Quick-Change Artists
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Many years ago, I saw a stunning coup de théâtre in the performance of a Kabuki play. One of the characters was chased from a house, ran out onto the veranda, leapt onto the top railing, and did a somersault to the ground; while he was spinning in the air the actor somehow completely changed his costume and makeup so that when he landed he had been transformed from a human being into a fox. The audience gasped and applauded. Metamorphoses are an important part of many cultures, but particularly in Asia where widespread belief in reincarnation and shape-shifting spirits makes the possibility of transformation an everyday reality. That, at any rate, is the organizing concept behind “Transfigurations,” the current exhibition of work by four artists at Sepia International.
New Yorkers have been fortunate in being able to see the work of Liu Zheng in several recent museum and gallery shows. There is one of his black-and-white portraits from “The Chinese” at Sepia and, although Mr. Zheng’s grand theme is the transformation of the Chinese people from Marxist-Leninist-Maoist communism to free-market communism, the individual pictures capture more personal changes. “An Old Actor Playing a Female Role, Beijing” (1995) shows the man made-up and costumed in the traditional manner, but nature is overcoming artifice; his aging body is no longer able to strike a graceful pose and the feminine beauty of his face has coarsened.
In “Qigong, Beijing” (1996), a middle-aged man stands with his arms raised above his head as he practices a meditation technique similar to tai chi. He wears a well-tailored Mao suit and has some mechanical pens and pencils in his breast pocket, a sign that he is more than a common laborer. His eyes are shut and his brow furrowed as he concentrates on his exercise, hoping for relaxation from the brutal materialism that confronts him when his eyes are open. Mr. Zheng uses a flash for his portraits — a technique similar to that of Diane Arbus — which separates his figures from the background and makes them slightly garish. The pictures look somewhat dated relative to contemporary American practice, but serious Chinese artists have a lot of time to make up for, and Mr. Zheng is an absolute master at what he does.
Tao Amin makes ink-wash rubbings on rice paper of the wooden washboards used by rural Chinese women to do their laundry. The utilitarian washboards and the hard labor associated with them are transfigured to art. The ink runs and the rubbings look like calligraphy, no more abstract than real ideograms to people unable to read them.
Gaye Chan was born in Hong Kong and immigrated to America when she was 12 years old. Her project consists of “found” photographs pasted over plates torn from “Historic Characters and Famous Events,” a book published in 1894: single black-and-white snapshots stuck in the middle of prints of great personages. The prints have titles such as “Death of General Gordon at Khartoum,” “Aristotle Teaching Alexander,” “Henry IV at Canossa,” and “Nelson at Trafalgar.” These are the great happenings that schoolchildren used to be taught, but smack-dab in the middle of “Napoleon (1814)” is pasted a photo of an anonymous woman in a kimono posed in front of some palm trees. We see Napoleon’s boots as they pace the snow in a forest and also the bottom of his cloak, but the rest is obscured.
Similarly, we see a fair amount of flaming carnage around the periphery of “Nero at the Burning of Rome,” but all we see of the emperor is the bottom of his toga and a languidly upraised arm; the rest of him is covered over by a snapshot of a young woman in a white dress sticking her tongue out at the camera. There is an opportunity here for a lot of heavy speculation about the meaning of history and the dead, white males responsible for it, but my reaction to Ms. Chan’s work is that it is cute, and not much more. Juxtaposition implies significance, but may simply be random.
Lenticular pictures are printed on a minutely corrugated plastic material so that the image changes when the viewer changes his position. An eye that winks, or a woman in a grass skirt doing the hula-hula are common examples. Annu Palakunnathu Matthew uses large-format lenticular portraits in “The Virtual Immigrant,” a 2006 series that explores cultural shifts as seen in a telephone call center in Bangalore, India. The call center employees, whose work is simultaneously in India and in America, are shown in one aspect of a picture wearing their contemporary Western work outfits, and in another aspect of the same picture wearing their indigenous traditional clothes. This is a highly conceptual technique of the sort I am generally leery of, but Ms. Matthew makes it work, probably because of her sympathy for her subjects.
“Kirti” is a young woman who is either seen wearing an orange sari and standing with her arms folded, or wearing a blue denim jacket with her thumbs hitched in the pockets of her jeans. In the former she has a relaxed smile, and in the latter an impersonal frown; the caste mark between her eyebrows stays the same. Move your head a few inches, and the image changes from one to the other and back again. “Adil” is either a middle-aged man in a white silk tunic and cap, or the same man in a white cotton button-down shirt and gray slacks with a leather phone case on his belt. Is the little metal crocodile on the case a traditional Indian symbol or the Lacoste logo?
wmmeyers@nysun.com
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