A sort of tomorrow (Stephen Andrews, part 7)

Biodegradation figures importantly, if obscurely, in the narrative of Lazarus, already alluded to in the line from Anne Carson’s poem cited as the epigraph of “A sort of tomorrow” [“And the second fact of his humanity began”], and again in Derrida’s evocation of the “intense effort of memory” located at the origin of drawing.  Perhaps inevitably, the story of Lazarus (along with other narratives of resurrection and rebirth) has been enlisted as an allegorical precursor by and for those, like Andrews himself, who have been granted a second chance, the new lease – or mortgage – on life afforded by the advent of combination antiretroviral therapies.  In de facto acknowledgement that no static portrait, however mediated, can render the contours of a prior narrative whose own diachrony comprises an unsettling anachrony – life after death, indeed life after four degrading days in the grave – Andrews turned to fresh materials and a reconfiguration of his signature media in his updating of the life and times of Lazarus.  The resulting work, “Untitled” (2000-2001), presents drawings and photocopy transfers of the artist’s own snapshots on vertical strips of transparent mylar that imitate the visual sequencing of analogue film.  In Andrews’ tripartite division of the cinematic succession of images into past, present and future, the narrative begins with a past that is subtitled “The End” (recalling, for readers of this blog, the parenthetical subtitle of Felix Gonzalez-Torres’ black-bordered paper stack  of 1990).  The work’s introductory sequence has recourse to the transcultural legend of the phoenix, a story of death and resurrection in which biodegradation is accelerated, aided and abetted in this instance by the artist’s application of a lighted match to a source photograph for earlier work:  an image of an anonymous crowd that figured significantly in his 1998 series hoi polloi.  The image yields, in a matter of several frames, to the destructive force of the flame, until the remaining ashes fade to black.

Subtitled “The First Part of the Second Half,” the central section opens with two mylar strips featuring sgraffito drawings in imitation of the optical soundtrack in analogue film, whose differential position vis-a-vis the image sequence it will accompany is calculated to compensate for the disparate times required for their respective routes through the projector.  The inscription of the optical soundtrack here recalls its precursor in the numerous installations of Facsimile‘s four parts since 1991:  Arrayed beneath the rows of portraits were unfurled player-piano scrolls stamped by the artist with the names of the men and women portrayed and featuring popular songs about love and loss, adumbrating a mute accompaniment.

In “Untitled,” the obscure sequence that marks the place of the optical soundtrack occludes the labour of mediation required to render it.  Andrews first recorded his own voice reading aloud the text of Anne Carson’s “TV Men:  Lazarus,” from the near-contemporaneous volume Men in the Off Hours, into a microphone attached to a computer.  The modulations of his voice were then translated as sine-wave printouts that the artist went on to replicate by hand in the ink-blackened margins of the transparent mylar film strips.  What resulted from a process that might be argued to take its cues from the poem itself (“I put tiny microphones all over the ground / to pick up / the magic / of the vermin in his ten fingers and I stand back to wait / for the miracle”) is modest in appearance (the inaudible soundtrack appears as illegible marginalia) and audacious in conception and ambition (Andrews is seeking, in effect, to draw poetry:  “mixed media,” indeed).

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Filed under Books, Culture, Death, History and historiography, Media, Reading and writing

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