her nail polish. She is beautiful. She is young. The title, Teen Venus, links her to a tradition of European art going back to the Renaissance that idealized female body as something divine, especially in conjunction with nature. In 1863, Édouard Manet turned the tables on that long and condescending trope with his painting Olympia. That work hinges on the calculating look of a worldly woman, lying naked on a bed. She knows her worth, her place in society and, most importantly, she knows that you are looking at her. There is no place for your voyeurism here. She sees you and stares back, holding your gaze. She is clothed by her knowledge of the rules of the game.

 

Born in Ethiopia and raised in the South Bronx, Awol Erizku is used to contrasts and hyphenated experiences. His work explores the liminal spaces between cultures, lives and aesthetics. Teen Venus was created as part of a series of work shown in his first solo exhibition, Black and Gold, which was held at the Hasted-Kraeutler Gallery in 2012. It featured staged portraits of African American subjects that updated poses and scenes drawn from iconic images from Western art history and re-contextualized them using everyday environments and contemporary objects. This fusion of European art, vernacular accessories and fetishized artifacts of African culture has become a staple of Erizku’s photography, sculpture, and video installation that counter the absence of people of color in the canon of art history. His work is about agency. Reframing the past in the contemporary world, he creates nuanced spaces and shows how mutable the notions of authenticity and historical norms really are. 

 

In Teen Venus, he depicts his subject in a moment of transition between childhood and adulthood and in a hybrid space suspended between sea, beach and sky. His portrayal of her is not quite of this world. He knows that the sinuous curves of her contrapposto stance links her back to an older artistic tradition, that of ancient Greek sculpture and its illusion of movement through the apparent shifting of weight between a bent and straight leg. He also knows that this pose, the gentle tilt of her head and her luxurious flowing hair recalls Sandro Botticelli’s painting The Birth of Venus from the mid-1480s. In Botticelli’s work, the new-born goddess stands nude on a giant scallop shell as she emerges, fully grown, from the sea. In it, Botticelli was playing a game of artistic appropriation. By the end of the 15th century, European audiences would not have seen a large standing female nude as the central element in a work of art since the times of the Romans, some ten centuries previous. Botticelli’s pictorial composition was quite simply unprecedented in its time. And his debt to classical art goes further than that. His figure’s stance with her hands covering her breast and pubis is based on a famous type of sculpture from Antiquity: the Venus Pudica, the Venus of Modesty. By these references, Botticelli demonstrated his understanding and engagement with the cutting edge of cultural of his time. The rediscovery of artworks from the ancient world was the excitement of his age. By updating these classical forms, he remade and reactivated an older tradition for an audience of his peers. His work affirms both his public’s erudition and their progress as they looked to the future.

 

So Erizku’s photography stands firmly within this centuries-long dialogue about the ability of older forms to take on new meaning and speak to new audiences. However, Erizku’s work, by raising the question of who gets to be seen and celebrated in art, heightens that conversation. This is more than a game of reference and counter-reference. This is a challenge to centuries of iconography and interpretation that has ignored and marginalized generations of people of color. His work asks us to look again, see the absences and ask ourselves why we did not look for them before. All of this may be a lot to place on the lovely shoulders of our Teen Venus, but her look is undaunted. She knows what she represents. She understands her place in this discussion about history, beauty, and belonging. This is her stretch of beach and the power of the waves behind her seem at her beck and call. She is asking about our trespass into her realm and her look defines us as the outsider. Too often we forget that the goddess Venus was more than a pretty face and sensuous figure. Time and time again, she proved herself to be more than willing to seek violent and bloody retribution against mortals of both sexes who angered her. You ignored or disparaged her at your peril. 

 

Like her namesake, and despite her young age, Erizku’s Teen Venus is not one to be trifled with. She is looking. She is watching. She is seeing.

– Sara Cochran, April 2021

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Kerry James Marshall, Unititled, 2008, Acrylic on fiberglass,  79 x 115.25 in. Collection of Neda Young

Meditation on Kerry James Marshall's 

Untitled, 2008

Painting is a language. Besides being seen, it is meant to be read and to be felt. 

 

As a painter, I have to believe that everything that I put into a work will be transmitted to people who experience the painting in the flesh, so to speak. 

 

Great art captures and binds emotions with metaphor, eloquently expressed through details of observation. 

 

The grace of a great work of art is that it doesn’t feel forced or labored. 

 

 

Kerry James Marshall is clearly a master. His large, untitled work from 2008 is on display April 15 – May 15 at The Church as part of a conversation between a photographer, a poet and a painter. The show is called In Dialogue: At the Edge of the Sea.

 

I am going to focus on the Marshall painting. Because the work is untitled, there affords me more freedom for my interpretation. Because of how beautifully and confidently he has painted it, I am seduced by its unfolding.

 

The painting depicts a scene taking place at the edge of the sea. A couple, silhouetted against a sunset (or sunrise… or both?) look off to the distant horizon. They lean into each other, shoulder to shoulder, head against head, body to body in an intimate and comfortable embrace. His hand gently caresses her bottom. In the darkness of their silhouette there is no space between them. They are indivisible. They are a union. 

 

A ship sails to the horizon. A tiny lighthouse shines its beacon towards the immensity of the sun’s heavenly light. The ship-bow shape of land on which the couple stand reinforces the painting’s theme of journeys: arrivals, departures, returns. This painting invites reflection on the significance and impact different journeys have upon us: coming from, escaping to, longing for return, or with the history of slavery, taken from. This painting asks us to recall or imagine how the experience of any and all of those conditions would shape our souls.

 

There is an old broken down barbed wire fence, the remains of which run up and over one side of this spit of land. It denotes borders, boundaries, edges or separation. The barbs explicitly warn us to keep out. There is dune grass and daisies? sparsely dotting this hardscrabble plot of soil. They feel tough, resilient, willful and as far as the daisies are concerned, out of place. These daisies appear in shadow on the lower right and move in single file, sneaking under the fence, until, in the warmth and encouragement of the sunlight, they spread out and flourish. 

 

It should be noted that the daisy has historically and mythologically been used as a symbol of innocence, childbirth, motherhood and perhaps most importantly, new beginnings. 

 

Seagulls flap and flit above the couple’s heads. One of the gulls transects the sun, splitting a beam of light into two halos. This image suggests that this painting is meant to be understood as a sacred allegory of reassignment and redefinition. The seagull’s totemic significance is cunning, perseverance and survival. 

 

The time of day is fixed at a point of eloquent ambiguity. Frozen at the precise moment when a sunrise and a sunset can share the same tone of light and the same position of the sun to the horizon but not share the same significance. This gives the scene a wide range of interpretive direction. Depending on how one reads this moment of time, the painting will be understood as a hope-filled moment or a scene of longing and loss. 

 

I seek out art looking for meaning beyond appearance. I want to leave it feeling as if I’ve seen an apparition, knowing I’ve seen something remarkable. This Kerry James Marshall painting more than satisfies those criteria.

– Eric Fischl, April 2021

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L-R, Top to bottom: Rodin's Foot, Giacometti, Van Gogh's Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear, and Chris Burden being shot.

reflection on the body

in art and dance

After Martha Graham Dance Company's residency at The Church in February, 2021,

Eric Fischl offered this reflection on their work and the state of the body in art.

To see people using the space of The Church creatively, as intended, since only having workers there or bringing the occasional curious supporter through has made all the difference to me. The Church has now come to life with the residency of the Martha Graham Dance company, has begun to do what it was meant to do. The choreographers and dancers loved being and working there, and we were honored to have them inaugurate the space. 

 

It was amazing to watch choreographer Sonya Tayeh transmit her vision and see the dancers (Lorenzo Pagano, Leslie Andrea William and Jacob Larsen) realize it!  I felt privileged being allowed to witness her creative process, making the most subtle adjustments (how deep a dancer’s shoulder must turn, how sharp a cut, how long the position is held) are the seemingly small things you think you wouldn’t be able to perceive until you experience those refinements in creation and realize how big a difference they really do make.

 

I was talking to Janet Eilber, the artistic director of the Company about the body in dance and it reignited a meditation I have long had on the disappearance of the body in 20th century visual art. Here is a brief historic trajectory through Auguste Rodin, Alberto Giacometti, Vincent van Gogh and Chris Burden.

 

Rodin was the ultimate believer in our body’s ability to express itself, to externalize the emotional, sexual, psychological and spiritual needs of our souls.  No matter how fragmented his sculptures are (sometimes only a hand, a foot), you know immediately and empathetically what the rest of the body is feeling. 

 

Post WWII, the great Modernist sculptor Giacometti’s bodies are emaciated, chewed up figures who show the soul no longer being able to externalize, to share its angst except through deprivation. His artistic vision is the anorectic condition, the body barely animate.

 

In 1888, Van Gogh, in distress, cuts off his ear. No one thinks that was a work of art. He made a painting called Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear. Everyone thinks this is art. 

 

Almost one hundred years later, the radical body artist Chris Burden has himself shot in the arm as a performance at an art gallery. Everyone thinks this is art.

 

What happened in those 100 years that we would come to embrace self-mutilation as a form of creative expression? Aren't our struggles with injustice, helplessness, disappointments, missed opportunities, longing for connection and pleasure the same as they have always been? Certainly, it isn’t the body that has changed. So, what has changed?

 

This ongoing meditation was reactivated this week while watching these extraordinary dancers use their bodies in such expressive and beautiful ways. The one thing that cannot be disputed is that without the body there would be no dance. And watching them move in space as art, as expression, was a truly healing experience, inspiring and emotionally intact. It was also proof of a great artistic tradition that endures in the Martha Graham Dance Company.

 

– Eric Fischl, February, 2021

Short videos of the rehearsals are available on our YouTube Channel at The Church Sag Harbor