A thematic strand throughout The Girls’ body of work is literally that: the body; at work, and in sundry other bizarre contexts treated with a detached surrealism that is both provocative and unsettling.
By embedding more questions in their photography than they supply answers, this award-winning duo from Central Saint Martins manage to be a bit more interesting than their pedigree and middle class backgrounds make them sound. There doesn't seem to be a message or a lesson with The Girls, playful at times but also capable of twisted and dark work with a visceral immediacy and a knack for disquieting self-portraiture. Issues like women’s relationship with food receive treatment, perhaps most overtly in
'Friday – The Mermaid' (self-portrait).
By complicating this most modern of obsessions with food by referencing treats from their childhood in the 1980s, this work hints at guilty pleasures, guilty secrets. Eating can be an activity done in secret solitude, as highlighted by the interior of interiors, the bathroom – a lockable space that provides solitude for bodily maintenance and in the mermaid’s case, secret indulgence. This mermaid, who craves cannibalistic fish in solitude provides a visual play on the classic 80’s film ‘Splash’ in which Darryl Hannah enjoys a midnight bath and experiences the relief of revealing her tail, her true self, flapping about in the water to which she’s added salt. In ‘Friday – The Mermaid’ she is living out her secret fantasy in the ultimate and reveling in her role as the Hollywood glamour mermaid, but one who actually devours herself. This sexually charged consumption (of the self) is a theme that The Girls revisit in their exploration of woman and their complex and complicated relationship with food.
(self-portrait) – Food is not as bright as it used to be since the 90’s swept in a fixation with all things organic. And so here the idea of obsession with food which is heavy in addictive additives and colourings dressed up as childhood treats becomes the subject, just as the human subject, in a deftly reciprocal placement, appears to become the fairy bread. Over indulgence has almost always been seen as anathema to the ideal female response to food – not to indulge, to show restraint, to make a display of not being hungry like the famous opening sequence in Gone With The Wind where Scarlett O’Hara, along with her Southern sisters, refuses food for an entire day so that they can fit into their gowns. Here, modern media obsession with size zero feeds into the quiet, guilt ridden but sensually charged desire to gorge oneself on naughty childhood pleasures. This pun on ‘feeding into’ slips over into literal feeding, with undertones of previously innocent food that has now become forbidden. Even if those indulgences have become associated with high levels of artificial food colourings and reactions like mood swings, sugar crashes and temper tantrums, the desire remains.
The eerily rich colours contrast with the artist’s pale skin. When the hundreds and thousands soak into margarine they take on a vivid luminosity which is beautiful; the ink stained marge becomes a painterly palette. Looking more dyspeptic than angelic though, is the artist on a sugar come-down? Has she been told she is not allowed anymore? Does she fantasize about her favourite treat regardless? Does she like it so much that she becomes it? Or can she simply not buy them anymore, faced with row after row of low-fat worthy food in health food chains?
'Corn-fed' (self-portrait) – There is a palpable sense of suspense in this image; a narrative driven question of what is going to happen next implied. Why is she there? Who has done this to her? Why is she smiling? Roast dinners, the kind that take hours to prepare but a brief sitting to devour. Are there parallels in the way that women spend hours preparing for a date with a lover only to culminate in brief sex? She appears vulnerably positioned, but could she be the one in control of this particular situation? Reportedly, viewer response to this piece has centered on the naked vulnerability of the subject. One viewer even doubted the consent of the artist – when elevated to a question of women in the home and the misogynistic view of the kitchen being women’s rightful place then the undeniable feminist agenda hits home with a well delivered punch. The modern malaise that feminism is about choice is further complicated if the woman in question actually chooses to be there. This ‘bird’ may well be in command, and so we witness the fine line between exploitation and control, what if there is an internal confidence through agency that emits from this Bird, after all? Her smile registers complicity; the implicit invitation hinted at by the ajar door all suggest a participation and enjoyment that ruptures the trope of woman inhabiting the unfulfilled domestic sphere.
Looking a while longer, the pictures contains lots of clues to guide a questioning viewer: knives, cookbooks, alcohol, open door open, foil platter, fastidiously prepared veg, carefully coiffured hair, phallic looking marrow (and its not just the vegetables that are overtly phallic and prominent - charged as it is with subversive family-making meaning, there is a baster suggestively pointing towards smashed eggs). A raw bird then, ready for stuffing? Or a contemporary woman in control, who also happens to like keeping house and preparing traditional meals? Conversely, has she been a more typically representative victim of centuries of domestic repression, and if so, does the title, 'Corn-fed', apply metaphorically? The Girls work teases and cajoles with these dual narratives and interpretations, and arguably, no more so than in this piece.
In an ironic footnote, this was shot in Sinclair's kitchen, a kitchen in which the artist has never prepared a roast dinner.
'Smurfette' (self-portrait) – It is the 50th anniversary for the Smurfs in 2008. According to Wikipedia, Smurfette was originally a dull and pedestrian brunette transformed into a blonde temptress by Papa Smurf to mix things up a bit in the village. Smurfette is the ultimate sex symbol and the only female in the series given the task of flirting with the smurf men. In this sequence, Smurfette plays a pin-up, a glamour girl, but somehow the implication is that it may be a little later in Smurfette’s career, referenced by the late afternoon sun and tendril-like shadows. What happens to pin-ups when they loose their hetero-normative, stereotyped and co-modified looks? Do they become sex workers, reality TV stars, or simply take lonely beach holidays in the English seaside, ever on the lookout for any attentive admirer…or a new agent? Everything on The Girls' Smurfette is fake; her red nails and eyelashes to her lustrous blonde locks and pneumatic breasts. In contrast, the unadorned curves of the artist actually look very cartoon-like. There is a reference to ‘Reader’s Wives’ snapshots that permeate cheap pornography magazines. Following this visual trail, who is the photographer?
Googling ‘Smurfette’ is definitely not work-safe. You’ll be surprised (or you may not be) by the overtly sexualised material, some extremely explicit, written for what seems to be a specialist market of Smurfette fetishists. Does her cartoon status imbue her with license to side-step obligations of carnal respect and the tedium of gaining real-life permission? Jessica Rabbit may be the standard for two-dimensional internet bomb shells, but Smurfette still holds her own, even after 50 years.
'Care Bears' (self-portrait) – Childhood toys, popular culture, furries, car sex, internet dates, sex dates, fuck buddies, Craig’s list initiated set-ups, euro trash, dirty weekends, dogging, the juxtaposition of friendly, infantile colours and sinister, illicit activity. This frenetically energetic image overlays all of these themes in one cartoon like ‘cell’, the viewer is simultaneously confronted with childhood must-have toys that must have each other, caught in a paparazzi flash of recognition and discovery. The prelapsarian innocence of Care Bears lifted from a 30 year old’s youthful memories sordidly encountered in very grown up pursuits lends them an afterlife much like Smurfette’s later years. What happens when we grow up - if we can make the transition, why can't our childhood toys and play things mature too?
Both artists really got into character (Cheer Bear and Funshine Bear) and adopted personalities to go with their costumes for the shoot duration. The result is a picture that manages to access genuine affection, even given the dinghy, loveless context of squalid and anonymous car sex.
'Sub Rosa Flip Doll' (self-portrait) – This piece was inspired by Art Brut and art created through art therapy. Its significance lies in the manner in which the doll is joined, equally invoking sibling rivalry as well as more generic but no less complicated female rivalry. One is a bride the other a bridesmaid, t'was ever thus. Sisters, joined forever by a special unbreakable bond, for better or worse, like the marriage vow says. The way that the masks are sewn on is reminiscent of the ritualistic way the dead are treated by their loved ones in different cultures. Victorians celebrated the dead, often photographing their dead relations as though alive, painting the eyes on after in a ghastly process that would make us recoil. Open coffin wakes at home were the norm, and the mourning periods often epic.
The piece contains different materials including copious amounts of crude straw. The (single) bed with its institutionalised cast iron railings is reminiscent either of boarding school or a mental hospital, perhaps both. The symbolism between the two colours of red and white aren't quite the virgin/whore dichotomy, but the starkness and lurid contrast reminds one of a particularly baroque Queen of Hearts. The piece is interactive and viewers are encouraged to lift the skirt to reveal one half of the doll at the time. One half is veiled. "We want you to touch us" say The Girls.
The face casts are raw and unforgiving - the ultimate self-portrait. Every line and pore included. Eyes closed, they resemble Victorian death masks, dressed as the Queen of Hearts.
© 2008 Claire Norman
