Depiction And Fiction: Evaluating The Virtual

When confronted with a character or an object that only exists as a depiction, we can comprehend it on at least two levels. We can think about the thing that is being depicted – the diegetic figure or object that exists within the story-world – but we can also appreciate the depiction itself, the skill with which the person or object has been rendered by the artist. Generally speaking, we tend to appreciate the craftsmanship of the depiction rather than the thing that is being depicted. We are impressed by the skill of applying paint to canvas in order to create the sense of a three-dimensional object. The paintings of Ron English are prime examples of this. We look at a painting like Road Story and are struck by the photorealistic quality of the image. The creation of space, distance, and solidity through the capturing of light in paint is artistic craftsmanship at its height.

But it is also true that the series of figures that populate English’s composition can be aesthetically evaluated on their own terms. Each of these improvisational mash-ups of toys and objects can be considered as a work of art in and of themselves, each with their own meanings and visual appeals. The creation process of a painting for English is a complicated and unusual one. Road Story looks like a diorama because that is essentially what it is. Or was, at least. English first makes the hundreds of figures that we see here, either drawing on his ever-growing army of mutant toys or creating new ones from scratch; then he arranges them in small settings until he has the effect he desires. He then takes a photograph of the arrangement and begins the process of recreating the image on canvas – sometimes slavishly following the photograph exactly, other times making changes to light, colour or composition as he goes along.

As such, we can see a painting like Combrat House as multiple works of art simultaneously: a collection of hand-made art-objects, arranged in a specific photographic composition, and meticulously rendered in paint. The clown-featured army ‘combrats’, the multicoloured dinosaur hybrids, the gasmask wearing Mickey Mouse pilots, not to mention the layers of stratum made out of hundreds of tiny figures, could all be appreciated as artistic endeavours in themselves, juxtaposing innocent iconography with associations of violence. On top of this, the specific arrangement of these figures within the setting is a work in own right, with the particular composition creating its own effects – for instance, the vibrant orange of the gas cloud emphasises the combrat on the left hand side of the image, while the multicoloured house on the right almost blurs into the vapour trail left by the pilot Mickeys. And finally we can appreciate the application of paint to canvas in the creation of this elaborate piece of work, how the flat image creates a sense of solidity and depth. But what distinguishes this example from the paintings of Todd Schorr or Robt. Williams (discussed in previous posts) is that the idiosyncratic toy collection of Ron English actually exists in the real world. We can easily evaluate the figures separately from our evaluation of the painting itself.

But when we are faced with virtual art-objects, which only exist within the painting, can we actually evaluate the object distinct from its image? Can we see past the depiction to evaluate the artwork within the fiction? Does the virtual art-object have less validity than the real one? If we return to a Robt. Williams painting we have previously discussed, In The Land Of Retinal Delights, we can better explore this question. Looking at the Tyrannosaurus Rex toy in the background of Combrat House, we can evaluate it in almost the same way that we can with the real dinosaur toy upon which it is based (other than its tactile qualities), as well as on additional aesthetic levels specific to the depiction. So why can’t we likewise evaluate the nonexistent objects of the Williams painting in the same way? The image provides us with a collection of meticulously rendered objects that span back into the distance, each one separated from the others, each with its own distinct look. Each one has had to be invented, imagined in three-dimensions in order to be successfully rendered in the two-dimensions of the canvas. Isn’t Williams here just as much of a toy designer as English is?

If we can consider an object that only exists within a depiction, with no solid reality outside of the painting within which it appears, as an art-object in its own right then might it be possible to extend this even farther into the realms of experiences and events? Can we comprehend and evaluate a theme park attraction or a work of performance art if it only exists within a filmic or animated text? A real amusement park like Disneyland is filled with rides and mechanical marvels that depict fictional conceits (the automata of Abraham Lincoln is an impressive depiction of the real historical figure, the ghosts of the Haunted Mansion depict diegetic ghosts). But what happens when people create non-existent amusement parks, which themselves only exist as depictions?

First, let us break from ‘Depiction and Fiction’ tradition and look an example from a live-action film. In Dark Castle’s remake of The House On Haunted Hill, we are introduced to the character of Stephen Price showing reporters around his latest amusement park on the day of its grand opening. He dismisses allegations of construction problems and health and safety issues with his rides. Suddenly the elevator that the characters are riding shudders to a halt and begins to rapidly fall back to earth. Yet, rather than crashing and killing them all, the doors simply open and reveal the top floor of the ride. The elevator is part of the ride, with video screens in place of windows to create the impression of free fall. When the press get on to the actual ride, similar moments of ‘orchestrated disaster’ follow (including a rail coming loose and flinging a carriage full of dummy patrons into oblivion).

These extreme thrill-rides would of course be impossible to make in the real world (or at least, impossible to make and not get sued). Their placement within a fiction film allows director William Malone imagination to run riot without the unfortunate repercussions of reality. But we as audience members vicariously experience these rides through the film. We are none the wiser than the press regarding the elevator or broken rail and so can extra-diegetically appreciate the ride on the level that it is meant to be appreciated within the story-world.

But this example is limited to the fact that recorded imagery is (largely) tied to real-life laws of space and time. The elevator with its video-windows was built as an actual model (though not as an actual elevator) on the film set. When we look at the paintings of Pooch Island, however, we are met with a greater variety of possibilities in the fictional rides. ‘Pooch Island’ is a loose conceptual setting for the paintings of tattooist-turned-fine-artist Pooch (real name Michael Pucciarelli), a kind of nightmarish Coney Island/Disneyland seen through the spectrum of Juxtapoz Magazine. Many of these paintings depict theme park rides and attractions, but more than a recurring motif that functions within the composition of the painting, these rides can be understood in terms of their function as solid attractions.

In all of these paintings, the depicted rides have a three-dimensional logic to them – although constructing any of them in reality would be impossible without unlimited funds. Each one is impossibly high, overlooking a vast landscape that stretches far into the distance, the angles of the rails do not always guarantee that patrons will be able to remain in their seats; gigantic figures loom threateningly over the tracks and it remains unclear if they are some animatronic part of the ride or a monstrous creature waiting for the right moment to pluck passengers out of their carriages. The rides also seem to play like conveyor belts to death – often the rails lead to unavoidable obstacles to oblivion. Luckily, most of the riders are monsters, devils or skeletons. Impossibly huge and dangerous though these rides might be, we can still appreciate and evaluate them in terms of their construction and function – even though this only exists on the canvas.

What we can’t do, however, is experience these rides in the way that we can the falling elevator of House On Haunted Hill (albeit in a second-hand capacity). We can only look at Pooch’s rides as constructs, as very big and elaborate objects. Is it possible, then, to evaluate something more fleeting if it only exists as a depiction? Can we evaluate a moment of physical activity that never actually occurred?

In Masaaki Yuasa’s Mind Game, we are given a complex tapestry of works-within-works (we are often treated to dream sequences or enactments of Manga stories that the central character is writing), but one of the most striking moments – for me at least – is a brief sequence when one of the characters entertains the others in what can only be described as an amazing piece of performance art.

The film has several other moments of ‘depicted-art’, that is, works that only exist as depictions of art within the story-world. A vast and elaborate collection of art-objects brings us back to Ron English – we can appreciate the artistic merit of these objects as objects (some real, some imagined), as well as the specific way in which they have been arranged and combined to create particular compositional effects, and finally on the artistic merit of the depictions themselves.

At one point, a character creates gigantic water-balloon sculptures filled with (what turn out to be) prehistoric fish.

These works are, unlike the object collection, less likely to occur in the real world. And yet, it is still possible to imagine an artist creating these same sculptures, filling them perhaps with real fish (or models of prehistoric fish). We can therefore quite successfully entertain the thought of how such artworks would be evaluated if they were to exist in the real world. But these are still just depicted objects. What about the performance?

It begins with the character appearing dressed in a mask and a costume with water balloon attachments on each breast and groin. There are hoses connected to the back allowing these balloons to be expanded with water.

The groin balloon is filled with an increasing amount of water until it is several times the size of her, and we can make out small baby dolls swimming about inside. The balloon is clearly representative of a womb – a monstrous womb for a horde of inhuman offspring. The girl takes a bow and arrow, and pierces the balloon – essential performing a self-caesarean.

Then she drenches herself in paint and throws herself up against a makeshift sail, leaving a crude imprint of her body in a running position. She repeats this in several colours until the circular piece of cloth has been covered.

Then the others take the cloth and run around with her in the centre. As they run faster, the images begin to blur and create the effect of a phenakistascope (an effect that can’t be captured with stills). As the painted imprint figures run around her, the breast-balloons expand and expand until they finally explode, raining water and glitter down upon the participants.

If this performance had occurred in reality, I for one would have been quite blown away by it. The events that comprise the performance are all achievable within the real world and the performance makes use of the body to communicate ideas about sexuality (expanding breasts), reproduction (the baby dolls), individuality (the repeated copying of the body in different colours), and physical achievement (the accumulated effect of the printed figures creates animation of a runner – combining both proto-cinema and sport). I could easily write an analysis of this performance as a performance. But, only being a depicted performance, one that exists as the end result of several animators drawing the events, can we really evaluate it in this light?

Just as I argued that Williams’ non-existent toys were just as valid as English’s real toys on an aesthetic level, I would say that in this instance we can certainly evaluate certain aspects of this sequence as a performance. Although we cannot talk about the impressiveness of the hydro-powered outfit (as it does not exist), or the physical achievement of creating the animation by hurling a painted body against a sail (as there was no real body performing these actions), we can still understand the events as a communication about bodies being expressed through bodies. To my mind, examples such as these demonstrate that we can always look through a depiction into the fiction that it conveys and understand it on its own terms.

                                                                                                                               - P.S.