At the beginning of the year, I proposed to "research and develop a set of thinking, making, showing and documentation techniques that can represent the layered complexity of the Ghost Box as a point of departure, prompt or impetus for art making". Looking back on the wording of this (thank you Mark) it strikes me that it contains both the freedom I needed to continue exploring, as well as the possibility that the Ghost Box itself may not be present in the final work. Indeed, the work I'm planning to produce now has a far more tangential relationship with its impetus, though the Ghost Box has certainly been the main source of inspiration. I began the project last year, collecting found footage sourced from internet archives that felt representative of the moments the Ghost Box evokes. When I met with Jennifer Lewandowski at PAC Home, I showed her the box and recorded our conversation. I then used sections of what we'd talked about as a soundtrack for the collected footage (above) The images above are representative of the explorations I made of the locations mentioned in the Ghost Box, examined using Google Earth, Google images, internet archives of moving image, sound and photographs, the websites of the businesses that are in some of those locations now, and blogs about the history of the area and of various companies and their relocation. The process for each location involved examining it remotely, from my computer, using various search terms such as addresses, dates, names, sales information such as stock numbers and model names, as well as many combinations of those things. As a result, I now have a huge collection of downloaded images and maps, screenshots, web links, archived newspaper articles, old phone directory entries and numerous other information relating to each location (see example here). I really enjoyed this detective approach, but found the huge array of information a bit overwhelming. There was, however, something about the way that Google Earth warps images when zooming in and out, and the graphic-design-like aesthetic that results (see related blog post here) that I found really interesting. I had some of these images made into slides, which I projected in a group tutorial with Chris Cook. The feedback was mixed, perhaps in part because the slides bore little relation to the proposal I presented for the year. However, I think they are intriguing objects, in terms of the questions they raise about pre- and post-internet technology, archives v databases, and their potential for circular or 'carousel narrative' (related blog post here) I was intrigued and amused, too, by the apparent dishonesty of some of the Sandhouse Hotel's images (above, bottom left), in which the colours are over saturated and the views through the window dubious. I used some of these website images to make the moving image piece Sandhouse Hotel (stills below left and centre, installed at Art Weekender below right, full video here) I like this video. The emptiness of the interiors and views combined with the curtains suggests remembrance, transcendence, psychoanalytical or dream imagery, a portal, a poetic experience of an imagined interior. I also mapped the locations mentioned in the box, such as below (left and centre: installed at TOPOS, Exeter, for Canteen. Right: installed at RWY project space) But more recently, I've moved away from the literal contents of the box, and begun to explore what it evokes, as a moment of finding and revealing and as a potential for narrative. When I set up this archive (below) of all the contents of the Box, and all the work made so far (which was presented as labelled flash drives, except for the slides which were physically present), one of the comments from the group was "It's like you've decided to put it all back in the box and move on". He was right, and in reflecting on this, along with Chris Cook's comment a few weeks earlier ("I imagine you as a kind of magician, revealing and concealing things" - see related blog post here) I decided it was time the work moved on from the concrete information in the box itself. Therefore, I've been exploring the narrative potential of furnishings, particularly wallpaper (see here, here, here and here) which emerged as a theme through the 1970s imagery I've been looking at. Additionally, the Catholic connection in the Ghost Box has proved fruitful, leading me to Antonia White to Charlotte Perkins Gilman and back to wallpaper, as well as relating strongly to the ideas of hiddenness, concealment, secrecy and privacy which the Ghost Box threw up. Interestingly, these concerns also resonate with Relic, and with some of the artists I cited as influences in my proposal: Louisa Fairclough, Christian Boltanski and Sophie Calle.
Below is documentation of an initial idea I had about using wallpaper in the work, which was set up for critique recently. It used Ebay-sourced 1972 wallpaper, spotlit and with speakers installed above, which went some way to creating the effect I wanted of the paper buzzing with static and whispers.
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Damask wallpaper is a motif in Laura Phillips' solo show I Felt Like the Sound of a Harp. Most noticeably is the balloon-with-wallpaper-print type object that appears in the video work, but there are also traces of a similar pattern in some of the fabric hangings. Phillips has cited Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper as an influence, as well as Tina Keane's Faded Wallpaper (1988), both of which I refer to in a previous post. In Phillips' work, the wallpaper reference could be read as a visual anchor, a counter to the dissociative states she references, and a reminder that they occur in a mind that is attached to a physical body, and that that physical body is still capable of visual perception of its surroundings, though they may be rendered frightening or absurd or unreal. The Pneumatic Institute, on which this show is based, was the location of Humphrey Davy's laughing gas experiments, and I assume that is the reason for the balloon motif. For me, however, given my own investigations into wallpaper, it reads as a reminder that 'reality' is precarious, and the way we decorate our environments cannot change that. Gilding, one might call it. Not in the sense of gilding the lily; more like using plastic surgery to try to fix a lack of self-esteem.
Tonight, watching her perform with her improv-ensemble Viridian in accompaniment to the show, the wallpaper was very present again, this time in the live digital and 16mm projections. The vocal aspect of the performance, seemingly inspired by laughing gas, was almost unbearable; pained, hysterical and gasping. In this setting, the wallpaper seemed like a point of hope. As if, could one only hold onto it, dissociation might be avoided. https://www.plymouthart.ac.uk/blog/calendar/laura-phillips-i-felt-like-the-sound-of-a-harp viridian.hotglue.me Review of the show A container exercise helps compensate for challenges that the brain presents as it works through the trauma. It is an exercise that utilizes the brain's ability to contain material. As traumatic or disturbing material comes up, container imagery is used to hold onto and put away those thoughts until a time that they can be better handled (Dr. Alex Way, in conversation, 2019) Allow yourself to be comfortable, either lying down or sitting up, with your back, neck and spine fully supported. Knowing that you will not be interrupted for the next little while, begin by gently closing your eyes.
(Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Now begin to bring your attention to your breath - the direct experience of your breath - however it is, and however it changes. Allow yourself to softly focus your awareness on to the breath that is arising right now... the in-breath and the out-breath... the rising and the falling. If you can, try to follow one full cycle of the breath - from the beginning of the in-breath, through its entirety... the beginning of the out-breath through its entirety. Allowing yourself the time and the space to be in direct contact with the breath throughout one entire cycle. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) As you continue to pay attention to the breath, you may notice distractions that arise. Just allow yourself to notice those distractions... any bodily sensations... any thoughts that may arise. If possible, allow yourself to become aware of the separateness of those bodily sensations - notice how those sensations are separate - distinct from your thoughts, your ideas and your words. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Now, as you continue with this focused awareness, you will notice how often you lose contact with the breath... maybe you become caught in a thought or an idea or plan or maybe some other bodily sensation has pulled your attention... when this happens, simply notice that you have lost connection with the breath, and, gently bring your awareness back to the breath. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) We’ll begin now with a deep breath in through your nose... inhaling slowly and deeply. Exhale through pursed lips until all the air has been released. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Now we are going to be creating a container. It doesn’t matter what kind of container it is, as long as it can hold “any and all disturbing material”. If you were going to develop something like that, what kind of container would it be? Some people have used boxes, safes, trunks or chests, others have used book bags, knapsacks or other pieces of luggage. It can be anything really, a tank, a submarine, an underground well... anything that suits you. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Can you bring to mind an image of something like that... Something that would be able to contain any and all disturbing material? When you have one in mind, take a good look at it. What material is it made out of? How is it held together? How big is it? What colour is it? Are there any markings on it? If there are markings, notice them, if not that’s fine. But I’d like you to add something to this container. I’d like you to add in some way... whether it be a note or a sign or an inscription of sorts on it... I’d like you to add a note to indicate that this container will remain tightly sealed. It will remain tightly sealed, until you wish to open it and retrieve something from it, otherwise it will remain sealed. It can be opened, but only by you.... and it should be opened only in the service of your healing. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) So once again, look at your container. Does it have already have that message on it? If not, place it on there now. (Pause) Now, how does this container open? Are you able to open it by yourself, or do you need help? Is there a lock on it? If not, feel free to put one or several on it now. (Pause) (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Once the locks are in place, we’ll experiment with opening and closing it, locking and unlocking it. As you do that, notice how much - or how little - effort it takes to open and close. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) When you feel comfortable handling it, I’d like you to think of something that you might put into the container... just for practice. Do whatever is necessary to open it up, and then place something in there. When I say “something”, I mean anything, really anything that may be distressing or disturbing to you right now... it could be thoughts or worries, bad feelings or bad memories... it could be something that you have to do but not right this minute... or it could be something that keeps you from being present with this exercise. It could be self judgement, doubt or pain... whatever it is, you’re going to put it it into the container... whatever you need to do to get it in there, do that now. (Pause) (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Once the disturbing material is in, close it up and lock the container. (Pause) Now, breathe deeply as you look at the locked container, securely holding anything that you need or want it to hold. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Notice how you feel in your body having set aside whatever distressing thing you put in your container. Can you sense that it is fully contained? Is there something that keeps it from feeling fully contained? If so, can we try opening your container and putting that in there as well? Remember that this container is yours and will hold any and every thing that you need it to hold for as long as you need it to. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) Now imagine walking away from your container, so that it is no longer in your sight. Notice the feeling in your body now that you are no longer burdened by what you put in the container. Notice your breath, your in-breath... your out-breath... and any sensations of relief you feel in your body. Maybe your shoulders have dropped a bit, or some of the tension in your neck has subsided. Whatever feelings of relief you notice, breathe deeply and just notice. Whatever you put in the container is now securely locked inside. It is for you to open whenever you wish to put things in or take them out. So now, just for practice, let’s go back to your container. Once you have it in sight, look closely. See if you can read what is written on the outside. (Pause) Continue focusing on your breath as you continue to approach the container. When you are in reach, unlock it and open it up. ... as you open it notice that what you put in there is still there, separate from you. You might want to put something else in. Or you may just wish to lock it back up. Whatever feels right and safe to you, do that now. (Pause) (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) And once you’re finished practising putting things in your container and securely locking it back up... you can walk away from the container. As you walk away, begin to bring yourself and your awareness back to this room, knowing that this resource - this secure container - is available to you at any time. Knowing that you can use it to hold any and all disturbing things. Knowing that all of the things that you have chosen - or anything that you choose to contain in the future, will be secure and will remain secure. You can access the material whenever you feel resourced to do so. But for now you may leave it, knowing it is safely and securely contained. (Breathe audibly with the exhalation longer than the inhalation) And now, whenever you are ready, gently bring yourself back to the room by counting up from one to five. When you reach the number five, your eyes will gently open. You will be awake and alert, and feeling only peace. One Two Three Take a deep breath Four And five The above images are of postcards from The Convent of the Sacred Heart in Roehampton, which was operational between 1850 and 1939. One of its pupils was a young girl called Eirene Botting (born 1899), who later became known as Antonia White, writer of four autobiographical novels known collectively as Frost in May (also the title of the first of the four novels), among other works. The fourth novel in this collection, Beyond the Glass, contains a description of the author's own experience of what would probably now be called psychosis, following (or perhaps resulting from) a period of mania which could be interpreted as indicative of bipolar disorder. The preceding novel, The Sugar House, documents a very unhappy period immediately before that, which could be described as a depression.
Sherah Kristen Wells has stated that White represents psychosis in her writing "as a dissolution of subjectivity"* (which Wells analyses using Luce Irigaray's theories). However, she also says that "female subjectivity is positively constructed" by White, "specifically through the presentation of Catholicism"*. I am planning to make the trip up to Warwick to read the complete thesis, as only the abstract is available online. I wonder if Wells finds a connection between the effects of a strict Catholic upbringing and mental illness. White herself writes critically of the convent and of the demands of Catholicism, and the effects of the "breaking of one's will and re-setting it in God's own way"**. In The Sugar House, for example, she relates that one of her greatest fears as a child was "dying unprepared and going to hell forever"**, an idea that was instilled in her as a very real consequence of any number of sins by both her parents and her guardians at the convent. She also describes an episode when she had broken school rules (talking too much), for which her punishment was to take her First Communion alone, months after her friends had all taken theirs together. These experiences haunted her, and she was clearly preoccupied throughout her adult life with feelings of fear, guilt and inadequacy: fear of sin, fear of and guilt about wanting to sin, fear of judgement from her elders or superiors, fear of her own pubic hair which "she thought meant she was being turned into an animal as a result of having inadvertently committed some terrible sin"**. As far as I can find, it is not generally accepted that The Sugar House describes the signs of the onset of psychosis. However, the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) describes these as including: a worrisome drop in performance, trouble thinking clearly, a decline in self-care or personal hygiene, spending a lot more time alone than usual, and strong, inappropriate emotions or having no feelings at all. White's experience in her first marital home (The Sugar House is the fictional name given to this real house in Chelsea, due to its "pink distempered walls", "gay colours", "primrose walls and arty rush mats") contains many of these signs: ("the paralysed lethargy", "no purpose in her mind", "impotence had spread", "her mind refused to bite on anything at all", "as if she weren't a real person"). According to the NAMI, another early sign of psychosis is hearing, seeing, tasting or believing things that others don’t, which begins in The Sugar House and continues in Beyond the Glass, often relating to interiors ("everything seemed to have a significance beyond itself"). White's fictionalised portrayal of herself, who she names Clara Batchelor, feels at times that the walls are almost imperceptibly moving inwards and that mirrors will lead to unspecified terrors. "As if it were dangerous to think too much, she jumped up from the chair. Immediately she was conscious of the number of mirrors in the tiny space. Three different angles of her head and shoulders and one full-length figure sprang towards her... For a moment it was an effort to remember that this was not... a room in a horrible story." Here the church's lasting effect on her is evident too: "on the corner of the opposite pavement was... a Catholic church... like the intrusion of a firm Nannie into the nursery. The intrusion allays panic but it reduces the magic palace once again to toy bricks" (see a coincidentally similar idea here). This "not-quite-real" environment, combined with the realisation that her new husband is childish in both his behaviour and his interests (he buys her an extremely expensive train set for her birthday, with their rent money), result in Clara beginning to perceive her home as something like a doll house (though this description is not actually used by White), and herself as trapped inside it. She begins to act accordingly, like an abandoned doll, unable to motivate herself to perform even simple tasks, and growing to hate the home she fell in love with and begged her husband to rent, though incapable of doing anything that might involve going outside it. Wallpaper does not feature in the description of the Sugar House. I have sometimes felt that if she had had something unchanging to hold onto, an anchoring visual point, it might have helped. A trellis of damask, stretching and contracting in zigzag repeats, might have given the sweetly plastered, shifting, mirrored walls a trustworthy plane, measurable by motif and scale. Patterns can soothe in their repetition, if one focuses on counting, like I used to in my bedroom at Church Road. This focus is a type of mindfulness, anchoring the mind in the present experience of viewing, and therefore confirming subjectivity - ("I am looking"). But in writing this I remember again The Yellow Wallpaper, and how it became a stage for imagination and delusion. Patterns can also be an entryway, like in my grandparents' bathroom, where the wallpaper's pattern became three-dimensional when I relaxed my eyes, as did those Magic Eye pictures in the 90s (below). This non-focus might be more akin to dissociation, when perception alters to allow illusion, or delusion, or revelation. This could indeed be a "dissolution of subjectivity" as Wells has described*, and as Perkins Gilman has demonstrated. Patterns could lead one out of oneself. I was always able to blink hard, or shake my head, and my grandparents' bathroom wallpaper would return to the flat plane it had been before. Maybe I was lucky. References and further reading: * Wells, Sherah Kristen (2009) 'Another world,/its walls are thin': psychosis and Catholicism in the texts of Antonia White and Emily Holmes Coleman. PhD thesis, University of Warwick. ** Hopkinson, L. P. (1988) Nothing to Forgive: A Daughter's Life of Antonia White. London: Chatto & Windus https://www.nami.org/earlypsychosis |