David Altmejd's Sarah Altmejd
Tricia Middleton
written on the occasion of David Altmejd's exhibition, Sarah Altmejd at SKOL
spring 2003Upon first glance at David Altmejd's recent exhibition Sarah Altmejd at Skol, one might feel as though they had journeyed far back in time, and come across a forgotten room in a lost cabinet of curiosities - the (often bizarre) precursor to the modern museum. The viewer is met by two grotesque heads, double portraits fashioned after the artist's sister and namesake of this exhibition, which are seemingly held in stasis between growth and decay, beauty and horror - just the kind of curios favoured by ancient collectors. Found inside the confines of a blackened chamber and with subtle spotlights upon them, the presentation of these portraits is redolent of what we have come to expect from museological display. These unhappy doppelgangers of Sarah Altmejd conjure a relationship to a very distant past in their ornate materiality and elegance, yet grimly, are also suggestive of an unwanted future.
In their romantic tragedy, these works hearken back to a pre-industrial era, apparently constructed with little consciousness of mechanised forms of production, yet brimming with anxiety for all that the future holds. However, upon closer inspection, one is able to discern the cheapness of the obviously mass produced materials used in the creation of these seemingly ancient portraits. These heads come to take on a more contemporary, cinematic kinship to horror through the use of over the top costume pieces, such as cut-rate wigs, jewellery, stones and crystals, and far less than life-like inducing make-ups. Overriding this interest in the tropes of horror, one cannot ignore the fact that these portraits, thick and dripping in their fabricated rot and decay, are portraits of a loved one: a sister. The central tension the artist seems to be exploring with this project is beauty and decay, and the wondrous, freakish hell of the sublime that seems to emanate from this horror, further complicated by the love and admiration felt for a sister.
Both heads confront the viewer as they enter the room: one portrait is dead centre while the other lies off to the right. The portrait that we see immediately upon entering the gallery, and the one that seems to exert the most gravitational pull upon us in typical display cult fashion, is mounted atop a black plinth eyelevel to where we might stand, staring into a gaping abyss that was once Sarah Altmejd's face. The traces of these remains give the appearance that her face has rotted away completely, leaving nothing but a cavernous hole in its place. As one gazes into this massive wound, they notice that rather than simply decomposing in the usual earthly manner, the head has crystallised, self-cauterising against further infection or decay, carrying on in its afterlife as jewel encrusted remain. Not exactly of the living, but not entirely dead: these portraits exist in a condition of horrific stasis, suggesting beauty resides within horror, no matter how unsettling things might seem at first.
As one finally wrests their eyes from this spectacle of the first portraits, they are faced with the other one, located near the entrance of the small chamber - a variation on the previous model, yet much different in affect. Rather than displaying this head in such an obvious tribute to the origins of the museum, there has been a shift towards a more overt use of narrative. We see - and what's more, can hypothesise this is the case - a head that appears to have been severed from its body in a terrible accident, still resting where it landed upon dislocation. There is debris and rocky dust surrounding this head, indicating the force of an imaginary wind blowing over long intervals. As the viewer beholds this accident scene, they are left to consider what horror caused this head to be left in such a way. While the crystals and other rock formations that now seem to compose the material of the head imply a great passage of time (again, a potentially disastrous future looms ominously), presumably we know that the real Sarah Altmejd is alive and well, or do we? Sarah Altmejd, the exhibition, seems to suggest the potential for future horrors, while specifically in dialogue with horrors from the past.
In all their geological anthropology, the fantasies these objects conjure are only allowed to take us so far. We are always reminded of artistic process at one point or another. A brush stroke here, or a fingerprint there: these fantasies are quickly drawn to a halt. We are never permitted full access to a seamless alternate universe where time unravels and horror fully evolves into aesthetic terror. While our minds may run wild with possibilities - our precarious placement within the time/space continuum and questions surrounding what has really happened to Sarah Altmejd - we never seem to be encouraged to the fullest extent possible to forget the fact we are looking at art. This solemn phantasmagoria of death and decay always remains within the realm of the aesthetic. Real horror is always staved off in favour of pointing to the sublime, therein locating the viewer (safely, in this case) within the realm of the aesthetic.
Yet one must ask, "Why Sarah Altmejd?" As the beloved sister of the artist, one remains curious as to the decision to represent her as dead and decaying, subjected to unimaginable horrors - even if obvious tactics to beautify the corpse are at play. When viewing Sarah Altmejd , are we really looking at a secret self that resides somewhere within David Altmejd, or is this simply a case of artistic license? The truly frightening thing behind these representations does not end with the blending of familial identities in the service of intensified horror and drama. Rather, it appears to be the utter limitlessness of it all, as these doppelgangers in reverse continue to refract in all directions like a broken mirror. It is not one head of David Altmejd's double in the form of Sarah Altmejd we are presented with, but two.
ISBN: 2-922009-11-4