Tag Archives: Caitlin Berrigan

JONATHAN VanDYKE [on] BENNY NEMEROFSKY RAMSAY

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The Return {ongoing since 2010} sound, goldleaf, megaphones, installation view: Coming After, The Power Plant, Toronto, {2011} Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay

Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay described The Return to me at the opening of Coming After, a group exhibition at The Power Plant, Toronto, in which we both took part. The Return, a sound piece installed on the outside of the building, was both highly charged and ephemeral, a veritable shout in the dark bracketing a crowded and cacophonous opening party. Curated by Jon Davies[1], Coming After featured the work of queer-identified artists who were children and adolescents during the height of the AIDS epidemic. Central to the exhibition’s theme was the shadow presence of a generation of mentors/lovers/friends swallowed by the crisis – lingering like ghosts (an illustration of an 80’s-era, Pac Man-esque ghost appears on the cover of the exhibition catalogue). That I missed Ramsay’s installation as I hurried in from the cold December night felt like an echo of this ghosting.

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The Return {ongoing since 2010} sound, goldleaf, megaphones, installation view: Paraphrasing Babel, Viewmaster, Maastricht {2012} Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay.

 

[sound file]  >>>  The Return. sound, goldleaf, megaphones, sound clip featuring Vienna Boys’ Choir soloist Beni Klocker {ongoing since 2010} Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay.

While I stood to listen to the The Return a few days later, on a sunny winter afternoon, I watched a group of children ice skating at an outdoor rink adjacent to the museum’s entrance. The Return utilizes a megaphone, its interior gilded, and is often mounted outdoors. Its megaphone is not the large, gaudy mouthpiece of a cheerleader or the power tool of a protester, but looks like the sort of emergency siren that is installed just out of sight, awaiting a singular, urgent performance. At the Power Plant it was mounted in a brick corner, and the source of the recording could not be seen. Leaning in to the megaphone, you had the piece to yourself as you turned your back to the surrounding world.

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Letter to Jonsi. ink on paper {2011} Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay.

The gold interior of the megaphone offers a pronounced contrast to its plastic exterior. Gold signifies timelessness and adornment; simultaneously, the megaphone is a functional instrument that signifies the here and now. In Joseph Beuys’ 1965 performance How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare, gold leaf hangs from his face as he whispers to a rabbit. He mythologizes himself with this death mask, cradling the stiff animal like a shaman preparing a sacrifice. Nemerofsky’s golden figure is a voice without a face. The Return alludes to the Sirens, a group of mythological females whose sounds were so compelling as to be deadly: distracted sailors crashed their ships onto the rocks. The gilded megaphone is also a lure. Its interior shaft is stamen-like, its exterior cone a modernist flower opening its sex onto the passing world.

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Wie man dem toten Hasen die Bilder eklärt (How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare). performance and installation Düsseldorf {1965} Joseph Beuy.

The Return is not an olfactory lure, but an auditory one. Its sound, both jarring and pleasing, is the recording of a male singer imitating an emergency siren. Among the singers Nemerofsky has recorded is Beni Klocker, then a twelve-year old member of the Vienna Boys’ Choir whose siren call was broadcast in the public space of the Vienna Museum Quartier, and of counter tenor Geoffrey Williams. As with many of Nemerofsky’s works, The Return is accompanied by a handwritten letter that documents the transaction between him and a potential performer, a drawing-document that is reproduced in the exhibition space and made available online. Here the accompanying letter notes his interest in the Siren’s “role as one of many mythological women known for their problematic and dangerous voices, a kind of pressure point in discourses that project menace and un-control onto high-pitched voices.” The Siren character is the auditory Medusa, both undeniable and repellant.

Several intertwinings are enacted by The Return. The juxtaposition of hand-leafed gold and industrial plastic reminded me of a visit I made to the post-modernist galleries of the Groninger Museum in Holland, designed by Coop Himmelb(l)au Architects. A centuries-old clock was displayed in the stripped bare, cement interior of one gallery – the old on top of the modern, rather than the other way around. The displacement of electronic sound by a human voice is similarly disorienting. The siren was appropriated in several significant Futurist compositions at the beginning of the twentieth century, including George Antheil’s Ballet mecanique and the Symphony of Sirens (1922) by Russian revolutionary composer Arseny Avraamov. But where those works put forward technologically generated sound as a call to action – bidding society forward by overthrowing convention ­– Nemerofsky’s soprano offers a humanist urgency, a call that is carried body to body, not machine to crowd.[2]

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Saint Cecilia. oil on canvas, 37.75 x 29.5 inches / 95.9 x 74.9 cm, The Norton Simon Foundation {1606} Guido Reni (Italian, 1575-1642)

Because the siren sound is so readily associated with imminent danger, the voicing of it by a human singer comes across as a cry for help, or, looked at another way, as a statement of resistance. The singer emits an ethereal, transcendent urgency, like a contemporary saint. Amongst the many depictions of music-makers in art history are Baroque depictions of Saint Cecilia, patron saint of musicians, who was said to have the capacity to hear angels. In Guido Reni’s 1606 portrait of her, now installed at the Norton Simon Museum, she gazes upwards, towards the heavens, with her mouth open, breaking into song, while at her waist she strikes a bow to a violin. Her depiction might be described as beautiful, but she is not the heavily feminized figure seen in Baroque depictions of Judith of Holofernes or Daphne. Her head is covered with a turban-like scarf, and her youthful face is neat and androgynous. The overall composition is harmonious, but in the orderly setting of the museum, the literal silence of the painting is discomforting. In this period where recorded sound is ubiquitous, to view a music maker performing silently feels oddly disjunctive. As I looked at the painting recently, I could hear the murmur of another visitor’s audio tour.

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Woman with a Guitar. oil on canvas, 39 5/8 x 32 1/8 inches / 100 x 81.6 cm, Norton Simon Museum, The Blue Four Galka Scheyer Collection {1913} Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973)

In another gallery in the Norton Simon Museum, the viewer encounters Picasso’s cubist painting Woman with a Guitar. In this 1913 depiction, the music player is fractured into bits, like the machine sounds of Ballet mecanique. Gramophone recordings were just a few decades old when Picasso made the work, and were among those many technological advances (photography, moving image, combustion engines, to name the most obvious) that fractured and re-oriented sensory experience. The Woman with a Guitar is pieced, like the product of an assembly line, a humming machine. Nemerofsky’s The Return presents a reversal of the Picasso painting: rather than rendering the human technological, he renders the technological human (the title suggests as much, as a “return” to another state). The fabricated, tinny sound of the emergency siren is repossessed by a boy.

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Image accompanying Shakira’s EP She Wolf, Epic Records {2009}

Reni’s St. Cecilia is cherubic, innocent. Her covered body renders harmless any notions of the female music maker as man-killer. Powerful female sexuality in music is still equated with danger – on the cover of Shakira’s EP “She Wolf” (2009) for example, she appears inside of a cage. Reni’s saint is a figure of concordance: there is no background “noise” with which to be distracted. Nemerofsky’s recording of Klocker offers the innocence that we attribute to youth choirs, but its gender is troubled. In his letter, he notes the “daemonization of the high pitched male voice,” a passage that reminded me of an experience of my early adolescence. My voice had already changed, but I was unaware of its apparent theatricality until a girl on my school bus asked me “why I still talk that way – your voice should be deeper.”

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The Last Song. still from video {2014} Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay.

Nemerofsky’s most recent work, a video entitled The Last Song, further explores returning. A man of early middle age, his hair closely shorn, his jaw pronounced, wearing a gray shirt and matching gray necktie, stands in front of a gray folding screen that is adorned with a Charles Rennie MacKintosh-esque gilded pattern that appears like vertical shafts of wheat, or, seen another way, as stylized bars of sheet music that have yet to be filled in with notes. As the man begins singing an aria, the camera moves slowly towards his face.

The edge of the man’s collar is gilded. This detail draws attention to his face and neck, which is veiny and deeply expressive. He reads as masculine, though his clothes are unrevealing. (He is gendered about as much as Reni’s St. Cecilia.) His manner is intense and slightly theatrical, but not dramatic. His eyes take in his surroundings with a soft focus, not lingering on any particular thing, or on the camera, which moves around him in such a way that we understand it as a surrogate for ourselves. The singer’s fingers tremble slightly, in a manner that feels unconscious, as if his hands are vibrating with sound. As in the Reni painting, the relationship between figure and background is totalizing; there is nothing else to distract us. There is a nakedness to the singer’s hands: focusing in on them, I recognize the singer’s absorption and a degree of tenderness that carries an erotic charge.

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The Last Song. still from video {2014} Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay.

The performer sings a Baroque aria, Tu M’Offendi from the Vivaldi opera La Verita in Cimiento. About halfway through his performance, and at that moment at which the camera comes closest to his face, the performer’s voice begins to “crack,” and he lets out higher notes. This “cracking” ultimately makes a full change, such that the singer has a new voice, that of a boy. In the change there are a few seconds of discomfort and self-consciousness as he brings his hand to his neck, but he continues to sing, a shadow of relief crossing his face when he steadies into a boyish range. As with The Return, the instrument (there, a megaphone, here, a man) does not line up with the sound it emits. If this is the singer’s Last Song, as the title suggests, we understand this as an inversion of the usual progress of a changed voice: whereas the boy singer whose voice deepens into that of the cisgendered male is no longer fit for the role of the angelic, pre-sexualized music maker, here it is the grown man, a life of experiences etched in his hands and neck, who becomes de-sexualized. As a title, “The Last Song” comes close to that best known of “lasts,” the last supper, in which Christ, who will never age into middle life, addresses his retinue of male companions, instructing them upon how they might partake of, and pass on, his body and blood through the transubstantiation of wine and bread.

Is the performer of The Last Song host to a younger version of himself, or is he a vessel of transference, bringing forth a ghost, a blood brother, a saint? The man sings in Italian that (translated into English): “You insult me but do not make my unchanging, gentle brotherly love any weaker or less loving.” The subject of this passage is multiple: it encompasses both the listener and the emergent youth. Whether this emergence is also an emergency, as implied by the siren call of The Return, is not clear. As the song ends, the camera veers away from the singer, resting upon the now disembodied facade of the gilded screen.

In the gay male community, a history of cross-generational friendship, fellowship, and sexual relations is deeply embedded. In Plato’s Symposium the love between an older and younger man is celebrated, although there is the implication that the younger man is the “feminine” recipient or receptacle for the older man’s affections. In Europe, the sexual recipient in homosexual relations is described as “passive,” or passif. The word carries a tinge of the “passivity” that historically was placed upon women, though by contemporary terms, this sense of power dynamics amongst gay men, at least in my experience in the West, is far more playful, if not anachronistic. The Last Song carries with it some of this history, inverting the role of the “passive” youth such that he wills himself out of the mouth of a grown man. The youth edges forward, the grown man, back.

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The Lovers. sound recording, megaphones, paint, mesh installation view, Nuit Blanche Calgary {2014} Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay

The scholar Heather Love describes the role of “looking backward” in the queer community: “Over the last century, queers have embraced backwardness in many forms: in celebrations of perversion, in defiant refusals to grow up, in explorations of haunting and memory, in stubborn attachment to lost objects.” For Love, this unearthing, this looking backwards, is a necessity. For Nemerofsky and I, our earliest identification as men who desired men was at the peak of crisis, such that our youth took on the taint of emergency. As a boy I read the panicked articles about the AIDS crisis in Newsweek, and announced to my parents that I had AIDS. Even though I hadn’t engaged in any sexual activity at that point, or made a public announcement of my orientation, I saw my future mirrored in men who were disappearing. Identification equaled transmission. Ramsay’s work returns us to this moment of identification. The ghost of his work is the boy, not the lost man. By this reading, the performer in The Last Song is a counter hero who brings back the boy on our behalf. He transmits neither virus nor status, but finds himself transformed by a youthful call to arms, ringed by a queer halo.


[1] Davies is the Associate Curator at Oakville Galleries just outside of Toronto. Coming After appeared at The Power Plant from December 2011-February 2012.

[2] A new work by Ramsay, entitled The Lovers, uses a group of nine megaphones, six of them veiled, creating a small crowd of “singers”.

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

BENNY NEMEROFSKY RAMSAY: is an artist and diarist.  His work in video, sound, and text contemplates the history of song, the rendering of love and emotion into language, and the resurrection and manipulation of voices from history – sung, spoken or screamed.  Nemerofsky’s work has been exhibited internationally, appearing in numerous private collections as well as the National Gallery of Canada.

JONATHAN VanDYKE: is a visual artist based in New York City. Recent solo exhibitions include Traunitz at Loock Galerie in Berlin and Krisen og en Krise i en Skuespillerindes Liv at Four Boxes Gallery in Denmark, both in 2014; Oltre l’oblio at 1/9unosunove in Rome, The Painter of the Holeat Scaramouche in New York, and Syrup of the Hand at Court Square Project Space in New York, all in 2013. Recent performance works includeSelf Portrait as My Mother, as an Actress, as a Painter, as a Stranger, presented at On Stellar Rays in New York, Knockdown Center in New York, and by the Qwatz Residency in Rome in 2013, Cordoned Area, presented at the National Academy Museum, New York, in 2013, andStranger Suite, presented on Fire Island this past summer by the New York Performance Artists Collective. Recent press includes “The Expanded Photograph” in the May issue of Art Review, an interview in Critical Correspondence, and an essay on his exhibition Traunitz by Caitlin Berrigan, appearing in Uncompromising Tang in June. Upcoming exhibitions include Geometries of Intimacy at Abrons Art Center in New York in November, and Reception of Reception at Kleine Humboldt Galerie in Berlin, opening in December.

CAITLIN BERRIGAN [on] JONATHAN VANDYKE

The diamond of the Harlequin is a flattened facet. His fashion is at once costume of the devilish trickster and uniform of the aristocracy’s entertainer. He wears all dimensions one next to the other in a field of vision that suggests depth—and yet always slips into a smooth plane of illusory pattern.

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Men’s Shirts. {2014} paint on cotton fabrics [Brad and David's t-shirts from performance sessions 7/8/9; with dyed canvas and cotton dress shirts on verso] 40″ x 51″. Jonathan VanDykeCourtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Father Figure. {2014} archival pigment print, 17.5″ x 12″, Edition of 3 + 2 AP. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Uniform. {2014} paint on cotton and synthetic fabrics [Brad and David's pants from performance sessions 5/6/7/8] 37″ x 39.3″. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

For his first solo exhibition in Berlin at Loock Galerie in January 2014, Jonathan VanDyke produced a new series that furthers his formal play with the diamond, choreographies of netted bodies, performers leaking paint, and traces of their labored stains left on the surface of the canvas. VanDyke works with dancers in his studio, whose bodies move with and against each other, dripping and interlocking to smear trajectories of color and Freudenfluss across the plane of the canvas.

These material remnants of performance VanDyke cuts, quilts, irons and sews in a feminized act of labor to fashion a costume/uniform for the shoulders of the painting stretchers to wear: a dizzying Harlequin jacket of abject pleasure and work (e.g., Skin; Costume; Uniform; Men’s Shirts). Echoing and distorting the diamond pattern are the large-scale canvases Rubber Sheet; Vers; Body Pressure; which bear imprints of dye-soaked nets worn by performers as they entangle and press into space. The dimensions of VanDyke’s work with dancers (and couple) David Rafael Botana and Bradley Teal Ellis cannot be encompassed within the medium of painting. Photographs hold frozen glimpses into this process (e.g., Darkroom (Berlin) #1-6). The paradox of photographic capture only emphasizes the impossibility of delimiting the shapes of VanDyke’s choreographies, and they glint like ever proliferating facets of touch, form and time. The video (Traunitz) sequences this inquiry into shapeshifting solids and surfaces. The very paintings in the gallery serve as sets in the video, constituting spatial scenes and ocular cutouts for voyeurism into an imaginative theater where diamonds morph into gesture.

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Traunitz. {2014} Installation view. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Traunitz. {2014} Installation view. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Traunitz. {2014} Installation view. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Rubber Sheet. {2014} paint on black rubber [Brad and David performance session 9, body pressure sequence] 32″ x 52″. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Vers. {2014} paint and ink on raw canvas [Brad and David performance canvas, sessions 7/8 in body pressure sequence] 78.75″ x 106.3″. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Vers. [detail] {2014}. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

VanDyke, like the Harlequin, is an artist between worlds of labor and play as much as his work exists between painting and performance. It is in this gap where the instability of the Harlequin’s geometry takes hold. The hidden dimension in VanDyke’s paintings is not the third dimension of Renaissance perspective and representational illusions of solid space, but rather the fourth dimension of time. Through the labor of producing painting, VanDyke gives glimpses and material evidence of the concealed dimensions of performance, intimacy and queer couplings. In Commedia dell’arte, the characters of Harlequin and the earnest yet melancholic Pierrot vie for the love of the beautiful Colombina in endless variations since the late 16th century. But locked in the absence of Colombina inside VanDyke’s studio, it is quite possible that Harlequin and Pierrot seduce each other in an excess of slurred color. As viewers we are left with the charged palimpsests of this motion and energy. For while artists may be coerced under capitalism to play the role of entertainer within rarified markets of intellect and aesthetics, there are some pleasures and intimacies of practice that resist possession. That is the trick.

And we are willingly duped—as VanDyke’s paintings continue to seduce and perform within the space of the exhibition. The provisional armatures of paintings-as-walls are revealingly bare, as if a film set for a new choreography of contact. They display two facets of vision: one side of the canvas made for show and the backside, pinched and haggard with loose threads. Overflowing the rectilinearity of modernity, VanDyke’s paintings sometimes include integrated orifices that leak and sweat streams of color, soiling the floor (Beards). It is an unstable threat of the incomplete—the artwork that will not be contained within space or time.

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Beards. {2014} walnut wood, masonite, cast plastic, rope bondage costumes and pigmented urethane in dripping sequence, 26″ x 34″. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

VanDyke is a devilish servant of Modernism. The diamond is a romantic perversion of the square, which is the favored form of modernist abstraction’s sober rationality. In the making of Rubber Sheet, Vers, and Body Pressure, VanDyke wraps performers in nets saturated with dye. With the eroticism of bondage, the nets serve at once as armor delimiting the borders of each performer, at the same time as they capture, hold and conform to the contours of the body. Pressed onto the plane of the painting, the diamond’s rigid geometry is loosened, perverted and multiplied. This practice shares affinities with Lygia Clark’s participatory net improvisations, such as Baba Antropofagica (1973). Her work evolved from Neoconcrete abstractions to relational objects that facilitated therapeutic encounters under the social isolation of military dictatorship in Brazil. The nets entangle—pulling one person to another in a movement that draws and remakes the empty and the full, space and body, the flat and the faceted. The paintings share this anthropophagic drive: the irreconcilable violence and tenderness of contact.

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Darkroom (Berlin) #5. {2014} Gelatin Silver Print, 11″ x 14″, Ed. of 4. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

Darkroom (Berlin) #2. {2014} Gelatin Silver Print, 11" x 14", Ed. of 4. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin

Darkroom (Berlin) #2. {2014} Gelatin Silver Print, 11″ x 14″, Ed. of 4. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

Among the many layers of VanDyke’s work are its cinematic correspondences. Traunitz is the title of VanDyke’s ensemble of work, whose namesake is a character in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s film Chinesische Roulette (1976). Traunitz is the mute governess of an autocratic twelve-year-old girl whose disability demands she walk in crutches. Suspecting her own disfigurement is at the origin of her parents’ infidelity and lovelessness, the girl exposes them through a manipulative foil that assembles her unsuspecting parents, their secret lovers, two household caretakers, herself and Traunitz at the family’s countryside manor—also called Traunitz. Like VanDyke’s leaking scaffolds, the house itself becomes a porous puzzle box for the dynamics of contained love, rage, resentment and resistance to spill over and poison the family from the inside out.

Although the film was not shot there, Trausnitz is a castle in Bavaria whose main staircase boasts life-sized fresco scenes of Harlequin, Pierrot and the Commedia dell’arte characters. Traunitz, the governess, is herself a bit of a Harlequin. The coy woman is both servant and confidante, subordinate to the little girl yet charged with her physical well-being and entertainment. In one of the few moments that date the film, the housemaid’s son overhears the electronic beats of Kraftwerk’s Radioactivity seething from behind a closed door. Gingerly opening it, he finds the girl lost in adolescent brooding by the window overlooking Bavarian rooftops, while Traunitz takes the whole room in a diagonal dance, buoyed by the girl’s crutches in a radical reversal of disability into prosthetic play. It is this tiny moment that resonates most clearly with VanDyke’s work: when the nets of bondage prove to be an illusory foil for subversive performance. The radioactive twinning of the Harlequin and her master precedes the dismantling of societal repressions.

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film still from Chinese Roulette {1976} Directed by Rainer Werner Fassbinder.

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film still from Chinese Roulette {1976} Directed by Rainer Werner Fassbinder.

There is a hierarchy between the girl and Traunitz. And yet the speechless intelligence of Traunitz completes and complements the girl. In the film’s denouement, the girl undermines her mother in a psychological game of ‘Chinese Roulette.’ The girl and Traunitz are two facets of a single trap. The girl speaks her cruelty aloud, while translating the signed gestures of Traunitz, whose disarmingly mute expression belies a blunt emotional honesty of disdain. Insults accumulate to the climactic affront that the mother’s character matches that of an officer under the Third Reich. It is difficult to discern whether Traunitz is the girl’s puppet, or if Traunitz directs the girl with pantomime hands. For this Traunitz must be shot by the enraged mother—taking the bullet that might have been reserved for the daughter. It results only in a minor flesh wound and flustered embarrassment. But the film ends with an exterior view of the Traunitz manor and the sound of a second shot, whose execution is left to the imagination.

Traunitz, the exhibition, is a coy threat to splinter the space of self-imposed modernist containment. It is a set within a theater, composed of provisional architectures and diamond puzzle boxes through which we are compelled to spy, dance and seethe. It beckons with pantomime hands to lead out of the exhibition and into a hidden dimension of flamboyant perversion and corporeal invention. Just out of reach of our voyeuristic gaze, the untidy ends of VanDyke’s work continue to make a mess of our imaginations.

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video still of Bethany Ides in Traunitz. {2014} 13:00 video, looped, Unique edition. Jonathan VanDyke. Courtesy the artist and Loock Galerie, Berlin.

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Jonathan VanDyke working in the studio with Bradley Teal Ellis (L) and David Rafael Botana (R), {2013} Photo by J. Louise Makary

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

CAITLIN BERRIGAN [DE, Berlin]: Caitlin Berrigan works across performance, video, sculpture, text and participatory public interventions to engage with the intimate social dimensions of power and politics. She is currently on a Humboldt Fellowship in Berlin, working with Archive Books and the Technische Universität on performances and a forthcoming book related to post-conflict landscapes, affective geographies, speculative real estate and science fiction between Berlin and Beirut. Berrigan has created special commissions for the Whitney Museum, Harvard Carpenter Center, and the deCordova Museum. Her work has shown at Storefront for Art & Architecture, Hammer Museum, Gallery 400 Chicago, Anthology Film Archives, LACMA, Lugar a Dudas Colombia, 0047 Gallery Oslo, Grimm Museum Berlin, among others. She is the recipient of a Chancellor Fellowship from the Humboldt Foundation, a Sculpture Fellowship from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, and the Agnes Gund Fellowship from Skowhegan. Invited residencies include PROGRAM for Art & Architecture Berlin, Fountainhead Miami, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, and The Wassaic Project. Berrigan attended the Skowhegan School of Painting & Sculpture, holds a Master’s in visual art from MIT and a B.A. from Hampshire College.

JONATHAN VANDYKE [USA, New York] Jonathan VanDyke is a visual artist based in New York City. Recent solo exhibitions include Oltre l’oblio at 1/9unosunove in Rome and The Painter of the Hole at Scaramouche in New York, both in 2013, and Traunitz at Loock Galerie in Berlin in 2014. Major performances include the forty-hour works The Long Glance at the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo in 2011 and With One Hand Between Us, part of Performa 2011, the biennial of performance art in New York City. His performance work and installation Obstructed View was commissioned by The Power Plant in Toronto as part of their 2011-2012 exhibition Coming After. His durational performance work Cordoned Area, made for the dancers David Rafael Botana and Bradley Teal Ellis, has appeared at The National Academy Museum, New York (2013), Vox Populi, Philadelphia (2012), and Socrates Sculpture Park, New York (2011). VanDyke received an MFA in Sculpture from Bard College in 2005, attended the Skowhegan School in 2008, and in 2007 attended the Atlantic Center for the Arts, where he was mentored by the artist Paul Pfeiffer. His work has been reviewed in Art Forumartforum.comTimeOut New YorkArt PapersWhite HotThe Buffalo NewsThe Philadelphia InquirerATP Diary, and Artslant; profiles have appeared in Modern Painters and Art Review. His work has appeared in group exhibitions at On Stellar Rays, the Islip Art Museum, Y Gallery, Columbia University, and PS122, all in New York; the Museum of Fine Arts, Tallahassee; Luis de Jesus Los Angeles; Rutgers University New Jersey, University of Nevada, Texas State University, and the University of Wolverhampton, England; and Exile Gallery, Berlin, among others. He has received grants from the Mid-Atlantic Arts Foundation and the Joan Mitchell Foundation, has served as a resident at Yaddo, New York, and at Qwatz Residency, Rome; as an Emerging Artist Fellow at Socrates Sculpture Park, New York, and as a Visiting Artist Fellow at The University of Chicago, Illinois State University.  He is currently the visiting artist at Krabbesholm Hojskole in Denmark, where his solo exhibition and performance will open in the Four Boxes Gallery on May 17th.