FLYING BULLETS OR FLYING CIRCUS?

Examinations by Elizabeth Stephens Hartnett Gallery

University of Rochester 

Rochester, New York 

November 18-December 12,1999

Elizabeth Stephens's recent gallery exhibition, "Examinations," was composed of six technologically-oriented video/sculptural installations. By tackling a topical spectrum ranging from feminism to weightlifting, amateur foot fetishism and circus acts, Stephens's interactive pastiche evoked a parallel representation of feminist art in the '90s and the difficulties and tropes such artwork must delimit if feminist art forms are to survive another decade.

"Presidential" consisted of a pair of overhead intravenous drip-bags that pumped red and blue dye into two clinical metal speculums, mounted on white metal stools. Two of the speculums functioned as a brace for high-velocity squirt guns, blasting the red and blue liquid at a row of once-white lab frocks hung on an adjacent wall, forming a sort of tie-dye shooting gallery. While the two squirt-gun speculums spurted and dribbled, a third speculum chattered its stainless steel lips and repeated: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No Regrets, Imelda" was comprised of a steel pedestal that contained two ocular peepholes: through the peephole on the right, one could witness an amateur boot-licking video, while the peephole on the left revealed a video surveillance-type image of the viewer's own feet. Topping the video pedestal was a pair of bronze pumps, one of which tapped its toe up and down whenever a peephole was examined. Although I found Stephens's boot-licking videos dilettantish, the vigorous smashing of the cast-iron stiletto heels above my head successfully evoked Imelda Marcos by teetering precariously on the stylized, the self-conscious and didactic. Yet despite this toe-stomping (or perhaps because of it), "No Regrets, Imelda" retained the candor of a well-behaved girl.

In the far corner of the gallery stood an installation entitled "Jump," a metal ladder that towered over a circus-style barrel-o'-water. Wavering at the bottom of the barrel, a pair of projected lips beckoned the viewer to "go ahead and jump." The video images of the red lips parting in ripples of blue water was at once seductive and provocative, but simultaneously slapstick, vaudevillian and cliche--imagine The Rocky Horror Picture Show (Jim Sharman, 1975) meets Abbott and Costello. While Stephens's lips and taunting voices were indeed suggestive, they came off as cosmetic details: the barrel-o'-water was not deep enough for a frog to dive into, nor was it wide enough for a small child to bathe in, leaving one to wonder--what would happen if a viewer actually decided to "go ahead and jump" from the ladder into the barrel?

In contrast to "Jump" and its sculptural one-liner, "Workout" was a leviathan of ambition: a massive video labyrinth of mechanized gynecological stirrups fastened to a nautilus-style infrastructure, mounted with two facing banks of video monitors. These monitors displayed video clips of people weightlifting next to images of mouths swallowing and purging such objects as fish hooks, money, toy dolls and milk. Although the metaphor of exercise equipment and gynecological apparatus is not new, Stephens extended the idea in "Workout" by suggesting the aspect of binge eating. Nevertheless, the parallels Stephens attempted to draw were muddled by a lack of apparent cohesion. Although the artist's statement explained that "Workout" explored "fetishistic activity through the filters of medical surveillance, bodybuilding and voyeurism," I found it difficult to associate the artist's stated intentions with her visual tableau of eating, puking and pumping iron. Caught between trying to separate the ambiguity of the wor k from its visual didacticism, I ended up escaping "Workout" before one of its mechanized gynecological stirrups bashed me in the head.

Across the gallery from "Workout" was a rather humble (by technical comparison) wall installation entitled "On The Road," which featured a speculum eyepiece that looked in on videos of a road trip. Above the eyepiece was a small glass cabinet with a pink mermaid straw displayed inside it. Equipped with a hammer on a chain, the cabinet was labeled "Break In Case of Emergency." According to Stephens, this particular installation was "intended to contest, investigate and gently parody the notion of natural gender positions by turning the speculum around so that the viewer is placed inside the body looking out into the landscape of the ocean and rolling hills of the California coastline." Stephens's concept is an interesting one, but when compared with the high-velocity squirtings of the "Presidential" speculums, it makes one wonder about the overriding associations of the speculum-as-object. What does it mean to use the speculum-as-object without repeating an era when such objects were seen as subversive and po litical? Is it only possible these days to push the speculum into the arena of satire or humor?

Near the doorway to the gallery stood a red Plexiglas dinner table with video place settings for two, entitled "Dinner For Two," which seemed to be the heart of Stephens's exhibition. As an interactive meal, "Dinner For Two" served viewers a videographic shepherd's purse loaded with labia, scrolled text and fingers. Making oneself comfortable in one of two velvet-upholstered chairs (that began to vibrate furiously as soon as you sat down), viewers could watch an exploratory vaginal video montage beneath the red Plexiglas table setting. The combined vibratory/video experience congealed as a '70s feminist/gastronomic hagiography, in which Stephens superimposed (somewhat) biographical excerpts from the lives of (in) famous women over images of sexual/biological genitalia. According to Stephens, the texts were selected "to invite several women that Judy [Chicago] forgot: Emma Goldman, Valerie Solanas, Lucille Ball, and Annie Oakley, among others.... Texts describing the contributions these women made to feminist culture scroll over both displays." [1]

On the two separate occasions I viewed "Examinations," one of the "Dinner For Two" video monitor/place settings was out of order--perhaps implying that a vibratory video high is best served as Dinner For One, or that exhibitions that rely on technology are most effective when said technology is functioning. Technical problems aside, Stephens's vaginal texts are curious--in particular the words "this site is currently under construction" that begin each video loop and were superimposed over a shot of a heartily fingered vagina. In light of the recent clinical discourse that labels male-to-female transsexuals as "reconstructed females," I found this vagina-under-(de)construction to be of particular interest--inasmuch as outlaw women and male-to-female transsexuals have been popularly (de)constructed as "bad girls" -- with the site of their transgression being the ways in which they define their sexuality and their gender. Yet, with the information given in "Examinations," I'm not sure the play was intentional. Even so, when one compared Stephens's stated intentions with her indirect references, "Examinations" really began to glow. The truly interesting examinations of the exhibition occurred when the viewer read between the lines.

Page one of Stephens's artist statement (in reference to Marcos), states, "I am fascinated with women in positions of extreme power and how they can be reduced to facts about their wardrobes." On the other hand, Stephens goes on to state that she is interested in "gently parodying and even paying homage to the essentialist feminists who made it possible to construct more malleable notions of gender." Although these two statements may not seem mutually exclusive to Stephens, her notion that women in positions of extreme power can be "reduced to facts about their wardrobes" is an extremely essentialist, if not sexist point of view. On the other hand media culture can reduce human beings (particularly powerful women) to material aspects (particularly facts about their wardrobe). Whether Stephens promotes or critiques this reductive social dynamic remains unclear. In addition, the idea that one can simultaneously pay homage to and parody the subject of their artwork makes me suspicious--it begs for Stephens to i nclude herself in her artistic roastmaster ceremony, if only to take a squirt at her own lab frock. Although I admit that a nice spoof can be amusing if not enlightening, there is a bit of the snickering charlatan in Stephens's magic show, and one can only wonder if Stephens intentionally set out to prove that she who laughs first really laughs best.

Though I found it difficult to concentrate on more theoretical issues while experiencing Stephens's supersonic vibrating chairs, I also realized this may have been another carefully contrived intention of the artist: my complete abdication as a viewer enfolded by the power of her sexual/conceptual technology. Yet, what would be my appropriate response to Stephens's sexual dares? Did she want me to ejaculate? To vomit? To cry out, "That's enough! I can't take it any-morel" I refocused my eyes on the video monitor where a visual and textual tribute to Oakley scrolled by, revealing a shaved pubis and more innuendo: "her ability to handle a gun seemed to come at birth ...." The more I tried to relax into my "Dinner For Two," the more the other incidental noises of "Examinations" made it impossible for me to resign: the voices of "Jump" challenged me to take the plunge, the sound of "Presidential" spritzing and spurting, and, overall, the smashing and bashing of "No Regrets, Imelda" and those intimidating bronze shoes.

Still, the magnificent overhead bashing going on in "Examinations" bears consideration when aligned with Stephens's relationship to the current art (and art historical) revival of '70s feminism. In this sense, there was an overall righteous religious fervor to "Examinations": demanding, impatient, high-powered, grandiose. Certainly, the overall demeanor of the exhibit resembled an ornate baroque cathedral, large and magnificent, replete with technological splendors. Simultaneously, "Examinations" was bursting with mischievous puns and carefully couched theory--almost as if the artist felt the need to meticulously dissect a traditional party joke. If "Examinations" was indeed an interactive three-ring circus, its carnivalesque atmosphere ultimately raised questions about its ringmaster: was Stephens actually in charge of all her gotterdammerung, that clamoring of art and technology, or was she just clowning around? Like gun slingin' Oakley, could we say that Stephens's "ability to handle a gun seemed to come at birth"--that she was in control of her shooting galleries and juggling acts--or was Stephens a modern-day Faust who had conjured up a feminist Mephistopheles, a technological demon who exacted one hellacious payment in return for its entertainment? If it was the latter possibility, then the joke was not on the viewer.

JILLIAN ST. JACQUES is an independent scholar, writer and artist living in Rochester, NY.

NOTES

(1.) From Stephens's artist's statement. She is referring to Judy Chicago's 1975 installation "The Dinner Party" in which Chicago collaborated with numerous other artists to create a dinner setting with vaginally-oriented plates designed as a feminist hagiographic tribute.