Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Synopsis of Swan Lake


Swan Lake

The story of Swan Lake is woven around two girls, Odette and Odile, who resemble each other so closely they can easily be mistaken for the other. Originally their roles were entrusted to two separate dancers, but as there is only one brief fleeting moment when they are seen simultaneously, it has long been customary for a single prima ballerina to perform both parts, differentiating them by characterisation and general style. The action takes place in Germany in the distant past.
Act I
After a glittering musical introduction, the first scene is set in a splendid park, with a fairy-tale castle in the background. Prince Seigfried and his friends are seated, drinking, and peasants enter to congratulate him on his coming of age; meanwhile, his tutor Wolfgang encourages them to dance for the young Prince's entertainment.
A messanger presages the arrival of the young Prince's Mother. She follows to pronounce that her son should now marry, choosing a bride from the young women to be presented to him at a ball the following evening. She leaves and the rustic dancing resumes until darkness suddenly falls and a flock of swans appear. The Prince has an idea of shooting one of the noble birds and, armed with a crossbow, sets off with his friends and heads to where the swans are heading.
Act II
By the banks of a lake by moonlight, a flight of swans glide past, led by their own Queen. The Prince's friends are eager for the chase, but he begs them to leave him, and whilst he is alone the Swan Queen comes to him in the human form of Odette and tells her story.
She is under the spell of an evil magician, Von Rothbart, and reveals that by day she and her friends are turned into swans. Also persecuted by her stepmother, that subjection will only end when she marries; until then she has only her crown to protect her.
The whole swan group arrives and they reproach the Prince for attempting to deprive them of their beloved leader. Odette intercedes and the Prince discards his crossbow. He and Odette dance, professing their love. The entire flock joins in; and the act ends as an owl (the wicked stepmother) flaps heavily above.
Act III
It is the following evening and in a luxurious hall in the Prince's castle preparations are underway for the feast. Wolfgang orders the servants around; guests start to materialise; and finally, the Princess-Mother and her entourage. A sequence of turns commences until the Princess asks her son which of the women he favours. 'None', he replies to her annoyance.
At a sudden fanfare Baron Rothbart enters with his daughter Odile, whose resemblance to Odette strikes the Prince. Odile herself dances enticingly, followed by an elaborate sequence of national dances by the company. The Princess-Mother is pleased to see that Odile has caught her son's favour. The young couple themselves conjoin together and the Princess-Mother and Rothbart advance to centre-stage to announce a betrothal.
With that, the scene ominously darkens, an agitated version of the principal swan theme is heard; a window flies open noisily and through it can be seen a white swan replete with crown. Horrified, the Prince pushes Odile away and rushes out amid general confusion.
Act IV
The girls, including Odette, gather around the lake. Odette is heartbroken. Prince Siegfried finds them consoling each other. He explains to Odette the trickery of Von Rothbart and she grants him her forgiveness. It isn’t long before Von Rothbart appears and tells the prince that he must honour his word and marry his daughter or both he and Odette will die. Prince Siegfried refuses. A fight follows, Odette and Siegfried die in each other’s arms. Von Rothbart’s evil spell is broken by the power of Odette and Siegfried’s love for each other and Von Rothbart is destroyed by the swans, who are released from their enslavement..

Interview with Anthony Downey for BOMB magazine




Un Ballo in Maschera (A Masked Ball), 2004, color digital video, 32-minute loop. Images courtesy of the artist, James Cohan Gallery, New York, and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.
Yinka Shonibare first came to widespread attention through his use of Dutch wax fabric, which he has used both as the ground of his paintings and to clothe his sculptures. This bright and distinctive fabric was originally produced in Dutch Indonesia, where no market was found for it, and subsequently copied and produced by the English, who eventually sold it to West Africans, for whom it became a popular everyday item of clothing. It also, crucially, became a sign of identitarian “authenticity” both in Africa and, later, for Africans in England. A colonial invention, Dutch wax fabric offers itself as both a fake and yet “authentic” sign of Africanness, and Shonibare’s use of it in his paintings and sculptures accentuates a politics of (in)authenticity by simultaneously presenting both the ideal of an “authentic” identity and identity as a “fabrication.” Although he has been producing mostly installation-based work of late, Shonibare is also an accomplished painter, and that is where his practice began in the ’80s. It is also easy to overlook, in all the theorizing about postcoloniality and the politics of identity, the amount of amusement and frivolity he can pack into his work.
Shonibare was recently nominated for the Turner Prize and used the opportunity to screen his first film, Un Ballo in Maschera (A Masked Ball), 2004. Taking as its starting point the controversial figure of King Gustav III of Sweden, who was assassinated in 1792, Shonibare weaves an intricate and enigmatic tale. Employing the medium of dance, the film explores a number of conceptual and choreographical ambiguities, not least the indeterminacies of identity and gender implicit in the use of costumes and masks. On a formal level Shonibare’s use of repetition and the lack of dialogue forgo the conventions of mainstream film and those associated with so-called realist narrative. The events represented in the film, despite their apparent historical remoteness, also resonate within contemporary political debates on the nature of power and the excess associated with authoritarian regimes.


shonibare02.jpg
Un Ballo in Maschera (A Masked Ball), 2004, color digital video, 32-minute loop.
Anthony Downey Let’s start with Un Ballo in Maschera. Why this turn to film?
Yinka Shonibare My work has always used a theatrical language. The first time I did anything filmic was in photography: The Picture of Dorian Gray [2001] was actually a series of stills from a film in which I acted out the various parts in Dorian Gray. I’ve always wanted to do film, but I did photography, I did stills, because I just did not have the resources to make the kind of film I envisioned. My work comments on power, or the deconstruction of power, and I tend to use notions of excess as a way to represent that power—deconstructing things within that. I needed to do something very elaborate in this case, and of course that would require financial resources. The production of Un Ballo in Maschera was a collaboration between Moderna Museet in Stockholm and Swedish television. The agreement with Swedish television was that they would make a documentary of me making the film, and that was what they would show, but when they saw the finished film they created prime-time space for it. I thought that was very impressive, to have an art film on the Swedish equivalent of the BBC at 8:00 PM. Then again, the interest in art in Stockholm and Sweden generally, the interest in culture, is quite high. But back to your question: I’d also wanted to link my costume work with the masquerade performance aspect of my practice, and it seems a progressive logic to move from the photographic work and the tableaus with the paintings I’d done and conclude with film.
AD I would like to further link the notion of excess with the idea of theatricality in your work. Do you see that excess as something beyond theater?
YS The main preoccupation within my art education was the construction of signs as outlined in Roland Barthes’s Mythologies. So the idea of the theatrical for me is actually about art as the construction of a fiction, art as the biggest lie. What I want to suggest is that there is no such thing as a natural signifier, that the signifier is always constructed—in other words, that what you represent things with is a form of mythology. Representation itself comes into question. I think that theater enables you to really emphasize that fiction. For example, in The Picture of Dorian Gray, a black man plays within an upper-class 19th-century setting, and also in The Diary of a Victorian Dandy. The theatrical is actually a way of re-presenting the sign.
AD What you’re saying is that the sign itself is unstable, which ties into the notion of the identitarian ambiguity that you bring out in the masquerade in Un Ballo in Maschera.
YS It goes further than that. On the one hand, the masquerade is about ambiguity, but on the other hand—and you could take the masquerade festivals in Venice and Brazil as examples—it involves a moment when the working classes could play at being members of the aristocracy for a day, and vice versa. We’re talking about power within society, relations of power. As a black person in this context, I can create fantasies of empowerment in relation to white society, even if historically that equilibrium or equality really hasn’t arrived yet. It’s like the carnival itself, where a working-class person can occupy the position of master for however long the Venice carnival goes on—and it goes on for ages—and members of the aristocracy could take on the role of the working class and get as wild and as drunk as possible. So the carnival in this sense is a metaphor for the way that transformation can take place. This is something that art is able to do quite well, because it’s a space of transformation, where you can go beyond the ordinary.

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Big Boy, 2002, wax printed cotton fabric and fiberglass, dimensions variable.
AD That’s quite a nice phrase—”fantasies of empowerment”—very Fanon-esque. I’m interested in this notion of carnivalesque masquerade, the way it inverts power relations. Do you see the political itself as a masquerade?
YS Well, Un Ballo in Maschera, believe it or not, was inspired by the current global situation, particularly the war in Iraq. I was thinking about King Gustav III of Sweden, who was fighting many wars on many fronts—with Russia, with Denmark—and spending a lot of money; as a result of this high spending, his population was impoverished, suffering. He was also an actor and a dandy, and he started the art academies in Sweden. He modeled himself on the French court and only spoke French. But he was fiddling while Rome was burning. There was a conspiracy to kill him. He loved masked balls, and he loved the theater, and it was while he was at one of those balls that he was assassinated. So I used him as a metaphor for power and its deconstruction. But there is an opportunity within my film for redemption. Things that happen get undone: the king gets killed, but he gets up again, and at the end of the film he steps backward, out of the scene. And, of course, I also played with gender positions, changing them around. The “power” in my film is a woman, and the assassin is also a woman dressed as a man.
Structurally, I didn’t want a narrative that was beginning, middle, end; I wanted to look formally at the way film is presented. In the museum setting, films are usually played in a loop. What I decided to do with this film was to ask all the actors to act the idea of the loop. What you see when the action comes around again is actually a reenactment of what went before; it’s not an electronic loop, it’s imitating one. I wanted the audience to participate, to try to work it out: Okay, the second time around, that actor was not quite where he was before. It was a way of looking at formal repetition and also the way history repeats. From the Roman to the Ottoman Empire, we have this repetition of power that always returns to the same point—the ambition to expand imperially is not very different from what’s going on now. As an artist, I won’t take a moral position; I think it’s important not to work for any one side politically. You need to keep your objectivity, unless you’re in Stalinist Russia. But what you can do is place a number of options in front of people so that they can think through them.
AD The act of not taking sides would seem to be part of an ethical, rather than political, approach if we’re looking at Un Ballo in Maschera as a historical metaphor for political redemption. Is the film a direct comment on the present day in this sense?
YS I give the audience two options. You see the king go into the ball, indulge himself in the excess and get murdered. But I give him the option to get up again. It’s up to the audience to decide which version prevails. Do they want him to stay murdered, or do they want him to be saved? The audience is seeing both possibilities. In real life, of course, there is no rewind, or replay; an event happens and that’s it.
AD So you’re asking the audience to be complicit, if not in the assassination, then in the redemption.
YS It depends on the person. Viewers have to make up their mind whether this person had the right to assassinate that leader or not. You need a leader, but what sort of leader? The film gives you the opportunity to engage with the various tensions. In the dance and the theatricality as well as the breathtaking visuals, you’re part of that excess and you indulge in it, but then it’s not that simple because there’s a dark side to this beauty. It’s not just a lavish banquet; there’s always this “terrible beauty.”
AD “All changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born.” It’s a particularly apposite quote from W. B. Yeats, bearing in mind that it comes from a poem that expresses his own disillusionment with revolution.
YS Yes, so there’s always this thing that isn’t what you imagined it to be at first.
AD There’s also an absence of dialogue in your film. That was obviously intentional in the presentation of visual rather than aural excess. Is this what Barthes calls jouissance, the literal pleasure in the image itself?
YS It’s really about the presence of the actors. I wanted to avoid linear narrative, and dialogue sometimes makes that difficult unless I were to use dialogue in a very sophisticated manner. I didn’t want to distract from the presence of the actors. I left in things that would be taken out in “normal” film, like the effort of their dancing, or their breathing, or the sound of their clothes. Everything’s exaggerated so that you can just focus on the people, on the movement, on the visuals. That also gave the action a slightly disturbing quality, which I liked.

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Scramble for Africa, 2003, 14 figures, 14 chairs and table, mixed media, 52×192 x 110”.
AD I quite like the idea of redemption as an ethical or relative, rather than political, gesture.
YS I don’t force that notion onto the audience. You have the opportunity to rethink these things, but you don’t necessarily have to. There are people who believe that the war in Iraq is absolutely right, as there are people who believe that it is absolutely wrong. There are two sides, and I think that’s what an artist has to recognize: positions are always relative.
AD And not taking a side is in fact taking a side, insofar as it opens a third space, beyond that easy agreement or disagreement.
YS Even racism is about relativity, do you see what I mean? I guess as an artist that relativity is what I want to highlight and play with. According to Brecht, the audience completes the work of art, and that is a notion I very much subscribe to.
AD Also the Brechtian idea that you have to draw attention to the artifice of the theater in order to involve yourself politically in what is happening.
I know you’re a big film buff. I want to talk about the importance of film for you. I mean particular filmmakers, particular films. I know you’ve cited Peter Greenaway’s The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover as a film that interests you.
YS Actually, for Un Ballo in Maschera I looked to that film again, because it shows how ridiculous excess can be, and how when you push it further, it becomes extremely primitive: the primitive side of humanity. I also like the pace of the film, the darkness of it, and its form. There are also some Godard films in which he focuses on form. You can do that with art; you can reference your form quite easily in a way that people understand. But with the saturation of Hollywood cinema there has also been a return to the idea of referencing the form of the film itself, which the great modernist filmmakers, particularly the French, were doing. This was something I felt I wanted to do: make an art film that refers to itself.
AD Two things come to mind: the long shot in Godard’s Weekend that tracks along a road of burning cars, and the circular narrative of Alain Resnais’s Last Year at Marienbad.
YS Yes, Resnais used the device of repetition in that film. That’s a very good one to reference, because of the sheer excess of that film: they’re all in this amazing hotel. It’s certainly one of my favorite films. French New Wave cinema is probably my favorite period of film. You can watch them over and over again and see something new every time.
AD It’s a formal device. They don’t introduce repetition as mere repetition, but repetition as difference, so to speak, because you’re looking again and again. For example, I was looking atUn Ballo in Maschera again to see what’s different from when I watched it before. It’s a re-thinking as well as a re-looking. In a way it’s repetition as the introduction of ambiguity and camouflage. Which brings me to the notion of ambiguity in your work, not least in your use of Dutch wax fabric. That fabric is a classic example of the so-called signifier of African authenticity, and yet it was produced by the Dutch for sale in Indonesia and then ended up in Nigeria. There is this notion of fabrication in your work—fabric itself, of course, but also fabrication, the telling of stories.
YS To be an artist, you have to be a good liar. There’s no question about that. If you’re not, you can’t be a good artist. Basically, you have to know how to fabricate, how to weave tales, how to tell lies, because you’re taking your audience to a nonexistent space and telling them that it does exist. But you have to be utopian in your approach. You have to create visions that don’t actually exist yet in the world—or that may actually someday exist as a result of life following art. It’s natural for people to want to be sectarian or divisive. Different cultures want to group together, they want to stick to their own culture, but what I do is create a kind of mongrel. In reality most people’s cultures have evolved out of this mongrelization, but people don’t acknowledge that. British culture in reality is very mixed. There’s a way in which people want to keep this notion of purity, and that ultimately leads to the gas chambers. What I am doing may be humorous so as to show the stupidity of things. But at the same time I understand that the logical conclusion of sectarianism is Auschwitz, or the “logical” in its starkest manifestation. So even though these works are humorous, there’s a very dark underlying motivation.

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Odile and Odette, 2005, color film.
AD Which puts you in a position of playing out the carnivalesque yourself, because essentially it is carnivalesque to engage humorously with a very serious subject. This is precisely what Mikhail Bakhtin talks about when he explores the notion of the carnivalesque, the humorous taking down, or usurpation, of power. How do you feel about your own power relation to the audience, or your power to produce the work? Are those issues for you personally?
YS It’s very interesting: even though I make work about power, the so-called establishment and so on, I was made a Member of the British Empire. I am now Yinka Shonibare MBE, and of course there was the question of whether I was going to refuse the honor. The poet Benjamin Zephaniah, who is of Caribbean origin, had refused—I think it was an OBE. In the end, I felt that, given what my work is about, to have actually been acknowledged and honored by the establishment was quite interesting. And I felt it was more useful to accept it than to refuse it. Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned, but I think it’s better to make an impact from within rather than from without. In a way I feel flattered, because I never really thought the establishment took any notice of what artists did.
AD Unless you’re advocating armed revolution.
YS Yes. So it’s quite amusing for me. And hopefully it’s a platform that will enable me to do more work.
AD In order to deconstruct those power structures, you must be engaged with them. I mean, standing outside throwing the proverbial Molotov cocktail is only going to get you so far. However, once you are inside—hidden, or cloaked‚ within those structures—there is a totally different power structure to be addressed. Which again brings in the carnivalesque, masquerade and the notion of camouflage.
YS Well, it’s the notion of the Trojan horse. With the Trojan horse, you can go in unnoticed. And then you can wreak havoc.
AD I like this notion of appearing as something you’re not, or making the work look like something it isn’t. People might look at your work and think of it in terms of decoration, but it is not that. You use decoration as a sign of excess.
YS And it is actually also decoration, because it is a deliberate complicity with popular culture. I once heard Howard Hodgkin say that he was offended because his work had been described as decorative. I don’t feel that way, because I deliberately use popular culture. A very interesting thing has now happened in the London fashion world since my Turner Prize nomination: a number of designers have taken on my work by using “African” textiles in a big way. It’s showing up in a lot of collections. If you go to the High Street fashion stores in London, you’ll see clothes, dresses, bags and things made out of those fabrics. It’s kind of exploded. In fact, Harvey Nichols invited me to do their window dressing. I turned it down. I was not totally opposed to it in principle; I was just too busy. But the good thing about that is that they went ahead and did a kind of Yinka Shonibare window anyway. So I like that sort of relationship between popular culture and art, the kind of to-ing and fro-ing. Do you see what I mean?
AD Absolutely. It creates a sort of fluidity and a certain ambiguity. You are not quite sure what the difference is—if indeed there is one—between the fabrics encountered in the “downmarket” environment of Brixton market or the so-called upmarket environment of Harvey Nichols.
YS And also the moment this fabric gets shown at the Turner Prize exhibition, at the Tate, suddenly it becomes chic. It’s the way the so-called outsider stuff—”peasant” clothes, for example—suddenly became chic.
AD Which is a good metaphor for masquerade and the carnivalesque: when the low becomes high and the high becomes low.
YS It’s interesting that the very wealthy go to Harvey Nichols and buy a very expensive fashion of something, when they could just go to Brixton market, buy the fabric and have it made very cheaply.

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Odile and Odette, 2005, color film.
AD Let’s move on to your latest project, which is something else entirely. You’ve been working with the Royal Opera House on your version of Swan Lake, which you are callingOdile and Odette. Can you talk about how that came about, and then perhaps about what that project is and how it fits in—if indeed it does—with the discussion we’ve had?
YS Throughout 2005 there has been a celebration of African culture in London, called “Africa ’05,” for which a number of institutions around the city are doing projects relating to African culture. The Africa Centre approached me to do an installation there. The Africa Centre is at Covent Garden, and that’s also where the Royal Opera House is, so because of the proximity of the two, I proposed a project with the Royal Opera House. I thought that would be a great opportunity to look at the relationship between the Royal Opera House and the Africa Centre, both institutions representing a colonial relationship and a cultural relationship. The Africa Centre exists as a result of England’s encounter with Africa. But then I thought, What would I do at the Royal Opera House? I tried to go beyond what would be expected of somebody of African origin and I thought, I’ve never done a ballet, so why not? You laugh, but you know, no one ever questioned Picasso’s interest in and use of African art, but Africans are always expected to just do “African” things. In the contemporary world where we all travel, that’s just not realistic. I see opera like everybody else, and I see popular culture like everybody else. I always like to work with iconic things, and Swan Lake is very well known, probably the most popular ballet. It’s also a perfect choice because the basic story concerns a prince who wants to get married, and there’s a good, sweet swan, Odette, and a bad swan, Odile. Usually the two roles are danced by the same ballerina. In all productions Odile is put into black clothes and Odette wears swanlike, nicer things. The roles—one as the ego and one as alter—in my version are more ambiguous: you would not necessarily be able to tell who is the bad one and who is the good one. One role is danced by a black ballerina and the other is danced by a white ballerina, and between them is an empty gold frame; the ballerinas do solos from Swan Lake, but they mirror each other’s movements, creating the illusion that one dancer is a reflection of the other. The way the piece is lit, it’s actually quite convincing as a reflection. Kim Brandstrup is the choreographer, and the dancers have done very beautifully. The interesting thing is that at some point they switch places so that the white ballerina is the reflection, and then it keeps going back and forth. And they do the dance twice. The pointe shoes and the tutus are made out of African textiles; I guess that’s part of my signature style. My proposal to the Opera House was that, rather than show the film of the ballet at the Africa Centre, they screen it outside in the summer where they usually show live footage of performances happening inside the Opera House so that members of the public can have free access. A lot of people show up for the screenings. This year they’ve got screens at Trafalgar Square and at a number of places around the country in various city squares, and my film will be run during the intermissions of live feeds from the Royal Opera House’s performances.
AD That ties in quite nicely with your Trojan Horse metaphor: it’s being quietly wheeled in, and the distinction between the two productions is minimal, but it’s there.
YS It becomes part of the so-called high art genre, if you like. You couldn’t really go higher than the Opera House, could you? I also like the fact that it’s outside, so a lot of people will see the work without having to be intimidated by the idea of going to the Royal Opera House or having to buy tickets.
AD Without even necessarily understanding the significance of what they are looking at, right? They are in Trafalgar Square watching a Royal Opera House ballet, and then suddenly during the intermission they are watching your film. Finally, what are you working on after this project?
YS I’ve got two shows coming up in New York in October, one at the Cooper-Hewitt Museum and one at the James Cohan Gallery. And after that I’m working on a major installation in Paris for 2007, for a new museum that’s just been built, called the Quai Branly. It’s an ethnographic museum, but they want to commission contemporary artists to do works there. It’s right by the Eiffel Tower, and it’s a big deal for the French; the prime minister is very involved. I’m working on a project called Garden of Love, where I’m creating a kind of French formal garden inside the museum; there will be fountains, and lovers taken from Fragonard paintings. Headless, of course. Filmwise there are other projects . . . but I’ll tell of those another time.

Yinka Shonibare BIO from art history.com


Yinka Shonibare's Age of Reason

by Beth S. Gersh-Nesic


Yinka Shonibare MBE calls himself a "postcolonial hybrid." Born in London in 1962 of Nigerian parents who moved back to Lagos when the artist was three, Shonibare has always straddled different identities, both national and physical. Son of an upper middle-class lawyer, he summered in London and Battersea, attended an exclusive boarding school in England at age sixteen (where much to his amusement he learned that his classmates assumed that all black people are poor), and enrolled in Byam Shaw School of Art, London (now part of Central Saint Martin's College of Art and Design) at age nineteen. One month into his art school studies he contracted a virus that rendered him paralyzed. After three years of physical therapy, Shonibare remains partially disabled. 

These dual identities--African/British; physically able/challenged--are only two of Shonibare's acknowledged hybrid conditions. He knows that his name sounds feminine to the uninitiated, and his recently acquired title Yinka Shonibare MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire) conjures up thoughts of exoticism, imperialism, globalization, and cultural confluence, just like his signature medium Dutch batik fabric. 

Dutch wax fabrics, designed in the former-Dutch colony Indonesia and manufactured in Manchester, England, ended up as an export to Africa, thus inventing an "African" identity through fashion. "It's the fallacy of that signification that I like," Shonibare told Pernilla Holmes in 2002. "It's the way I view culture--it's an artificial construct." The intersection of European and African, colonizer and colonized, authentic and artificial, announces itself best through Shonibare's use and placement of this hybrid "African" cloth, especially because it is so theatrically seductive in Shonibare's elaborate installations. "I have always viewed art as a form of opera, or as being operatic," Shonibare explained in 2004. "And opera is excessive; it is beyond the real, and therefore hyper-real." For this 40-something member of the erstwhile yBa (Young British Artist) contingent, Dutch wax fabric (the real) fashioned into period Western dress (the hyper-real) encode tons of innuendo, or what the semiotic crowd calls "signifiers." 

"The main preoccupation within my art education was the construction of signs as outlined in Roland Barthes's Mythologies," Shonibare elaborated in 2005. "So the idea of the theatrical for me is actually about art as the construction of a fiction, art as the biggest liar. What I want to suggest is that there is no such thing as a natural signifier, that the signifier is always constructed--in other words, that what you represent things with is a form of mythology." 

Yinka Shonibare's most recent exhibition at James Cohan Gallery, Prospero's Monsters, enlists signifiers from three major works in art history: Théodore Géricault's Raft of the Medusa (1819), Jacques-Louis David's Portrait of Antoine Lavoisier and his Wife (1788), and Francisco Goya's "The Sleep/Dream of Reason" from Los Caprichos (1799) to address contemporary issues. The name Prospero refers to the usurped Duke of Milan in William Shakespeare's play The Tempest (1610-11). He is a magician who causes a storm to shipwreck his traitorous brother Antonio and his crew on the island of Prospero's twelve-year exile. While Prospero's plight hinges on victimization, he in turn usurps the island and enslaves two inhabitants: Ariel and Caliban. Thus "Prospero's Monsters" refers to those who wrest power and those who are colonized. 

Image © 2008 Yinka Shonibare; courtesy of James Cohan Gallery, used with permission
Yinka Shonibare, MBE (British, b. 1962)

(Left)
La Méduse, 2008
Wood, foam, Plexiglas, Dutch wax-printed
fabric, and acrylic paint
83 1/2 x 66 x 54 in. (212.1 x 167.6 x 137.2 cm)

(Right)
La Méduse, 2008
C-print mounted on aluminum
Image size: 72 x 94 in. (182.9 x 238.8 cm)
Framed: 85 x 107 in. (215.9 x 271.8 cm)
Edition of 10
Image courtesy James Cohan Gallery
Art © 2008 Yinka Shonibare
 


In the first room of the exhibition, the theme of colonization and subjugation are underscored by a model of the famous, ill-fated French frigate Méduse (Medusa, in English), here outfitted with Dutch batik sails and menaced by an artificial wave. Next to this glass-enclosed diorama, an enormous C-print photograph of the miniature ship and tempest hangs on the wall. 

The Méduse ran aground (like Antonio's ship in The Tempest) off the coast of Senegal (a former French colony) in 1816. However, in the actual event, the Méduse sailed into the treacherous shoals of the Arguin Bank, close to its destination. This tragic incident symbolized the dysfunctional Bourbon regime, restored in 1815 under Louis XVIII after Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo, in Théodore Géricault's gigantic painting The Raft of the Medusa. In recent appropriations of Géricault's masterpiece, Joel-Peter Witkin's Raft of the George W. Bush (2006) and Kara Walker's Post-Katrina Adrift (2007), re-activate the original's accusations: administrative negligence, human sacrifice and needless suffering. It seems that Shonibare joins his fellow artists in this reference to the Méduseas a signifier. 

Creative Commons licensed image courtesy Wikimedia Commons; used with permission
Théodore Géricault (French, 1791-1824)
The Raft of the Medusa, 1819
Oil on canvas
491 x 716 cm (193 5/16 x 281 7/8 in.)
Musée du Louvre, Paris
 


The story of the Méduse also brings to mind France's slave-trade, because the French governor of Senegal, who engaged in the ignominious enterprise, sailed on the ill-fated ship and survived on a rescue boat, while most of the crew perished on a jerry-built raft. Although slave trade was outlawed in France during the eighteenth-century, the French government turned a blind eye to the practice, allowing it to continue well into the nineteenth century. 

References to the Méduse and The Tempest prepare the visitor to move into the main exhibition space which features five Enlightenment celebrities: mathematician Gabrielle Émilie Le Tonnelier, Marquise de Châtelet, philosopher Immanuel Kant, economist Adam Smith, chemist Antoine Lavoisier, and encyclopedist Jean le Rond d'Alembert. Dark honey-colored headless mannequins, which nullify racial identification, are dressed in elegant eighteenth-century attire made of contrasting Dutch batik material. Each figure participates in a contemplative drama, its own tableau non-vivant

Image © 2008 Yinka Shonibare; courtesy of James Cohan Gallery, used with permission
Yinka Shonibare, MBE (British, b. 1962)
The Age of Enlightenment, 2008

(Left)
Adam Smith
Life-size fiberglass mannequin,
Dutch wax printed cotton, mixed media
Figure: 70 x 43 1/2 x 33 1/2 in. (177.8 x 110.5 x 85.1 cm)
Plinth: 59 x 67 x 5 in. (149.9 x 170.2 x 12.7 cm)

(Right foreground)
Jean le Rond d'Alembert
Life-size fiberglass mannequin,
Dutch wax printed cotton, mixed media
Figure: 65 1/2 x 25 1/2 x 30 in. (166.4 x 64.8 x 76.2 cm)
Plinth: 59 x 59 x 3 in. (149.9 x 149.9 x 7.6 cm)

(Right background)
Immanuel Kant
Life-size fiberglass mannequin,
Dutch wax printed cotton, mixed media
Figure: 29 1/2 x 41 x 31 1/2 in. (74.9 x 104.1 x 80 cm)
Plinth: 88 1/2 x 82 1/2 x 6 in. (224.8 x 209.6 x 15.2 cm)
Image courtesy James Cohan Gallery
Art © 2008 Yinka Shonibare
 


Moving from right to left in a counter-clockwise direction, we see the Marquise de Châtelet at her writing desk, one arm apparently a prosthesis; Immanuel Kant without legs at his writing desk; a hunched-back Adam Smith reaching for his volume The Wealth of Nations; Antoine Lavoisier sitting in an eighteenth-century wheel-chair positioned at his desk laden with reproductions of antique beakers and vials; and d'Alembert leaning on crutches against a lectern, writing in his notebook. Real books, measuring devices, inkwells and quills grace the surfaces of desks and bookcases, which are authentic, found reproductions or expressly crafted for the exhibition. Yet amid this meticulously rendered eighteenth-century calm, exuberant pinks, reds, blues and yellows in the colonist Dutch wax fabric pop out and agitate, injecting a healthy dose of realpolitik into an ersatz Neoclassical ideal. 

Image © 2008 Yinka Shonibare; courtesy of James Cohan Gallery, used with permission
Yinka Shonibare, MBE (British, b. 1962)
The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (Asia), 2008
C-print mounted on aluminum
Image size: 72 x 49 1/2 in. (182.9 x 125.7 cm)
Framed: 81 1/2 x 58 in. (207 x 147.3 cm)
Edition of 5
Image courtesy James Cohan Gallery
Art © 2008 Yinka Shonibare
 


The gallery's third room presents a summation of the first two rooms, by posing a question in five different appropriations of Francisco Goya's "El Sueño de la Razón Produce Monstruos" ("The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters," or "The Dream of Reason Produces Monsters"). Here, photographs of real people, clothed in costumes identical to the ones on view in the second room, re-enact the natty eighteenth-century sleeper encircled by owls, cats, bats, and other creepy creatures which explain the absent text: "Imagination deserted by reason, begets impossible monsters. United with reason, she is the mother of all arts, and the source of their wonders." 

Shonibare's photographs ask in French: "Les songes de la raison produisent-ils les monstres en Afrique/en Amérique/en Asia/en Europe/en Australie?" ("Do the dreams of reason produce monsters in Africa/in America/in Asia/in Europe/in Australia?"). This translation seems to suggest that the imposition of the Enlightenment ideals may in fact create a few demons--such as dictators "democratically" voted into power. 

It has been said that Yinka Shonibare's Prospero's Monsters is a "well-worn sermon preached to the converted." This comment pains me deeply. For I believe that Yinka Shonibare's still-life dramas effectively educate the public, increasing the likelihood that more people will be enlightened by his take on cultural history and the significant role of commerce. Moreover, Shonibare's decision to cast hybridism as the star of his shows produces some form of Reason, at least for now in the twenty-first century. 

Monday, April 29, 2013

Mike the Headless Chicken





No, it’s not the latest eye-popping item from the always entertaining Weekly World News. Instead, it’s an actual headline from the October 22, 1945, issue of LIFE magazine, above an article about … well, a headless chicken: “Beheaded Chicken Lives Normally After Freak Decapitation by Ax.”

“Ever since Sept. 10,” LIFE informed its readers, “a rangy Wyandotte rooster named Mike has been living a normal chicken’s life though he has no head.” Mike, it seems, “lost his head in the usual rooster way. Mrs. L.A. Olson, wife of a farmer in Fruita, Colo., 200 miles west of Denver, decided to have chicken for dinner. Mrs. Olson took Mike to the chopping block and axed off his head. Thereupon Mike got up and soon began to strut around…. What Mrs. Olson’s ax had done was to clip off most of the skull but leave intact one ear, the jugular vein and the base of the brain, which controls motor function.”

The rest is poultry history. Mike lived for 18 months after losing his head, finally succumbing at a motel in the Arizona desert in 1946 during one of his many appearances as a sideshow attraction in the American southwest.



Read more: http://life.time.com/curiosities/photos-mike-the-headless-chicken-beyond-belief/#ixzz2RuGejEtw


http://life.time.com/curiosities/photos-mike-the-headless-chicken-beyond-belief/#1

Lucid Decapitation



For thousands of years, the forceful removal of the human head has been used as a form of capital punishment. In fact, the word "capital" in the context of punishment was coined to describe execution by decapitation, derived from the Latin word caput, which means "head." Since the very beginnings of the practice, there has been much speculation and debate regarding the length of time that the head can remain conscious after its removal. Many argue that a beheaded person will almost instantly lose consciousness due to a massive drop in blood pressure in the brain, and/or the heavy impact of the decapitation device. But there are countless eyewitness reports in history describing a few moments of apparent awareness in the victim.
Beheading has been discontinued as a form of execution in much of the world due to the suspicion that a severed head remains conscious and able to experience pain, so there have been no recent scientific observations of human decapitation. However studies of decapitated animals has lent some credibility to the massive number of stories regarding a head's brief consciousness after being separated from the body. Under certain circumstances, it is very possible that a head so removed may remain lucid long enough to know its fate.

In many cases, the anecdotal evidence describes blinking eyes, wandering gaze, and moving lips on a freshly amputated head. As grotesque and troubling as these movements may be to the witnesses, such muscular spasms are not surprising under the circumstances. It is not uncommon for any separated limb to twitch briefly due to reflex nerve action. More difficult to attribute to nerve reflexes are the stories of specific facial expressions sometimes seen on the faces of the beheaded as they died. Some were said to change expressions several times in the last few moments, ranging from pain and confusion to grief and fear.

In the heyday of the guillotine during the French Revolution, it is said that many of the condemned were asked to blink for as long as possible after decapitation. While many reportedly did not blink at all, some complied for as long as thirty seconds. Still other observations describe much more specific reactions to stimuli following beheading. Consider the case of Languille, a convicted murderer who was guillotined in France. He was observed by Dr. Beaurieux during his execution at 5:30am on June 28th, 1905. As written in Archives d'Anthropologie Criminelle, here are the doctor's observations:

Here, then, is what I was able to note immediately after the decapitation: the eyelids and lips of the guillotined man worked in irregularly rhythmic contractions for about five or six seconds ... I waited for several seconds. The spasmodic movements ceased.The face relaxed, the lids half closed on the eyeballs, leaving only the white of the conjunctiva visible, exactly as in the dying whom we have occasion to see every day in the exercise of our profession, or as in those just dead.It was then that I called in a strong, sharp voice: 'Languille!' I saw the eyelids slowly lift up, without any spasmodic contractions ... Next Languille's eyes very definitely fixed themselves on mine and the pupils focused themselves ... After several seconds, the eyelids closed again, slowly and evenly, and the head took on the same appearance as it had had before I called out.It was at that point that I called out again and, once more, without any spasm, slowly, the eyelids lifted and undeniably living eyes fixed themselves on mine with perhaps even more penetration than the first time. Then there was a further closing of the eyelids, but now less complete. I attempted the effect of a third call; there was no further movement and the eyes took on the glazed look which they have in the dead.
I have just recounted to you with rigorous exactness what I was able to observe. The whole thing had lasted twenty-five to thirty seconds.

In the book Crucibles: The Story of Chemistry, a story is related where the unnamed servant of chemist Antoine Lavoisier was beheaded by guillotine. According to the writer, Lavoisier immediately picked up the head and asked the servant to blink if he understood. Reportedly, the man blinked. There is also an oft-repeated anecdote involving Antoine Lavoisier's own later experience on the guillotine in 1794. The story is dubious considering that it does not appear in any of his biographies, but reportedly he told his assistant that he would blink for as long as he was able after execution, and successfully did so for fifteen to twenty seconds.

A more recent account tells of an accidental decapitation in an automobile. In 1989, a U.S. Army veteran who served in the Korean war was riding in a taxi with a friend when it collided with a truck. The witness was pinned to his seat, and the friend was decapitated by the collision:

My friend's head came to rest face up, and (from my angle) upside-down. As I watched, his mouth opened and closed no less than two times. The facial expressions he displayed were first of shock or confusion, followed by terror or grief. I cannot exaggerate and say that he was looking all around, but he did display ocular movement in that his eyes moved from me, to his body, and back to me. He had direct eye contact with me when his eyes took on a hazy, absent expression . . . and he was dead.
Judith Beheading Holofernes
Not all attempts to observe consciousness in decapitated heads has been successful. In 1836, a murderer named Lacenaire agreed to wink after execution, but he did not do so. Another murderer named Prunier in 1879 also failed to respond to stimuli. But it is likely that some individuals will lose consciousness immediately upon decapitation, while others might experience a few horrifying moments of lucidity as one's head parts ways with the rest of one's person. It is also very possible that most beheaded persons are too disoriented and/or distracted by pain and grief to trouble themselves with such trivial tasks.
Can it be concluded that a separated head is capable of consciousness and awareness following the event? Not with any certainty. Further scientific observation of human decapitation is highly unlikely, so it is a question that may remain unanswered indefinitely. But there is much evidence to indicate that for some, death is not instantaneous, which probably offers a truly surreal experience for those few, brief moments. It goes without saying that there are no first-hand accounts to shed further light on the subject.
http://www.damninteresting.com/lucid-decapitation/


  • Beheadings are discontinued as a form of punishment (in western world)
  • Animals and humans may be alive initially following the beheading

Beheading and Marie Antoinette

Decapitation or beheading, is the removal of the head from a living body, inevitably causing death. Beheading typically refers to the act of intentional decapitation, such as a means of murderor execution. It may be accomplished, for example, with an axe, sword, or knife, or by means of a guillotine. Beheading has been used as the standard method of capital punishment in manycultures around the world throughout history. For some, it was considered the honorable way to die, and reserved for the nobility; for others, the mutilation of the body was considered disrespectful and was used as a most severe punishment. As humankind has progressed, gaining a greater awareness of the value of life and respect for the human rights of all, beheading has become less common—numerous countries have abolished the death penalty while those retaining it seek to impose it by more humane methods, such as hanginggas chamber, or lethal injection. Ultimately, indeed, intentional beheading has no place in a peaceful, harmonious world.
http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Beheading


On the morning of October 16, 1793, a guard arrived to cut her hair and bind her hands behind her back. She was forced into a tumbrel and paraded through the streets of Paris for over an hour before reaching the Place de la Révolution where the guillotine stood. She stepped down from the cart and stared up at the guillotine. The priest who had accompanied her whispered, "This is the moment, Madame, to arm yourself with courage." Marie Antoinette turned to look at him and smiled, "Courage? The moment when my troubles are going to end is not the moment when my courage is going to fail me."
At 12:15, Marie Antoinette was executed. The bodies of Marie, Louis XVI and Madame Elisabeth (Louis' sister) were buried in a mass grave near the location of today's La Madeleine church. Following the restoration of the Bourbons, a search was conducted for the bodies. On January 21, 1815, more than twenty years after her death, her corpse was exhumed—a lady's garter helped with identification—and Marie Antoinette was buried at the side of her spouse in the crypt of St. Denis Basilica just outside of Paris, the traditional final resting place of French monarchs.
http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Marie_Antoinette


Aristocratic Revolt in France led to aristocratic beheadings



The French Revolution

On July 15th 1789 a mob stormed the Bastille in Paris, and the French Revolution was born. The early days were triumphant: the ideals of the Enlightenment were dominant, a Declaration of the Rights of Man was proclaimed on the American model, and the King remained nominally in power. But gradually the revolution began to go wrong. In 1792 the king was dethroned and in the following January he was actually beheaded, soon to be followed by his wife, Marie Antoinette. By 1793 the reign of terror was in full swing; guillotines were set up throughout France and thousands were beheaded. These were not just the aristocrats, but ordinary people – the Third Estate – were hunted down; indeed it is said that more bakers were beheaded than aristocrats. In 1794 Robespierre, the architect of the terror was himself beheaded which seemed to mark the beginning of the end of the worst excess. Gradually the terror abated, and in 1796 a young general called Napoleon began winning victories in the south, and 3 years later he came to power as First Consul. Any semblance of democracy was snuffed out and the ideals of the Revolution were forgotten, but a sort of normality returned. There followed a decade of triumph when Napoleon extended French domination over much of Europe.
But what had gone wrong? Why did revolution lead to terror in this way? This question reverberated through much of the 19th century, when the revolutions were seen as the inevitable harbinger of terror and revolutionaries in their turn thought they ought to bring terror in their wake. But the answer to the problem of the French Revolution is very simple and can be boiled down to a single word: inflation. Inflation is the hidden ingredient in the French revolution, yet it is one that is tossed aside or ignored by virtually all historians of the period. Yet the French revolution is one of the classic cases where a monetary analysis is the vital hidden ingredient and makes sense of the whole phenomenon.
The French revolution began from an economic crisis. Louis XVI mismanaged the economy, and his extravagances drove him to near bankruptcy. At the beginning of 1789, he was forced to call together the Estates General to vote him more money. The Estates General proved obstinate, an impasse developed, and the Parisian mob supported the Estates General. On July 14, they stormed the Bastille.
From the first, financial matters predominated: there was not enough money to go round, and what should be done about it? There was one obvious solution – create more money. There was however one serious objection - the memory of John Law, whose inflationary schemes had ruined many Frenchmen a generation before. John Law (1671-1729) was a Scottish gambler and financier, half genius, half crook who fled from Scotland having killed a man in a duel over a girl. Having arrived in France, he set up a scheme to finance the French colony in Louisiana. His financial schemes were ingenious and at first they succeeded brilliantly, establishing a Banque Royale which issued its own bank notes. The scheme ballooned into Companie Perpetuelle des Indes encompassing both the West and East Indies. More and more paper money was issued, till in 1720 it all collapsed. Law fled from France and many of the French middle classes, and indeed of the aristocracy, were ruined.

http://www.civilisation.org.uk/Later/french_revolution.htm



Aristocracy


In theory, an aristocracy is very different from the way historic practice has described it. Two famous Greek philosophers, Aristotle and Plato, were responsible for coming up with the idea of aristocracy. In their concept, it was meant to be a government where the most capable people were put in direct charge of everything, and it was meant to be a direct contradiction of the Greek democracy system of the time. In practice, there were some difficulties in implementing an aristocratic form of government, mainly due to an inability to determine who was most suited, and it eventually became directly associated with the idea of monarchy.

The idea of aristocracy spread far and wide throughout the world, but most governments decided that the only way to determine if people where capable was to look at their ancestry. If someone’s parents were successful, rich, and prominent, that person would generally be given more privileges and leadership responsibilities, and this continued for generations, regardless of performance. Eventually, this led to a bunch of royal families, and the term aristocracy became more directly related to the idea of monarchs
 There were also other aristocracies that didn’t base things on genetics. In some countries, status was directly based on things like land ownership or wealth, regardless of heritage. In others, it might be related to religious elements. Sometimes there might be a combination of elements that would eventually allow a person to climb into the aristocracy, and some countries had different classes of aristocrats with statuses based on different things.
Many countries eventually decided they didn’t really like the idea of aristocracy. This was mainly because there was generally no fair way to choose worthy leaders to make sure that the very best people were always put in charge. Some people argue that the eventual development ofrepresentative democracy is really a kind of aristocracy, only with the people choosing who the most capable leaders are.
In theory, an aristocracy with unlimited power might be able to work, at least for a little while. If the people in charge were truly capable and were working in the best interests of the masses, many experts believe that such a government would be extremely efficient. In practice, many people suggest that corruption often leaks into systems where individuals have too much power without the proper checks and balances, and this might negate many of the potential benefits.
http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-an-aristocracy.htm#did-you-know