|
|
Landon
Claims and the Saskatchewan of the Mind
by Charlotte Townsend-Gault
Contemporary Art Gallery, Vancouver, Canada,
1996
|
—READING—
Looking at these vast, dark paintings spattered with
stars, gleams and what could be the lights on radio
towers, all partially veiled with milky vapours, viewing
habits might suggest the night sky, and habits of reading
recall Keats’ lines: “And when I see upon
the night’s starred face/Huge cloudy symbols
of a high romance.” But it is unlikely that paintings
made now in Canada by a woman would be representations
of this kind. And why should all this dark paint signify
the darkness of night? They instantly raise questions
about how they should be read. Landon Mackenzie has
taken literally the idea that the image is a text and
makes it very obvious. There is ‘writing’,
linear words, all over the painted surface, and beneath
it. It is often hard to read, but not always. It is
not clear whether the emphasis is on what we can get
or what we can’t. Even if they are intended as
allegories of reading, it does nothing to discourage
speculation as to what these traces of expansive even
frantic, activity mean. All four paintings contrive
to be at once highly activated and to have great passages
of calm and silence. The immense ‘black holes,’ that
punch through everything else on the canvases, could
be hurtling towards the viewer, or they could just
be gaps in the picture.
At the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design, in the
early 1970s, Mackenzie was exposed to labour intensive
processes of art-making which were apparently cool,
but perhaps obsessive, declaring everything, but perhaps
hiding everything. This is a conclusion that might
be reached if a connection is made to the ‘writing’ of Les
automatistes to which she was introduced by Guido
Molinari at graduate school in Montreal. At Concordia
also there was Irene Whittome’s emphasis on ritual
material practice, some clues for Mackenzie on the
sheer difficulty of being a female artist,
and Molianri’s encouraging insistence that she paint,
advice that for a long time she resisted. Since those
days she has studied with Griselda Pollock, with whose
ideas “I am often struggling to agree,” but
who introduced her to themes from Gyatri Spivak, Julia
Kristeva, Luce Irigaray and bell hooks. She has also
learned cautiously from Mary Kelly, and from fragments
of Derrida’s notion of l’écriture.
All this, much of it picked up in conversation, is
layered into her thinking with elements prefigured
in her earlier work. The process, not one of blending
components into a resolved whole but wrestling with
them, is mimicked in the construction of the works
whereby historical texts about the Prairie territory
and her struggles to unravel them are layered in. By
Susan Stewart’s account such work would be an
extension of the crimes of writing, which has given
the 20th century avant garde permission innumerable
times to use ‘writing,’ often illegible,
for its own ends. Mackenzie’s magpie intelligence
finds that theory both illumines and ‘can shut
you down.” In a sense her paintings are like
commonplace books, noting emotions and passages of
phrases, historical and contemporary, that have caught
her attention—a sort of auto-bibliography. All
of this contributes to but does not fully account for
what makes them worth looking at.
Such a history makes her paintings instructively different,
of course, from other vast, mostly dark paintings which
in a way they resemble. Ad Reinhardt’s—not
to be scanned for they simply yield unified paintings
to deliver an awed frisson. A ‘reading’ of ‘pictures’ has
become permissible, or their own deconstruction may
be painted into the work, repression and displacement
can be key, and hidden depths something other than
risible. Like other women who have been making paintings,
or using painting in their work, in such a climate,
in Canada, since the early 1980s, Joanne Tod, Mary
Scott, Shirley Wiitasalo amongst them, Mackenzie positions
herself vis a vis paint, and paints her engagement
with the problems of reading. It is inseparable from
her frustrated rumination on the absence of a space
for women to paint what matters to them without using
patriarchal paradigms, mostly oppressive. What she
must grapple with is whether she is painting the predicament,
the frustration, or painting her way out of it.
—ON THE FLOOR—
Mackenzie starts with the large canvas on the floor;
but before you can say “Pollock” you know
it is Griselda not Jackson. From the former she learned
that there is no easy space for a woman to ‘paint’ her
body, (even though she has photographs of one of her
young daughters artlessly applying paint to her face,
torso and limbs). She turned to ‘writing’ her
body, painting the writing with her body, the hand
with the brush or tube recording the body’s somatic
language. At first she pads all over it in socked feet
(at 7’6” x 10’3” the canvases
are “big enough to get lost in”). Once
the painting has been stretched she works from a wooden
contraption, with widely spaced wheels, on which she
can traverse the canvas a few inches above it. After
the canvas has undergone an intimate, inverted archeology,
and been transformed several times, she continues to
work on it vertically “to resolve the ending.”
Her archeology of personal knowledge can be glimpsed
in, for example, If I Loved a Cowboy…Leaving
her Fingerprints All Over Everything She Does.
Three black holes hang on the diagonal from lower left
to upper right, or the other way round, as a fall or
a climb or, if it’s in perspective, flat. From
a distance it looks as though they were there on the
canvas first; up close, perhaps as if they came later,
darkening the calligraphy that runs across and across
without beginning or end. The most visible rabbit is
in the centre foreground, somewhere in a stratosphere,
which is looped with concentric rings of fingerprints.
There is another diagonal, of rabbits, top left to
lower right, or the reverse, many rabbit ears emerging
from the gloom. More of her fingerprints break away
from the black hole on which they seemed to be centred,
into a diaspora, fading away, turning blue, then glowing
turquoise, pink, citron, phosphorescent violet, enlarged
and separated from any discernible pattern. The rest
of the painted field is activated by being part matte,
part gloss; some areas are brightly lit from some underlying
glowing flux, others murky, in places layers in relief,
in others there’s nothing there. The black holes,
the voids, are the most assertive components.
—SASKATCHEWAN—
Inevitably such a formal account is misleading. These
paintings, and this one is typical, present themselves
rather as dense force fields, palimpsests of many partly
discernible things, partly legible cursive writing,
the odd word—“Saskatchewan (twice), 40
acre…too sociological…40 acres”—and
stories she is willing to share. Although she has lived
in several other parts of Canada, Saskatchewan is a
place she has taught herself about rather than lived
in, which she visits to be anonymous and write in Prairie
cafes; to brood over some unforgettable memory, a transformative
moment, somebody’s studio seen from the black
streets; to pore over old maps in the provincial archives
until she knows the old trails like the back of her
hand; to identify with the so called Riel Rebellion;
to grasp its specific history and to see it as emblematic
of Canada, for the maps speak of obliteration, takeover
and gridlock. In at least one of the paintings, Gabriel’s
Crossing to Humboldt, a grid underlies the field.
It is cause of both pride and anxiety that her great
uncle, George Douglas, was an explorer of the Coppermine
River, and, in 1911, made a legendary voyage north
with canoe and box camera from Edmonton along the Athabasca,
Slave and Mackenzie Rivers to the point where the Coppermine
flows into the Arctic Ocean.
Thus Mackenzie willingly deconstructs her paintings.
Several times I was reminded of Jeff Wall. Although
his pictures take on representation with a clarity
that seems the obverse of Mackenzie, his pictures are
also filled with their own pedagogy which he is willing
to talk about. But then when he stops talking, or you
are left alone, these instructions for viewing settle
into the incoherent spaces that have somehow opened
up and confirm or dispute with what you have somehow
been told. And after some private dialectic you can
end up somewhere quite different, perhaps even flouting
the instructions. The point of this comparison is that
first you need the reader’s guide. And you also
need to know where you are. Wall and Mackenzie read
differently outside Canada. A basic Bourdieu point,
but it does change the script.
—READER’S GUIDE—
Intercalated amongst the traces of words and shadows
of images there is a conglomeration of urgent musings
that direct her work and, once you know, can be uncovered
in it:
Painting—whether to, and what;
What kind of a subject is the female body, her eroticism
and her crises?
Writing the body/writing on painting;
Wild secret desires vs domestic and emotional security;
Risk of bathos re the above;
Canada, its mythologies and imaginaries;
The need to unravel personally the fact and fictions
of the
colonialist assault on native populations;
Maps and map-making—an activity both absolute
and proximate;
Landscape painting a kind of mapping?
The analogy between land and body, both mapped and
systematized by invaders;
Saskatchewan, ‘the Prairie,’ its histories,
maps—a real place and an allegory;
The construction of Regina, aka “The creek before
where the bones lie;”
The interminable struggle to loose the social bonds
and disappear
into some ‘Saskatchewan’ of the mind…
Any attempt to focus on one of these items is belied
by the sheer multifariousness of the work and the familiar
muddy waters of polysemy. One of the interesting questions
about representation raised by work like Mackenzie’s
is the extent to which the decipherables—fragments
of a map, rabbits, a hanged man—direct you to
read the ‘meaning’ of the paintings as
a whole. The alternative is that, along with the indecipherables,
they add up to a picture of the processes of making,
and accompanying emotional, intellectual and physical
processes. I would suggest that both possibilities
are at work. These are, in other words, about themselves,
self-reflexive paintings. But they also reach out clearly
enough into the discourse where they can be understood
as claiming a space for painting, including ‘landscape.’ How
do they do this?
They persist in problematising a position that has
still not gone away (as Mackenzie puts it, now that
sex, romantic love, bodily crises have been named and
up-dated “nobody gives a damn because it’s
only ever women’s stuff”) by problematising
their own reading. But why, in post-Kelly days, concede
so much to the most mealy mouthings of the worldwide
Boys’ Club? or the Preston Mannings of the world?
And what of the risk of perpetuating the reading of
woman as “irrevocably immersed in flux and language-less,” as
Carol Laing put it in her mapping of the woman and
painting debate in the late 1980s; and isn’t
the land/body analogy now too corny to be considered?
Mackenzie’s defenses are the well-rehearsed discursive
struggles, and the hope that a painting can be more
than the sum of its, theoretical, parts. This is a
risk because there is a tendency among those who do
the serious authenticating to see such a position as
anachronistic folly, a return to the point at which
theory became a necessity. Mackenzie must hold her
own even though it is indeed irritating that transgression
has its own syntax, its own canon. Her engagement with
a world way beyond the framing edge is marked by her
attempted defiance within it.
—LANDON’S CLAIM—
If this is more or less how it goes it means that,
from amongst the various claims she makes, the most
significant is the one that says her work is about
claiming a space, occupying it and then showing what
she did with it. An anthropologist friend introduced
her to Pierre Bourdieu’s idea of habitus—a
space, both actual and metaphorical, where the body
moves around and is identified as a social person.
She wants to paint a “home space” as free,
as necessary to occupy and as much her own as the actual
studio space she goes to when she leaves home to be
an artist, a social role. In this role she is trying
to record the hidden and the forbidden in a rebellion
against the society’s controlling text. The paintings
are interventions into her own life as much as into
any discourse. Riel and Gabriel Dumont are among the
heroes here, along with the many lost voices, in their
efforts to un-make the encroaching map of Canada.
—BLACK HOLES—
For all this guidance through the paintings, the eye
is constantly being foiled and the mind frustrated,
the writing has no beginning and no end, the imagery
is opaque, the gaps in the painting glare. In the story
that she tells about herself there are gaps, absences,
the yearning for the Saskatchewan of the mind. When
it comes down to it, everything in the reading guide
is a struggle. It is at this point that the black holes
swim into focus, as clues.
Mackenzie’s work is part disclosure—the
reading guide giving enough away to prevent bewilderment.
But part of its fascination is the withholding, the
space for doubt and undisclosed secrets. This in itself
is a recognized feminist strategy—think of Barbara
Kruger, but think also of Luce Irigaray who said it
shouldn’t be. Mackenzie equivocates: you can
get a lot of it, but you can’t see it all, you
can’t read it all, you can’t get it all.
Just as the most finely honed explanatory theory finally
lapses, these pictures do not fully explain themselves.
The black holes prevail. This is one viewer’s
way of locating some ‘problem’ that lies
hinted at in the artist’s central claim for her
work—that it is a struggle for ‘space.’ The
search for a ‘space’ extends as far as ‘Saskatchewan’—a
dark hole into which to disappear.
In related developments, it seems that recent neuroanatomical
research is leading to a greater appreciation for the
perspective of the body. Based on the study of the
relationship between emotion and reason, an up-dated
account of the human self pictures the self as distributed
throughout the body, not as located in the mind and
overseeing the body from some central observation post.
A critique of Descartes, the idea that he must have
been wrong about the mind/body distinction, is implied
by many of those whose ideas have contributed to Mackenzie’s
own position. But in a sense the Cartesian formulation
is reinforced by their work inasmuch as it demonstrates
the consequences of the ways in which Cartesian dualism
has underscored the idea of gendered difference and
a separable female sphere. One of the results is that
it leaves a receptive artist like Mackenzie floundering
around in the reinforced picture of patriarchal domination,
even while they, and she, know that it is wrong. Wrong,
that is, not in the sense of being unjust, although
it is that, but inaccurate. So the Saskatchewan of
the mind may turn out to be the body. And the reconciliation
between mental and physical states might close up the
black holes.
These works then are not passive picturings of a predicament,
more autobiographical odyssey through a combat zone,
theoretical and otherwise. Those who come after can
try to piece together what happened from the scars,
traces and fragments, or, as I have done, speculate
on what they yearn for. Finally, even though it seems
very difficult to settle whether or not such pleasure
is allowed, they set up a lovely bio-rhythm, thwarting
and yielding, and other words like that. |