- Venue
- Box
- Location
- East Midlands
Box creates a new style of space within Nottingham, a 12 foot square box intended to host 12 shows, each opening on the 12th of the month for a short period of time, over the course of one year. A roughly hewn box capped with tarpaulin sits unfinished and unrefined in the loft of Backlit, up the creaky blue stairs, and concentrates efforts on a more experimental and transient way of showing work that creates a space devoid of the white cube mentality.
This is an immersive environment that potentially leads to an interesting audience reaction, something which might contrast or bypass the problematic space issues. ‘Dirt’, the first show in the space is a mish-mash of forms and styles looking towards the dark side; the filth and detritus of modernity creates a confounding array of work. The works have no titles, and only a list of the artists ‘porn star’ names are available. There are large circular mirrors and I am all too aware of my presence through their all-seeing eyes in this confined and busy space, packed with work alluding to many contrary but inevitably interlinked ideas of filth and dirt. The space seems to try and echo the shows theme by being so unrefined, haphazard and unfinished; this is a makeshift exhibition space with walls that feel like an afterthought placed out of a necessity to separate the area from the surrounding studios.
The effect of this separation calls into question the status of the space as a gallery. Its location within the studio complex instead of on its perimeter means that the viewer must first make their way through work in progress and the usual detritus of production, then rising above it via the rickety staircase to access the space. At the bottom of the stairs is a red carpet, the wall above it bearing a series of A4 white printer paper upon which is written a ‘romantic’ story revolving around a woman’s encounter with a glory hole in a telephone box and her subsequent solo sexual liberation. This sets the tone for much of the work within the space, of which there is too much to describe here without the review descending into the realm of pure description.
It would seem that the curator’s decisions thus far have led us, the viewer, to have a roughly hewn encounter with roughly hewn work. There is little finesse here, instead much use of found and appropriated materials, an aesthetic which continues with a pencil hung from a bare wall encouraging the viewer to add their own work to the space. The role of the viewer is intriguing, both their response and their participation. The space is reminiscent of a ‘project space’, with the arrangement of the work much like the disarray of a crit group, each member displaying their work for discussion, the numerous video works are presented with only one monitor and a pile of DVD’s left for the viewer to decide what plays. Box becomes a venue for trying out, for experimentation – but whether it is the curator or the artists experimenting to the greater extent is debateable.
A series of photographs occupies one corner, creating a narrative within what appears to be a disused space, life only occupying the final frame where a character discovers and takes pornography from a drawer in an old desk. Pornographic images are prevalent; a huge number are screwed up and arranged, some in a cube attached to a pair of old boots accompanied by an image of this sculpture taken at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. Images of women from vintage porn have had the flesh removed and replaced by satellite pictures of geographical locations, a similar technique used to distort and replace the inside of Janet Leigh’s screaming mouth from that iconic scene in Psycho. This use of the subverted male who, quashed under his mothers perceived authority, makes the ultimate backlash against womankind raises questions. This idea of the male figure responding violently to the emergence of the powerful female is fascinating in this context, the notion that a young man emerges now into a world in which his previous social role has been jilted might be put forward as a reason for a new fascination with the male member.
The 1970’s saw the impact of the feminist movement choosing to use their bodies to reveal the objectifying male gaze and through doing so release naked femininity, somehow, from that cultural bondage as an object for male sexual desire. The fight for equality changes forever the previously accepted social roles; the phallus, so long revered, lost its power as the symbol of authority, protection and fertility and becomes a joke, an engine for crass humour and even an object to be ashamed of. Dan Grahams film ‘Rock My Religion’ talks of the phallus loosing its power as a symbol of male prowess in rock and roll when Jim Morrison finally revealed his penis on stage one evening. Rock, the film says, lost its power in that moment and the untouchable male rockstar became fallible.
All but one of the video works prominently feature the penis. There is an explicit pornographic film where we see neither participants face and hear nothing as the soundtrack is replaced by a Sade song; another where the female figure, replaced by a flat black silhouette, is forced to kneel as several men masturbate over her. These suggest that pitiful male form, seeking to sexually dominate women and force them into submission; an assertion of mans former social standing. A third video work depicts the artist masturbating through a glory hole into a corridor where another man prowls as if waiting for that elusive cock to appear, it is suggested that he has ejaculated onto the floor. This action changes the possibilities of the wasted, spent paint spread on makeshift palettes on the wall with signs reading ‘wet oils’. Wet oils indeed, the by-product of self indulgence, unused seed.
The audience reaction (I use the term ‘audience’ as by the end of the evening a crowd of perhaps 18 people had gathered) was the most intriguing of the night, eclipsing the other work in the show. It is obvious that the audience is uncomfortable. Perhaps it is the presence of women leading the males to expose their machismo, or the ramshackle environment (after all, pornographic images in a white space tend to, unless challenged by the media, be acceptable) that creates a sense of being art of something underhand, but the jeering and joking and making light of the situation leaves me questioning my own perspective on what I see. It’s not that I’m offended (again, this is partly the nature of considering it ‘art’), but that I feel uncomfortable around this material in a group.
I want to leave you without a conclusion. If I’m honest, I’m not sure what to make of it all and am torn between thinking of the male as a helpless, spent sexual power fighting to keep a grasp on his position, and a stance leaning towards the machismo, of man being uncomfortable around his own dominant nature. It may be my own male perspective creating a barrier to being decisive, or admitting I am slightly inept. The nature of the space and the quantity of work with mirrors reminding the viewer of their presence means it is a difficult place to successfully navigate and one where careful observation of others might reap at least an equal reward to carefully considering the work. Instead, I will leave you with the statement posted on the Facebook event page:
“A nameless group exhibition about dirt. BOX has been left/will open in it’s raw state – with unpainted boards, visible screw heads, and a disgusting floor. Dirty Martini’s (olive juice and cheap vodka) will be served. Studio detritus, new films, performances, photographs, drawings, paintings and sculptures will be shown. No names named, this is not a show you would want on your CV, or might like to bring relatives to. Something for the new year.”
Something for the new year indeed. Get it started with a ‘bang’, if you are so inspired.
