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On the Corner: Peta Carlin |
Introductory Note: Peta Carlin’s book On Surface and Place: Between Architecture, Textiles
and Photography will appear from Routledge in 2018. To celebrate this event, I reprint here
the catalogue essay I wrote for her 2001 art exhibition in Melbourne, Corners.
Alan
Rudolph’s film Welcome to L.A. (1977)
has a running joke about an artist (Lauren Hutton) who photographs only the
corners of buildings. In one scene we glimpse them arranged unfussily on a wall – always from the same, dead-on angle, reducing every specific place
to the same general pattern: a brute, flat, vertical edge and the starkly
plunging receding planes that it creates. A street corner – like the kind where
Paul Auster’s alter ego hero in the film Smoke (1995) plonks his camera
down at regular intervals – can be a space of magic, of wonder, the eternal
documentary of life revealed in its chance movements and intersections. The
corner of a building, in Rudolph’s imaginary artist’s hands, annuls, in a
stroke, all these wondrous possibilities.
What’s
the wicked logic behind Welcome to L.A.’s
joke? It’s that to shoot corners so obsessively is, in a sense, to capture
nothing, over and over. A corner is not a “thing” in itself, it’s only the hinge, the pivot between other surfaces. A
point blank, not an object of intrinsic interest or beauty. So, to
gather representations of such corners could only be a conceptual, Warholian gag, hip to its own irony or blind to it: a washed-out
serving of sameness, mechanically fixating where there is nothing especially
interesting to see. Another chapter in the history of serial art, all those
installations and books that line up different people, objects or places within
the same, rigid, indifferent, often deliberately ugly pictorial parameter. The
artist’s parade of friends up against the same blank wall; the parade of his
daily underwear laid out on the mundane bed; the inevitable trace of her shadow
cast on every bare pavement …
Some
contemporary philosophers of aesthetics might put it differently and more
positively. A corner is the interval without which nothing makes sense or finds its inherent diversity and dynamism;
or it’s the fold that generates
volume, texture, a space for living in … The corner of a building might be
experienced like a pause in music, like black frames in a film, like the blank
spacing between objects in an installation, like the white margins on a page,
like the caesura in a verse text (I remember a documentary in which the
director Jean-Marie Straub harangued his actors: “I can’t hear the caesura!”).
But then again, such delicate, subtle articulations of form will so often go
overlooked, unheard or unnoticed in the ordinary, daily experience of art. What
really matters is how we can be nudged into appreciating them as something – rather
than nothing.
Peta Carlin’s Corners series uses sameness and repetition as generating principles, but it is
simultaneously alive to the sensual encounter of photography and architecture.
Form and facade meet in this ingenious project that aims to return a playful
sense of texture and imagination to examples of what Carlin identifies as late
modernist buildings. Cultural historian Peter Wollen has remarked in his book Raiding the
Icebox that: “The first wave of historic modernism developed an aesthetic
of the engineer, obsessed by machine forms and directed against the lure of the
ornamental and the superfluous”. (1) In a purely engineered world, a corner can
only ever be a corner – a functional specification, the break that redirects a
clean line.
Clement
Greenberg, the theorist and champion of this supposedly pure modernist project
in painting, posed an antinomy between that which is pictorial (and thus good)
and that which is decorative (thus bad) – a couplet that, as Wollen reminds us, maps itself onto the broader
value-distinction in the 20th century culture of design and architecture
between the functional and the ornamental. It is as if, in a somewhat
nightmarish extension of the Greenbergian vision, the
rarefied abstractions of colour field painting could
be extended and transposed into the shapes and planes of the built environment
– an utterly smooth, continuous, pictorial world, unsullied by the impure
pleasures of the decorative-ornamental impulse. And where the former is a “mass”
vision envisaged and engineered for the masses, the latter is as individual and
idiosyncratic (and thus as uncontainable) as the diversity of humankind.
This where Carlin the artist steps in – to interrupt that
smooth transition from flat plane to imposing volume. Her project strikes
a related circuit that reverses the direction but fits the same economy: from
real buildings to their usually realistic representation in documentary
photographs, which are the everyday coinage of publication and discussion in
the architectural world. She takes the realist photograph and knocks a kink in
its centre, a kink which happens to be exactly … at the corner.
And why not? The filmmaker Peter Greenaway has talked
about the frustrating but ultimately inspiring non-fit of architectural space
and photographic space. “Architectural space on film is stubborn. To film
architecture is to become aware of multiple curiosities of vision and downright
retinal deceptions. […] You have to accept the disappointment of the refusal
of carefully stage-managed entasis [the swelling or
curve of a column] to work for the camera lens”. (2) The optics of the eye, the
lived experience of space-in-motion, and the conventions of camera lenses all
create different effects – and even different worlds. Modern philosophy has
been fanatically devoted to this intuition: that we live simultaneously in
different conceptions of space and diverse planes of time. Art gives us an
intuitive, sensorial experience of this fantastic complexity, and verifies its
daily, infinite truth.
Carlin’s
image-assemblages return us to the underdeveloped and undervalued possibilities
of serial art. The use of repetition – the same kind of thing, over and over,
from the same general perspective – detaches common objects from their reality
and crams them into a sequence of the artist’s devising. Yet this does not have
to be a merely deadening or droll process, a joyless doubling of the mundane.
Rather than flattening these buildings and marshalling these pivotal corners to
an assembly-line logic, Carlin seizes the potential for creating new shapes,
textures, visions and environments from these abstracted and marooned pieces of
our quotidian landscape.
Carlin’s
game turns the architectural trace into a complex, droll species of ornament.
By physically orchestrating a simulacrum that is excessively mimetic – a
three-dimensional accordion effect to mirror the sharp turn of a building – she
uproots that object from its original place and objective, and offers in its
absence a new and virtual building that belongs not only to photographic art,
but also the free-play realm of our equally virtual imaginings.
1.
Peter Wollen, Raiding
the Icebox: Reflections on Twentieth-Century Culture (London: Verso, 1993),
pp. 13-14.
2.
Peter Greenaway, “Just Place, Preferably Architectural Place”, in John Boorman & Walter Donohue (eds), Projections
4½ (London: Faber and Faber, 1995), p. 79.
© Adrian Martin January 2001 |