{"id":9258,"date":"2020-10-31T22:18:42","date_gmt":"2020-10-31T22:18:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thedorseypost.com\/?p=9258"},"modified":"2020-10-27T13:50:21","modified_gmt":"2020-10-27T13:50:21","slug":"haunted-by-gods-loophole","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thedorseypost.com\/?p=9258","title":{"rendered":"Haunted by God’s loophole"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Doubt, Susie MacMurray, a temporary installation at Southwark Cathedral. London, constructed of butterfly nets.<\/p><\/div>\n

I went back online recently to get another glimpse of Susie MacMurray\u2019s masterful A Mixture of Frailties<\/em>, the first work of hers that stunned me when I stumbled upon her solo exhibition at Danese\/Corey seven years ago. I was delighted and a little surprised that it continues to resonate in new ways after the passage of years. This time it brought to mind, of all things, The Winged Victory of Samothrace.<\/em> A frontal view of her headless figure\u2019s prominent shoulders makes them look like sprouting wings or the stumps left behind by their amputation. This hadn\u2019t occurred to me when I saw the actual piece at the exhibition. MacMurray built it around a tailor\u2019s dummy\u2014as she does with her signature garment sculptures<\/a>\u2014this time enveloping the curvy armature with limp latex gloves. On the floor, they form a train that flows outward and downward in all directions as if the garment were melting. Conversely, the figure seems to rise up out of the floor from under<\/em> that network of gloves. It\u2019s funny to see in this earthbound dress an ironic echo of the ancient sculpture\u2019s martial grandeur, especially since this<\/em> work glows with a quietly, almost self-defeating pathos all its own. The fact that you\u2019re looking at what could be a lifetime supply\u2014a life sentence, as it were\u2014of dishwashing gloves both anchors and intensifies, by contrast, the work\u2019s unlikely glory. By creating a ballroom gown out of them, she magically transforms all those flaccid tubes into a spectacular vestment\u2014female power constructed with reminders of male impotence. That\u2019s either a wry sort of Jacobin feminism or honest testimony about how little power any of us actually have. I tend toward the latter. With MacMurray, what looks like an apotheosis always comes with amusing asterisks. The way this dazzling matrix of frailties rises up from the floor, ready for lift-off, seems to echo the triumphant flight promised in the Greek sculpture, but our glove lady isn\u2019t getting airborne any time soon. She is both imprisoned and glorified by all the chores she would love to flee. Feminist interpretations aside, what seems to be embodied here is something wiser and more universal. This beatification of scut work embodies a rare insight into the dignity and worth of long subservience and surrender to a humble task.<\/p>\n

All of these impressions reconfirmed for me that much of MacMurray\u2019s work has to do with the unity of polarities in life\u2014in this case, how drudgery and imprisonment and servitude can actually clothe triumph and transformation, or at least can be transmuted to reveal them. A similar truth lies at the heart of the world\u2019s wisdom traditions: the identity of form and emptiness in Buddhism, as well as the notion that your everyday mind is the Buddha, for one. In a different way, the Beatitudes hint at paradoxical realities\u2014the last shall be first\u2014set within a more dramatic spiritual narrative. One can find other corollaries. Her wisdom applies to art-making itself, pointing toward a seminal realization for practicing artists of how the freedom of creative expression dwells within the tedium of repetition, craft and patience. MacMurray\u2019s work requires a great deal of all three. For her, it\u2019s meditative. This equivalence of triumph and drudgery applies to her installations as much as, if not more than, the work of a guru of art-as-process such as Chuck Close. His words are well known: \u201cInspiration is for amateurs, the rest of us just show up and get to work.\u201d The paradox of the work ethic itself is that what\u2019s good in life can\u2019t be severed from often tedious labor. The process of making one of her pieces embodies this paradox: Medusa<\/em> required a year to make,<\/p>\n

one tiny copper ring at a time, shaped into a circle and clasped together by hand into chain mail. The result is spectacular and humbling. Many of her large-scale installations depend on repetitive, assiduous devotion to handiwork\u2014assembling large quantities of everyday objects until they bathe the space they occupy with a kind of sentience, as if the hosting building has become self-aware, through the work, of the human vulnerabilities it shelters.<\/p>\n

In Shells<\/a><\/em>, MacMurray embossed an entire staircase at Pallant House in Chichester with slightly-opened mussel shells stuffed with red velvet in suggestive folds. The work was a compassionate homage to the wife who lived unhappily there after her husband built the town house in 1712: each shell an emblem of sexual readiness and frustration. Each of those 20,000 shells had to be carefully pried open\u2014just a bit\u2014so that they could adhere close to the hinge of the valves, even though parted at the lips enough to let the red velvet bulge outward from inside, a brilliant cluster of contrary implications in such a simple pairing of materials. One might observe drily that it\u2019s a slightly less metaphysical take on unconsummated love than, say, Ode on a Grecian Urn<\/em>, but it inspires awe, just the same. Again, the idea\u2014pairing the shells with the scraps of velvet\u2014makes it all possible, but the hours of labor needed to realize the idea gives its embodiment a gravity that serves as counterweight to this temporary installation\u2019s ever hopeful climb toward the sky, or at least the ghost of a second-floor bedroom. As they ascend, all those shells whisper life is never quite what you want it to be, now, is it? <\/em>Her most ominous installation, Doubt<\/em>, depended on the patience required to assemble a surfeit of butterfly nets into a vaguely apocalyptic swarm, a cloud of shadows hovering in the vault of Southwark Cathedral in London. Again, this weightless specter floats overhead, a dark angel, but it\u2019s contained by the walls around it\u2014the emptiness of the cathedral becomes a disposal for what everyone sheds in this place, or else that effluvium overhead is what keeps them from rising up from the floor. And again, butterfly nets no less, reminder of both the insect\u2019s transformation into a beautiful freedom as well as its trap.<\/p>\n

Her wit has a crystalline simplicity. But there\u2019s obviously something deeper than humor finding a home in her lovely ironies. She is powerful and clear-eyed about human limitations, while suggesting that those limitations aren\u2019t necessarily what they seem. The paradoxes inherent in her formal innovations bring to your lips a smile of amusement but there\u2019s also a sense somehow, in her work, of simple gratitude for what all this labor conveys<\/em>. She lives for the epiphany of formal discovery, the gift of spotting new materials that give rise to what she makes. A waterfall of hair nets. A flock of fish hooks. A nest of wax eggs. But the long days or weeks or months of doing the same thing over and over gives her work its power. Sol LeWitt could have scribbled a note saying: \u201cassemble little copper rings into chain mail in the shape of a woman deploying snakes at her feet\u201d and have called his little memorandum conceptual art. Jeff Koons could do the same, in his own way. But reading that note\u2014or having someone\u2019s minions alone carry out the work order\u2014wouldn\u2019t have had quite the same impact. (MacMurray does rely on helpers occasionally with her most involved projects.) Sometimes the best discoveries for her come at the end of the process of making an installation\u2014the idea at the start doesn\u2019t come close to expressing the impact of the completed effort. She stands back and looks at the finished piece and thinks, oh, so that\u2019s where all this labor was leading . . . <\/em>the embodiment exceeds the idea that spawned it.<\/p>\n

About her current show, Murmur<\/em>, at Pangolin London (until Dec. 22) she said recently that, in the back of her mind, many of her themes have been intensified by the current pandemic and lockdowns. Notions of flight, liberation, imprisonment, dread, mortality, safety and risk. In Murmur<\/em>, she also glances toward her own life as a mother, and in the context of motherhood all these themes seem to be multiplied exponentially. It\u2019s one thing to recognize the perils and rewards of human life in oneself, but the stakes become so much more potentially heartbreaking when you see them in the life of your own children. The joys and anxieties of parenthood represent one of the central themes of this show.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Her sense of life, of the limitations that derive ultimately from mortality\u2014reminds me vaguely of a scene I saw recently in a new Russian series on Netflix, To The Lake<\/em>, shot in and around Moscow. In one of the later episodes, an Orthodox monk encounters refugees from a plague, and before he wanders back to the little church he seems to have built by hand, a little sacred gallery for crude icons he\u2019s painted, one of the fugitive women button-holes him and begs him to pray for the child she has lost. He asks her if the child had been baptized. She says no. He says, \u201cI can\u2019t. But you can. Only the mother can pray.\u201d I\u2019d never heard of that tradition, but it was a remarkable moment full of disquieting contradictions and the interesting notion that motherhood is God\u2019s loophole. God won\u2019t accept a monk\u2019s prayer for a baby? Say what? A mother can communicate with God in a way that even a monk can\u2019t? No one else in the world is allowed to put in a request for help? How is that fair? These two characters accept it though, and there\u2019s a thankfulness in their silence acceptance of life\u2019s long odds. One thinks of all the cruel restrictions of the current pandemic, children unable to be at the death bed of their parents. The world has narrowed as a result of strange, seemingly inhumane rules imposed with benevolent designs. But still. (If someone had told me I couldn\u2019t be at my father\u2019s bedside when he died last year, for any reason whatsoever, I would have been tempted to buy my first gun and use it to open negotiations about palliative care.) With the young mother and the monk, there was so much human vulnerability and willingness to entertain one last opportunity for hope concentrated into a brief exchange on the road. The monk\u2019s gentle solicitude and compassion spoke volumes about the pathos of a human soul\u2019s predicament.<\/p>\n

Somehow these qualities seem companionable with the spirit that informs much of what MacMurray has included in her show: the emotional risks and lowly tasks of parenthood. When it comes to motherhood, her imagery is closer to a Matthew Barney Cremaster<\/em> vitrine than a Mary Cassatt mother-and-child, but some of the pieces feel like visualizations of terse, tough Blakean axioms: for every egg, a hook.<\/em><\/p>\n

Murmur<\/em> is built around its eponymous work, a mobile-like assembly of ostrich feathers, fish hooks and wire that extend for the entire length of the gallery. It\u2019s a variation on her native theme: the inseparable pairing of freedom and the bonds of daily life. Like musical notes on a staff, a nod to MacMurray\u2019s previous career as an orchestral musician, each of these feathered barbs seems to float upward, from left to right. They are tipped with little wax beads, rather than the hooks one would expect if they had been tied together for fly fishing. Yet, at a slight distance from each feather, the fishhooks help establish the feather\u2019s place and its relationship with the others. They seem to float upward like dandelion seeds or birds, but (and this is what makes it a MacMurray) those hooks are sure to snag on something, such as their maker\u2019s fingertips. One thinks of children, having been raised, setting off into the world but never fully detaching from their parents\u2014and this note gets sounded throughout Murmur<\/em>, with one piece after another referring to mothers, child-rearing, and the complexities of parenthood.<\/p>\n

Susie emailed me last week to invite me to her live conversation<\/a>, via the Internet, with the gallery\u2019s director, Polly Bielecka, at the opening of her show. During the live video stream, she talked with the gallery\u2019s owner about most of the work on display, and though it was no substitute for actually seeing the work, it offered an indication of the pleasures it affords. Her answer to one question focused on parenthood in relation to a small construction in which she attached a slice of deer antler to a wax ball:<\/p>\n

This is Mother and Child<\/em>, one of the small pieces I made during lockdown. There\u2019s something about going from the scale that\u2019s immersive to something that\u2019s so small you have to protect and hold it in your hands. When I was going through the antlers I had collected I came across this one which is a first-year prong from a culled deer. There\u2019s even a little piece of hair left on it. It made me think of mothers and children and the violent act of that baby being gone. It made me think of umbilical cords and apron strings. It\u2019s another wax ball that\u2019s reassuring. And I found it poignant and wanted to give it something to hang onto. It\u2019s like Murmur<\/em>, the joy of seeing (the little ones) take off into the world and the desolation of being left behind. How do you deal with those things? The world is a terrifying place as well as a wonderful place. The work I make is a constant reassurance to myself that both of those things belong together. How can I still exist after my children are gone? But I do, and it\u2019s good, as well as frightening.<\/p>\n

What I\u2019m waiting for is the solo exhibition, years from now, when she assembles all of her garment sculptures into one place, if she continues to construct them as she likely will, slowly and painstakingly, over the next decade. In her conversation, she hinted at the next one, entitled Stalker<\/em>. I can\u2019t wait to see it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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