Adrian Ivakhiv
Paintings, prints & collaborations by Cameron Davis,
Davis TeSelle, and Janet Fredericks/Dona Seegers
Amy
Tarrant Gallery at the Flynn Center for Performing Arts, Burlington, Vermont
July 2nd - September 7, 2004
For images, see http://www.global-community.org/gallery/album105
At first glance, seeing would seem to be the most
innocent of actions, so passive (and so ubiquitous) as to be a non-act.
From the first blazing whorl of light and color, the ‘blooming buzzing
confusion’ that greets the newborn’s eyes, through the days- and years-long
process of recognizing objects within the visual sensorium, vision appears to
give us the world as it is, in its sheer thereness and immediacy.
But seeing is an act in which we participate, whether we admit to it or
not. We look with a gaze that may be gentle, soft, caring, curious, vulnerable,
compassionate, and loving, a gaze which recognizes the seen as also seeing,
sharing in the act of mutual vision. Or it can be voyeuristic, penetrating,
accusatory, or sadistic, an ‘evil eye’ or a cold, hard stare which puts its
objects ‘in their place’ as resources, possessions, things to be used (or
abused).
In
an insightful meditation on the phenomenology of seeing, philosopher David
Michael Levin contrasts the cold, detached vision of the Cartesian gaze, the
dominant vision of the modern world, with the immersed and immersive, moist and
heartfelt vision embodied in the first act of the newborn’s eyes, the emotional
outflow of tears. ‘In the vision and crying of the infant, there is a symbiotic
(con)fusion of subject and object,’ the baseline of a relationality that is
meaningful, heartfelt, needy and connective.[i]
Light appears here as a flickering, sometimes jarring, but always affective
medium which breaks in upon the vulnerable body. Light is neither separate nor
distinct from touch, motion, sound, voice, temperature, the whole fleshy,
polymorphic intertwining of bodies and sensations. And as the child’s vision
becomes more acute and refined, the eyes develop their potential to be not only
‘windows on the world,’ but ‘mirrors of the soul,’ both taking in and
expressing outward in relationship with others.
But
the vision that has dominated Western modernity has been sharply focused,
clearly fixed on its object, which is almost always conceived of as directly in
front of the viewer, in the middle of the visual field, open to inspection,
analysis, and judgment. Emerging in the Renaissance, single-point perspective,
as Erwin Panofsky put it, presumes ‘first, that we see with a single and
immobile eye, and second, that the planar cross section of the visible pyramid
can pass for an adequate reproduction of our optical image.’[ii]
Neither of these presumptions finds a pure basis in lived reality. The
ascendancy of classical linear perspective, wrote historian Martin Jay, meant
that the ‘participatory involvement of more absorptive visual modes was
diminished, if not entirely suppressed, as the gap between spectator and
spectacle widened.’ When this gaze fell on objects of desire, ‘it did so
largely in the service of a reifying male look that turned its targets into
stone.’ This visual order produced a ‘de-narrativisation or de-textualisation,’
with the rendering of the scene becoming an end in itself for the artist.[iii]
Vision, over the course of the last three centuries, became the paradigm for
knowledge: we know by virtue of seeing things as they are, at a distance from
ourselves, even as we probe ever deeper into the texture of the world with our
technologically enhanced optics and our cutting, measuring, and surveying
devices.
Modern
notions of the beautiful, the sublime, and the picturesque, were built on this
substrate of Cartesian perspectivalism. Whether emphasizing smoothness and
delicacy (the beautiful), extremes of magnitude and power (the sublime), or a
middle-ground between the two (the picturesque), landscape art constructs the
world as a series of pictures, each framed by a window. The European colonization
of other lands, Albert Boime argued, was facilitated by the ‘magisterial gaze,’ a mastering and
panoramic view from on high, which constructs land as a scenic vista and
spectacle, to be gazed at and admired for its sweeping visual beauty and to
thereby be possessed by its viewer.[iv]
‘To colonise,’ wrote John Dorst, ‘was to occupy a position from which the
colonial object could be seen coherently as an artifact available for
appropriation.’[v] Cartographic
and photographic technologies strengthened the ocularcentrism of Western
culture, making possible the birth of the ‘world picture’ and the ‘conquest of
the world as picture,’ which, according to philosopher Martin Heidegger,
allowed the natural world to be transformed into a ‘standing reserve’ to be surveyed,
unlocked, and transformed into usable energy.[vi]
Vision here is detached, dispassionate; it surveys and encompasses, calculating
and categorizing with one sweep of the glance. Our eye on the world echoes the
way in which God is supposed to have surveyed his creation – from a distance
that enabled Him to judge according to criteria that were objective and
universal, with little room for local or contextual variability. In this way of
seeing, the world can be known and evaluated because the knower is not in
that world, not intimately entangled in the myriad relationships that make it
up.
The
tail ends of artistic modernism – impressionism and post-impressionism, Dada
and Surrealism, cubism, abstract expressionism, and so on – and perhaps even
such scientific developments as relativity and Heisenbergian uncertainty, have
whittled away at this Cartesian legacy, and postmodernism has left it in
tatters. But in their wake, photography and television have stepped in to
supplement the ocular esthetic with an even more pervasive and specular
visuality. In the postmodern era, the perspectives have been multiplied such
that we find ourselves in a hall of mirrors: advertisements and billboards hail
us with idealized images of ourselves, surveillance cameras eye us from above,
and personal videocams swing from our shoulders as we work, play, and travel in
foreign countries (or do all at once, as the visual souvenirs of the humiliated
trophy victims of US soldiers in Iraq recently showed us). In the ‘society of
the spectacle’ and the era of mass home videos, ‘to be is to be perceived:
seen, noticed, brought forth into the visibility of the spectacle.’[vii]
The stare of the camera remains predatory even as it sediments itself into the
very texture of our lives.
How can ecological
images possibly compete in this din? The clichés of what Andrew Ross has called
‘images of ecology’ are well known and, perhaps, all the less effective for it:
belching smokestacks, seabirds mired in
petrochemical sludge, fish floating belly-up, traffic jams in Los Angeles and
Mexico City, and clearcut forests; on the other hand, the redeeming repertoire
of pastoral imagery, pristine, green, and unspoiled by human habitation,
crowned by the ultimate global spectacle, the fragile, vulnerable ball of
spaceship earth.[viii]
Environmental
dystopia set in stark contrast to the utopian impulse, both relics of a
Romanticism that sees nature as a rejuvenating Eden, on the one hand, and as a
‘raped’ and exhausted victim of man’s transgression, on the other (the ubiquity
of that sexual metaphor being all the more striking for the casualness with
which it is customarily uttered). In both cases, there is nature, which came
first, and there are we, overcoming it in glory or in hollow and deadly hubris.
Somewhere, somehow, the fleshy, flickering, mutually vulnerable relationality
of the infant-body-world has been lost in the harsh glare of these battle
lines.
Even the pictorial representation of nature by environmental conservationists often shows a tension between the possessive, magisterial gaze – or, as in the hands of the nineteenth century Hudson River School painters, or of Ansel Adams and his followers, a more awestruck and monumental sublime – and a gentler, more intimate and dialogical ‘being in and with nature.’ When Eliot Porter was commissioned by Harold Hochschild, president of the Adirondack Museum, to photograph the Adirondack mountains for a coffee-table book that would help protect the park from development, Hochschild requested broad, magisterial views in order to establish the grandiosity of the mountain range in the minds of readers. But Porter insisted on including intimate close-ups of woodland details, showing little that could not be seen in almost any northeast woodland (of which there still were some around, despite logging rates far beyond sustainable), because such intimacy better reflected his emotional responses to the park.
Images of
pastoral nature may still have the intended impact for some, but for the jaded
and image-saturated majority they do not. In addition to such ‘images of
ecology,’ however, Ross argues that there is an ‘ecology of images’ – an ethics
and politics which concerns the technologies by which images are made, the
economics by which they are produced, circulated, and consumed, the ecologics
of the resources extracted and wastes left in their wake, and what we might
call the ‘epistemologics’ by which these images affect our perception of the
world and of ourselves. Susan Sontag argued several years ago that the mass
reproducibility of the image reduces the world to aesthetic and commercial
resources – scenic views to be gawked at from the side of a highway, potential
photographs and postcards – and turns us into ‘tourists of reality’ and ‘image
junkies.’[ix]
It was this sort of image addiction that filmmaker Wim Wenders set out to
critique in his 1991 film Until the End of the World, but the lesson to
be learned from Wenders’ exercise was simply that image addiction can easily
become just another image. The film presented an apocalyptic narrative with
characters jet-setting between Venice, Berlin, Lisbon, Moscow, Beijing, Tokyo,
and San Francisco, before retreating to the glitz-less Australian outback,
where the image-addicted characters walked around gazing intently, almost
furiously, into hand-held ‘vision machines’ which turn their dreams into
images. As an antidote to image addiction, Wenders seemed to suggest the
storytelling traditions of Australian aborigines (which paralleled another of
his films, the celebrated Wings of Desire, in which an old Jewish
storyteller wandering amid the pre-Fall of the Wall Berlin represented Wenders’
own idealized, if sadly powerless, persona). But presenting an argument against
images – an iconoclasm taking its cue as much from Reformation Protestantism as
from Romantic anti-industrialism – in the most monumental form of spectacular
imagery available in our time, that of a multi-million dollar movie with
multiple crews spanning several countries, seems disingenuous at best. The
‘ecology’ of Wenders’s images was paradoxically, even painfully, inconsistent
with the message he seemingly wanted to convey.
Just as
food and consumer goods, as far as most North Americans are concerned, come
respectively from the supermarket and the mall, not from laborers working on a
plantation in Chile or a factory in Thailand, so images appear to come from a
world from which they were innocently plucked, like apples from a tree growing
in Old Macdonald’s farm. Environmental, organic-agriculture and ‘slow food’
activists urge us to think about where things come from and where they go – to
render the ecological production cycle conscious and more visible, with the aid
of labels warning us of the presence of GM foods, rBGH, and so on, and with the
hope that we might revive a more local, bioregional, face-to-face and
responsible system of production. In the same way, one could argue that we
should increase our awareness of the ‘sources’ and ‘sinks’ of the images
that fill and structure our worlds. The ecology of image-making requires us to
ask questions about the chemical and industrial underpinnings of the
photographic, paint, and art-materials industries, the economics of access to
image-making technology, and the epistemological impacts of seeing and
representing certain things (people, places, landscapes) in certain ways. Do we
even need more images of nature, of trees and lakes and pastoral landscapes?
What functions do they fill for us? What of the codependence of pastoral
imagery and regional tourist industries? Is there a criterion of truth whereby
one might judge an image as a more or less honest representation of life in a
particular place or bioregion?
Such
questions are materialist questions; they raise the issue of the world’s
materiality and our connection, and the connection of our cultural practices,
with that materiality. No matter what their medium, artists manipulate the
Earth’s matter (and energy), shaping and reshaping it, and in the process they
convey and perpetuate a relationship between themselves as makers (shapers,
assemblers, arrangers, crafters, selecters, interpreters), the materials from
which their art is made, and the world from which that making proceeds and
which it in turn affects.
The
Earth Art and Land Art movements which emerged in the late 1960s brought such
issues to the forefront. In contrast to their European counterparts, Robert
Smithson, Michael Heizer, Walter DeMaria, and Dennis Oppenheim launched the
Earthworks movement with dramatic and often monumental interventions in the
landscape. But others since have retreated to a less muscular gesturalism,
intervening more gracefully, as it were, into landscapes that are always both
social and natural. Environmental artists have pursued a vision of the artist
as collaborator with the Earth, manipulator of its materials (soil, stone,
water, ice, wood, leaves, trees, along with slag and industrial waste) but
locked in an embrace with its rhythms (tides, winds, the passage of days and
nights and of sunlight and shadow, the force of gravity and decay).
The
best of recent environmental art reminds us of the evanescence of the world,
its vitality and its autonomy, but also of our own mortality in its midst. It
replaces static representations of the world with dynamic and collaborative
forms of interaction with that world’s materiality. The ephemeral,
site-specific and nature-based works of Andy Goldsworthy, Chris Drury, David
Nash, and Peter Hutchinson; the solitary landscape walks of Richard Long,
Hamish Fulton, and Christian Philipp Müller; the performance rituals of Joseph
Beuys, Mary Beth Edelson, Charles Simonds, and Ana Mendieta; the gardens,
reed-bed installations, and ‘sanctuariums’ of herman de vries, Ian Hamilton
Finlay, Patricia Johansen, and Meg Webster; the ecological restoration and
reclamation interventions of Alan Sonfist, Mierle Laderman Ukeles, the PLATFORM
collective, Helen Mayer Harrison and Newton Harrison, Avital Geva, Michael
Singer, Lorna Jordan, Mel Chin, Viet Ngo, and Betsy Damon; the ‘trans-species
art’ of Lynne Hull; and the ‘postnatural’ landscape photography of Richard
Misrach and Peter Goin or the videos of Bill Viola – what is most striking
across this spectrum is the interaction between these artists and the temporal
and material realities of the environments in which they work.[x]
The photographs, books, and exhibition catalogues that result from their
efforts are reports, documents, traces, not the thing itself. They may hang on
walls, but they do so as records of a movement (or process) that has occurred
in a place which, no matter how ‘natural’ it may appear, has seen previous
movement, and which continues to ‘move’ and metamorphose through the work of
these artists in other real places and real landscapes. Their art is better
conceived as a form of process, an ongoing performance that bespeaks of an
engaged relationship with the social and natural ecologies of the world.
The works exhibited in Natural
Grace: Images for a Sustainable Future follow in this tradition of
symbiotic collaboration with nature. Dona Seegers’ and Janet Fredericks’
collaborative Being in Water/Water Chronicles found them drawing under
water and submerging and exposing drawings on watercolor paper to ice, rain,
snow, fog, and dew. In one of the works in this series, Fredericks allowed the
currents of the New Haven River to initiate the movement of her own arms as she
added lithographic crayon markings to a submerged paper, thereby capturing the
‘language of water’ (the artist remarks that the crayon was perfect for drawing
in water without releasing ink into the river). To this and similar pieces she
and Seegers added watercolors, acrylics, inks, and fragments of text (dates,
locations, ideas and insights received in the process). Paintings inspired by
sunsets over Moose Pond near Seegers’ Maine home were suspended in the frozen
pond for several weeks, to be taken out and later stained and adorned with
paint, grass clippings, and seaweed from Ogunquit Beach on the Maine coast. The
two artists sent each other works-in-progress for further addition, deletion,
and refinement in collaboration with the elements, making up a back-and-forth
circuit into which additional aleatoric or unconscious elements might enter
into the dialogue.
Seegers’
more recent Earth involved planting squares of watercolor paper in her
freshly tilled garden, pouring on thin paint and letting the papers remain in
the earth for a week, then rubbing color over the dried dirt, hanging them out
in the woods, and modifying the ‘pages’ (ripping,
curling, stacking, marking, painting, layering) to create a book/installation
as sensuous, intimately layered and richly colored as the overlay of rock,
bark, seeds, leaves, pods, roots and soil found in a walk through the woods.
Analogously, Fredericks’ Woodland presents a kind of anti-cartographic
map of the woods behind her own home at the edge of the Green Mountains in
Lincoln, Vermont, with the names of plants, a stream, and her walking path
traced through those woods, making for something that is equal parts
topographic map and pictograph or ‘chorograph,’ a space already diversified
into the concrete meanings and particulars of an extended home place.[xi]
Davis TeSelle’s lithographs and
Cameron Davis’s paintings take a more ‘traditional’ approach to art-making, but
one that is no less sensitive to issues of the ‘ecology of images.’ The works
of both negotiate the tensions between two ways of seeing – one more direct and
‘objective,’ which aims to visually capture the object under observation in a
clear and deconxtextualized representation of its physical appearance; the
second a softer, more field-like observation, a ‘visual listening’ (as the
artists’ collective statement puts it) to the larger ground or matrix within
which nature and culture, the material and the spiritual (in Davis’s case), and
discrete objects and the artists themselves are perceived as a blurred or
dialectically intertwined unity.
TeSelle
sees himself as working with the tensions and contradictions between the
natural and the cultural; yet the overwhelming impression of his lithographs
and glass drawings is that of a ‘pattern language’ – one of textural rhythms
and markings – that is the common heritage of nature and an ecologically
attuned culture. Teselle’s most recent work is a series of studies of
indigenous plant seeds from the desert Southwest and northern Mexico. In the
case of Phaseolus vulgaris, or the common bean, the object under
observation may look ‘wild,’ but, according to the artist, it has actually been
‘cultivated in a long, intricate and delicate reciprocity.’ One work in this
series presents what the artist calls a ‘ceremonial field of integration’ of
opposites: the germinating bean seeds are laid out over washes of crayon and
ink variously scratched, erased, and modified on glass plates which have been
processed and overlaid as a series of overlapping fields or ‘grounds.’ The
shape of the germinating seeds is echoed in the ‘field’ background in which we
can discern a ‘hidden calligraphy of the earth,’ inspired by the artist’s
observation of cilia in soil. The title, Miracle Enough, refers to
TeSelle’s belief that native seeds contain more than what can be gained through
the accelerated processes inherent in the ‘miracle’ interventions of the
producers of genetically-engineering and -modified foods. The work thus
functions both as the artist’s collaboration with the seeds themselves and as a
form of cultural critique (a combination to which I will return in a moment).
Cameron
Davis’s works are perhaps the most symbolist of those in this exhibition. Limina:
Painted Prayers for Threshold Times is titled in reference to a series of
thresholds (or limens) on which the artist perceives humanity as being
perched in our environmentally destructive (and post 9-11, neo-imperialist)
times. Having originated as a kind of prayer made of equal parts grief/despair
and fragile hope, and which therefore ‘felt’ to the artist ‘as if they should
be light,’ not heavy, the work consists of pencil sketches, acrylic, Xerox
transfers, and found images on soft cloth, rice-paper, and sustainably
harvested plant materials from Nepal, all giving it the quality of a series of
interconnected prayer flags waving in the wind. Both here and in other works
such as Wild Iris Supine and Domina, organic patterns emerge out
of a field of energies punctuated by cultural (and at times occult) symbols and
signs drawn from Christian and Goddess iconography, insects (dragonflies, bees,
and butterflies), vegetation and bone imagery, and, in Domina, red X’s and
tear-like paint drippings which seem to serve as reminders of the blood that
flows through generations of life and of history both as its most vital fluid
and the mark of its violence. Like TeSelle, Davis works at the threshold of the
precisely visible object and the larger field that connects the things of the
world with ourselves – a distinction which she derives from the meditative
practice of Drishti (soft gaze), which involves looking into the world
while maintaining a multidimensional awareness of its connectedness. In the
work of both artists, one finds a keen awareness of the thresholds and
precipices on which the future of humanity itself seems to hang.
In what
sense are these ‘images for a sustainable future’? One could argue that the
most ‘sustainable’ images are the ones that go away, decaying and decomposing
back into the earth from which they emerge; anything short of that simply adds
more stuff to an already saturated world. Not indefinite sustainability, but
mutability, metamorphosis, transience, acceptance of change – these are the
themes by which humans might best create a culture that engages creatively and
respectfully with the world around it. Jacques Derrida’s ruminations on
literature and biodegradability seem apposite here. A piece of writing, Derrida
writes,
must be
‘(bio)degradable’ in order to nourish the ‘living’ culture, memory, tradition.
To the extent to which it has some sense, makes sense, then its ‘content’
irrigates the milieu of this tradition and its ‘formal’ identity is dissolved.
[…] And yet, to enrich the ‘organic’ soil of the said culture, it must also
resist it, contest it, question and criticize it enough […] and thus it must
not be assimilable […]. Or, at least, it must be assimilated as inassimilable,
kept in reserve, unforgettable because irreceivable, capable of inducing
meaning without being exhausted by meaning […].[xii]
This
tension between assimilability (comprehensibility, social resonance) and
critique presents a high standard by which to judge the work of artists. What
will enrich the soil of our culture, while withstanding the ‘full assimilation’
by which it would be simply co-opted into a medium perpetuating current
patterns of production and ‘conspicuous’ art consumption?
Some of these works can be sold,
hung on walls, and circulated through the machinery/economy of the art world;
others cannot (except as documents of the ‘real thing,’ that being an art work
which is itself a document of an interaction with natural process). But taken
collectively, they add to the critique of a certain way of seeing and propose a
different one in its place. In the sensibility represented by these artists,
‘grace’ appears not as some mysterium tremendum looming before us or
possessing us with its sublime power – not as the awesome and transcendent
spectacles that were the focus of the nineteenth century American landscape
painters of the Hudson River and Rocky Mountain schools. Rather, this kind of
seeing seeks out the everyday gracedness of things, the heightened
texture and luminosity which opens up when we look at the world through those
slightly moistened, compassionate and vulnerable eyes, eyes which are embodied
and fully situated within the world on which they gaze gently, intently yet
carefully and caringly. It is this insight into the ‘ecology of seeing’ – a
seeing that is not fixed hard on its object, but which moves between the clear
gaze and the indistinct ‘felt sense,’ as it moves also between the natural and
the cultural, and the artist and the thing observed – that the present
exhibition contributes to the ecology of images.
NOTES
[i] David Michael Levin, The Opening of
Vision: Nihilism and the Postmodern Situation (New York and London:
Routledge, 1988), p. 188.
[ii] Erwin Panofsky, Perspective as
Symbolic Form (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1991), pp. 29-30.
[iii]
Martin Jay, ‘Scopic regimes of modernity,’ in S. Lash and J. Friedman, Modernity
and Identity, ed. S. Lash and J. Friedman (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), pp.
181-2. See also M. Jay, Downcast Eyes:
The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1994).
[iv]
Albert Boime, The Magisterial Gaze: Manifest Destiny and American Landscape
Painting, c. 1830-1865 (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press,
1991).
[v]
John Dorst, Looking West
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), p. 195.
[vi]
Heidegger, Martin, ‘The Age of the World Picture,’ in The Question Concerning Technology, trans. and ed. W. Lovitt (New
York: Harper and Row, 1977).
[vii] Levin (1988), p. 15.
[viii] Andrew Ross, The Chicago Gangster
Theory of Life: Nature’s Debt to Society (London: Verso, 1994), p. 171.
[ix] Susan Sontag, On Photography
(New York: Dell, 1977).
[x] See Jeffrey Kastner and Brian Wallis, Land
and Environmental Art (London: Phaidon, 1998); Sue Spaid, Ecovention:
Current Art to Transform Ecologies (Cleveland: Ram Publications, 2002); Mel
Gooding and William Furlong, Artists Land Nature (New York: Harry N.
Abrams, 2002).
[xi] On this distinction between
cartography and chorography, see Edward Casey’s wonderful book Representing
Place: Landscape Paintings and Maps (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 2002), especially pp. 154-170.
[xii] Jacques Derrida, ‘Biodegradables:
Seven diary fragments,’ Critical Inquiry 15 (1989), p. 845.
Adrian Ivakhiv is an assistant professor of
environmental studies at the University of Vermont. He has written on culture
and environment for numerous publications, and is the author of Claiming
Sacred Ground: Pilgrims and Politics at Glastonbury and Sedona (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 2001).