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Brook Andrew, Sexy
and
Dangerous, 1.8x1.0m
duratran on
perspex, dim. var., 1996
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The essential problem posed by
Brook Andrew's work is identity and it's associated
myths. Of course his dealings with myth are grounded in
personal history, but as a gay, Wiradjuri man, he manages
to elude any narrowly prescriptive readings of his work.
This is achieved by multiple layering of culturally
encoded meanings and presenting political questions in a
slippery format often reminiscent of contemporary
advertising. Through these devices, Andrew addresses the
mechanisms of representation and suggests further
representational possibilities. The notion of ever
locating essential truths about either Aboriginality or
what it is to be a gay white/black male are undermined by
an openness and potential for hybridisation. This is why
his work refuses declamation, preferring irony and
ambivalence in a logic where appearance is a primary
indicator of identity. And this is also why Andrews
work reflects a notion of power (or empowerment) against
a conventional paradigm that casts racial and sexuality
others as minorities. How these issues unravel in
Andrew's work can be seen in a 1997 Gay and Lesbian Mardi
Gras exhibition Blak Babez and Kweer Katz at
Sydney's Gitte Wiese Gallery. Andrew installed a moving
neon boomerang on the exterior wall of the gallery
overlooking Oxford Street. Using neon and the gallery
facade, the work obviously deployed the technology of
consumerism and tourism. Indeed, the appearance and
disappearance of the boomerang mapped a trajectory of how
this traditional weapon has, in mainstream culture, been
reduced to obedient silence as an endlessly compliant
signifier of Australiana. While playing within this
regime, Andrews also insists that the boomerang has
a singular quality as an empowering symbol. It can, in
fact, be redeployed - to place in critical relief
dominant notions of white history. While the boomerang
may appear possessable from the vantage point of
consumption, it also promises to continually lay bare -
like a scythe - the grounds for a reconsideration of
Nationhood. The boomerang literally has a double edge,
qualities that act as a metaphor for re-thinking and
critiquing whiteness.
The title of an
accompanying essay for this show, "A Blak Dik"
by Murray Chapple, moved these questions of race into the
crucial question of sexuality. Firstly, the spelling of blak
is a form of language reclamation, acting as a
provocation against predominant white gallery going
culture. But its affect is also disarming, satirising as
it does, the many instances of naive and patronising
representations of Aboriginal people in Australian
culture. Similarly direct references to gay issues are
pilloried as the plethora of penises that usually appear
in galleries at the time of the Sydney Gay and Lesbian
Mardi Gras are revealed as representative of an almost
exclusively Anglocentric subculture. By blurring
blackness and queerness notions of desire are shown to be
equally political questions. The blak dik in
question refers then to a defiantly and intentionally
hermetic gay male minority, coined in a language that
transforms the phallus into an exclamation mark of
protest.
Duality is thus
indispensable to Andrew's work. In many works he adapts
perennially occurring Western motifs of doppelgangers and
doubles. In I Split Your Gaze, the process of
mirroring is explicit. Here an ethnographic portrait of
an Aboriginal man called Cunningham from Armidale,
pilfered from the early photographers Kerry and King
archive, has been split in two and re-arranged to make
explicit the original dehumanising cultural logic of
observation and surveillance. Neither part of the
portrait is whole and in being simultaneously halved and
doubled the viewer is forced to stare blankly through the
image. Here, identity as such becomes mutability through
repetition. We see the past/passed without seeing. As
divided subjects we necessarily recognise ourselves in
others except that in this instance the other is
apparently the same. The gaze and its doubling effect was
also deployed in Ngajuu Ngaay Nginduugirr where an
enlarged pair of obviously Aboriginal eyes looked from
behind a flashing neon text "Ngajuu Ngaay
Nginduugirr". In this way language blinds us to
the wholeness of comprehension but ironically the phrase
which translates as "I See You" hides its other
in our inability to comprehend the meaning. Insistently
curious, this signalled refusal becomes for us at the
same time a question ownership and our right to
scrutinise.
Andrews
use of Wiradjuri language in works like Ngajuu Ngaay
Nginduugirr illuminates the gulf surrounding
contemporary understanding of indigenous issues. It is
important for Andrew that Wiradjuri is not understood
only as a political or cultural oddity or really as an
appeal to an old and strange language. Andrew uses
Wiradjui, along with several other indigenous languages
in everyday contexts. He speaks them in the same way he
speaks English. For him, they are quotidian lexicons and
not the stuff of museum culture. In deploying these
everyday languages in an exhibition context however, he
makes manifest how a dominant language can but fails to
exclude all others. Theres a sense of irony in this
strategy since Andrews use of Wiradjuri in a
gallery context is obviously elitist as it excludes the
average (not only white) gallery goer from the immediate
literal comprehension. But this is not simply a reversal
of the power relationships given in language but an
opening of an indeterminate space in which the
divisibility and commodification of western modes of
representation are compared to a silenced language.
Representing this language in neon lends it an artificial
aura. It is the same aura that shrouds advertising in
promise whilst similarly making a commodity of otherness.
Ultimately the artist stresses the identity of others as
a question that does and will not disappear.
In Contention,
a series of 7 digital images, 4 of which were exhibited
at the Contemporary Art Centre of South Australia, Showtime
depicted a raised US flag against a mirror image of
our own. On one panel, an image of media icon, Monica
Lewinsky, peers coyly from in front of the star spangled
banner as it unfurls majestically behind her.
Superimposed over the flag is the word
"showtime". To the left before a backdrop
bearing the Aboriginal colours of black, red and yellow,
an anonymous Aboriginal face glances toward the West.
Beneath this face is the word "revolution". In
many respects Lewinsky is the invisible woman since the
dissemination of her image and its subsequent
dissimulation dissolves any questions of her identity as
an individual. Indeed she is not so much an individual as
she has become the representative of the banality of
scandal and middle class American values. Ironically,
this has occurred through the over inflation of her
relationship with that ultimate figure of white Western
power, the President of the United States. Similarly we
identify the Aboriginal subject as a traditional victim,
this time of colonial domination. In a superficial sense
the power relations these images reveal are the same. But
in her notoriety as a celebrity, Lewinsky achieves a cult
status that is over-valued. On the other hand the image
of the Aboriginal is lacerated with questions concerning
racial and social justice. The image is available to us
through its sheer capacity for meaningless repetition and
as consumers we own both images. The slogans in each work
testify likewise to their sameness as well as their
emptiness as signifiers. Revolution (like scandal) is a
spectacle for which we always wait.
This sense of
arbitrariness propels other works like Sexy and
Dangerous. In this work an Aboriginal man, probably
from Queensland, is depicted naked from the waist up and
a text in Mandarin and English emblazoned over his bare
chest. The cultural disjunction causes the image and the
figure to open up to a broader pool of ideas and popular
images, refusing any claim to authenticity. In this
instance, awareness of the meaning of the Mandarin text
is allusive. This work bears an uncanny resemblance to
Duchamp's bearded Mona Lisa, enigmatically re-titled, L.H.O.O.Q.
or "She's Got a Hot Ass". In Duchamp's picture
the illusion of the famous painting is dispelled through
a crude reversal as she becomes he. He is the purportedly
homosexual artist, Leonardo, projecting an idealised
figure of a desired female, who bears a resemblance to
the artist himself. Thus the artist desires the splitting
of his identity as a means of obscuring his sexual
inclinations and equally as a way of attaining his ideal
self. For Duchamp another reversal is set in play. By
invoking Rrose Selavy, Duchamp's feminine alter ego is
masculinised and the artist is once again allowed to
become him-self through a process of disintegration. In
Andrew's picture, desire is veiled in the accoutrements
of an-other text (which translates loosely as
"shifty feminine"), whilst the cross-eyed
subject depicted disappears in a process of
self-absorption and alienation. What both Duchamp's and
Andrew's pictures illustrate is the instability of
identity and its constant capacity for slippage. In both
works the purpose of art is the symbolic attainment of
identity through eschewing the culturally engendered
object of desire.
Notions of an
escape from the self and from dominant modes of mediated
representation inform Bungal gara gara ("All
Over the Place") exhibited in this year's Moet and
Chandon. Andrew re-deployed an image that depicted the
rear of the infamous royal crash car in which Princess
Dianna and Dodi al-Fayhed met their deaths. The pure
redness at the left hand of the picture presents a
sanitized version of the crash's end result. Cleaned up
like the site of impact, the picture is both anonymous
and a fetishised commodity. The process of universal
mourning becomes a rite where the demise of anonymous
celebrity and the passing of anonymous sovereign
traditions are grieved. The car functions like a
metaphor. It not only represents the way capitalist media
disrespects the dead, but analogously, how the media
dehumanises racial issues. The media refracts cultural
specificity, empties it out. Politically the media in the
West is "all over the place" because real
issues are unable to be pinned down. In the West, meaning
is everywhere and nowhere. The mourning of indigenous
tragedies cannot aspire to the importance accorded these
images by the West. Similarly neither can they, nor
should they expect to achieve a universal application.
Indigenous culture remains locked out of the images it
collides with. Within the picture itself cultural
collisions and conspiracies of racial intolerance posed
by al-Fayhed's Arab heritage, remain securely locked
within the speeding car halted and turned into a tomb.
The entombment of otherness becomes the only way to
silence the true problems of the West.
Andrew's work is
marked by various interpretive levels. On the one hand
this suggests a non-hierarchical consideration of the
politics of identity, race and sexuality. On the other,
however complexities and ambiguities threaten to be
absorbed entirely by the hierarchies his work criticises.
In many respects the interest of Andrew's work lies in
what it reveals of the discourses of otherness posed by a
current political ambivalence. Of course mere didacticism
is doomed to silence as current world relations have been
emptied of their reliance upon notions of truth or
authenticity. Neither should the question be one of
reinstating the privileged aura of the past but of
empowering what seem minor cultures and
knowledges. The imagery Andrew draws from is essentially
westernized and his work remains securely within Western
traditions. However the artists incorporation of
Wiradjuri texts provides his work with personal as well
as a national cultural significance that still retains
its disruptive potential.
Alex Gawronski
1999
© the artist &
Courtesy of the artist.
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