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.
