Monday, August 4, 2008

Sad-Eyed Lady, Bob? Gentlemen here.


August 2ND, 2008. Houston, Texas.
I keep writing 2007 in my book instead of 2008.
Is that a summer signal, tied to the memories of last year's exploration or my own lapse of judgment?

Gabe and I explored her new town. Paid a visit to the Contemporary Arts Museum-Houston. Was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the exhibition space and saw portraits of dancers hanging on the white walls. Different from the Fine Arts Museum, with space for collectibles, genres, and exhibitions, this space was purely for exhibitions--giving the artists free reign to design and manipulate walls, crevices, and corners however desired. I always enjoy the free access to these architectural utopias, providing the community with art. Simple. Yet why so debatable and astonishing? Foreign/insightful/eclectic concepts from distant lands, with ideals which may not cross our minds on a lazy, hot Houstonian afternoon.

Featured artist: Sam Taylor-Wood.
Making out way throughout the circular space, we encountered video loops in mini theaters, still life's projected and warped onto a flat-screen. Apples sped up to watch their decay, Downey Jr. behind held by a women-resurrecting Madonna and Child. My favorite collection was "Crying Men". Taylor-Wood used movie stars for all her shots, and all gave a different, moving intimate feeling of what it's like to cry. The portraits led from one to the other in a semi-circle: Hayden Christensen, Tim Roth, Ed Harris, Lawrence Fishburne, Benicio Del Toro, Daniel Craig, Forest Whitaker, and ending with a seven minute video of David Beckham sleeping. Charismatic. Masculine. Innocence.

I questioned the various levels/reasons/triggers/emotions/reactions of her positioned men. Why the stance, body language, mouth anguish, space between the teary eyelids? Did she just say, show me how YOU cry? Or did she give them a certain situation, in which they had to act accordingly? The varying degrees of wetness discarded on their scarred faces echoed wardrobe and lighting effects. Del Toro appeared to be crying out of prayer, which made me think of his extremist portrayal of a religious drunk in 21 grams. Fishbourne was the darkest character of all, looking straight at the camera, very matrix-esque. His emotion and position felt impure, and a fake ploy to trick someone only to do a back flip over their head as he steals the most valuable computer chip of our century from their inner suit pocket. Contrasting his cold demeanor, Christensen appeared boyishly sad with a pink collared shirt, as if he just realized Star Wars was fiction.

I appreciate how the series was a consistent, classified group of men. Women-the undertone of being too emotional from critics all alike- is turned onto the men. Maybe Taylor-Wood wanted them to explore the varying degrees of women's emotional psyches. We can't be too sure. Ed Harris is barely recognizable, but looks out of a window into what I imagined a garden, somehow told he has just become a widower. I noticed the males were all shot from the torsos upwards; The viewer never sees where their support is. No grounding or direction can be determined. The balance, equality and locale of three-legged stools or a leather couch or a pair of kneecaps embracing the floor is purposely hidden; leaving wonder and a disturbing sense of wanting to give sympathy to a complete stranger. There is NO sense of sturdiness. And isn't that all part of being torn, shaken, and upset? Not knowing where to turn or how to balance ones state of mind. We defy gravity when wailing because our center is torn between reality, memory, mortality and angst.

This young British female has gone places. We are lucky enough to witness the person and not the actor. Taylor-Wood has molded the actor, instead of the actor stealing the scene-we know it's her vision, and they are just there to emulate something personal to Taylor-Wood.

[Photo Credit: The artist, Sam Taylor-Wood]

No comments: