11:23 a.m. - Nov. 04, 2002
Anna Glaskell...Max Ernst...@ the Menil
It's been cold and rainy, for days on end now - perfect weather for reflection. I got a lot of thinking done. And yesterday I went to the museum (The Menil Collection - it's my favorite, locally, because of their fantastic collection of Surrealism). They have a relatively large collection of Max Ernst, whom I love to no end. Like music, I find that I need a good FIX for art...every now and again. I've been having cravings for beauty and ingenuity. And ah - such wonderful things filled my eyes!
Max Ernst.
If Max Ernst were music, he would be Goldfrapp - haunting and beautiful and disturbing, all at once. I wonder without fail, when I study his works, "Where does it come from - how could he get THAT out of his head?" What a gloriously twisted imagination he must possess.
But...there was a new, temporary exhibit at the Menil Collection, as well. By a young contemporary artist - from Boise, Idaho, of all places. Anna Glaskell. Her collection was titled Half Life and consisted of only 9 photographs...and a film. The film was a stand-alone...no music accompaniment...no narration...no words...no explanation. In fact, there was no hint that it even existed. I'm sure a lot of people might have overlooked it. One room with nine photographs - and they looked like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock film - cold and warm, stark and rich...images of a girl, but only pieces of her. You could see only a lock of her hair or the silhouette of her form, but you were never given the gift of seeing her face or the details of her hands. Black hair. Only the black hair. And she was alone, in a setting of rich opulence. I got the feeling of a deep loneliness - of a person that has everything and yet nothing at the same moment. I could hear the poetry that I know existed behind the silence of the photos. Those were the images of the photgraphs. But the film. The film...
After taking my fill of her photographs, I stood there, just allowing it all to sink in, contemplating the subtle significance of the feelings that were welling up inside of me. I was in the middle of the room where her exhibit was being shown. And, except for the curator, the "protector," I was alone. In the corner of my eye stood an open door - no sign welcoming you in or beckoning you to explore. As I approached, I thought for certain that the "protector" was going to stop me..."Excuse me, miss, that is a restricted area - closed to the public." But the words never came and I kept walking. When I passed through the doorway, it was, at once, very very dark. I feared, for a moment, of stumbling in the darkness - or walking directly into someone. But I was alone. With the film. And the film needed nothing - it needed nothing to accompany it...or explain it...or take away from it. It was perfect in its silence. I had stumbled onto a liquid tomb.
The film consisted of a young woman only seen from the shoulders up. A close-up. And she was under water, floating, suspended, being held by nothing. She simply existed in the water, as if a little death had just washed over her. No pain, no fear, no struggle. Just floating, softly. All that was present in the frame was her face, her naked throat, and her hair, sweeping slowly on the soft ripple of a slow current. No bubbles of life (or fading life) escaped her lips, her nose or her eyes. But it was a sweet death that kissed her. I was held, captivated, unable to move - but I spoke. I spoke to her. I don't know why...other than I just felt compelled to do so. What is her name? Shall I whisper her name? If I knew it, I would call it out...and maybe she would hear me. Anna. The artist. I whispered her name, an invitation...open your eyes. I felt them flutter. Much to my amazement, a mere two seconds later, her eyes fluttered open. She stared out at me with unfocused eyes, lost. And then closed them again, returning to her liquid tomb.
Fuck.
