Viewer discretion is artvised

By Staff | on August 31, 2023

A still from Jillian Mayer’s “H.I.L.M.D.A,” a 2011 video that’s 3 minutes, 5 seconds. DAVID CASTILLO GALLERY AND THE ARTIST, JILLIAN MAYER / COURTESY PHOTO

The piece commanding most attention in a new summer exhibition isn’t an explicit photograph or a phallic sculpture. It’s a viewer discretion sign advising visitors to brace for impact; they are about to witness something upsetting.

It must be bad if people are walking out.

We become aware of the reactions elicited by a 2011 video titled “H.I.L.M.D.A” before we get around the actual source of discomfort: self-amputation footage that hypothesizes how “Venus de Milo” ended up armless. In short, she did it to herself, and with pleasure.

We moved deeper into the room, toward the bench provided, only to realize one of two things: we won’t be staying long or will stay longer than most (surprising even for us). Depending on the moment of entrance, the first image we see might be a divine Hellenistic goddess basking in the sun to the sound of ocean waves or a pair of bloody limbs dumped on the floor.

The carnage projected on the wall for little over three minutes is performed with radical agency by Jillian Mayer, the artist. With some difficulty, but no trace of hesitation, she breaks and pulls on her left arm until it comes off. Seconds later, she proceeds to decimate her right arm with equal resolve. The camera zooms in as she sinks her teeth into the flesh, like a feral creature who hasn’t eaten in days. Before long, a deep jelly-like red breaks through the unevenly plastered skin, tainting her pearly whites, bare torso and drapery.

“H.I.L.M.D.A” (2011) by Jillian Mayer is inspired by the iconic Venus de Milo statue housed in the Louvre Museum.

Long believed to portray Aphrodite, the goddess of love, the famous ancient statue unearthed in 1820 is among the most famous female figures housed in the Louvre Museum, along with “Mona Lisa” and “Winged Victory of Samothrace.” Its provenance is still wrapped in mystery despite archaeologists’ best efforts. Leave it to the Cuban-American visual artist based in Miami to create a plot like no other.

Unlike the theoretical storyline of loss, neglect, abuse and rescue, Mayer’s Venus is in control of her actions. Her wounds are self-inflicted. This is not an accident that happened to her. She rejects the roles of victim and ideal beauty; both long prescribed to her but far less interesting than vampire or self-punisher. Whatever the case, she is the architect of her own transformation. That explains the sense of gratification in the final frame.

“The Quiet Undoing” (2020) by María Berrío. COURTESY PHOTO

On view through Sept. 17 at Norton Museum of Art, “Reflecting the Gaze: Jillian Mayer and Abigail Reyes” concentrates its dynamite on two powerful short videos by these female contemporary artists. The crowds, too, gravitate toward them despite there being a selection of works by other female- and nonbinary identifying artists worth exploring.

Drawn from the museum’s collection, the accompanying photographs and paintings aim to turn their subjects into active contributors to the viewing experience. A few, such as María Berrío’s beautiful “The Quiet Undoing,” end up projecting the opposite. The delicate protagonist posing passively against a pink bougainvillea is wide awake but has checked out mentally. This imagined outdoors scene portrays grief over vanished hopes and dreams and mirrors the internal struggle experienced by many during the COVID-19 pandemic.

The other side of the wall houses Reyes’ less-graphic commentary on the male-oriented script assigning value to desired female traits. It consists of a compilation of Latin American telenovela clips from the 1990s portraying women delivering the same line: “Si Señor.” This also is the title of her video, which runs under five minutes. The male presence, physically absent for the most part, is detected through the striking erosion of the women’s autonomy and confidence. Instead, the Salvadoran artist highlights, in humoristic fashion, their tendency for obedience and willingness to impress and please.

Upon every request by the boss, the women respond with immediate approval as if trying to save their loyalty from being questioned. No balloons appear on screen, but it’s fair to assume the recipients of such positive affirmations are experiencing a serious case of inflated ego. Reyes goes about popping that ego by shifting the attention toward the beautiful, domesticated creatures and keeping the men out of the frame. In a way, that makes it worse. In this telenovela world, the boss doesn’t even have to be in the room to get what he wants.

Neither video invites a contest on who can withstand shock or servitude the longest, but they do test the audience, which brings me to the real highlight of the show. It isn’t the viewer discretion advisory, after all, but visitors’ aversion to brutal honesty. To be fair, barring a few examples, at least one of these videos is as graphic as content gets. That said, galleries are typically quiet places; exclamations and body language signaling discomfort and disgust are rare. Here, they can put on an unintended performance rivaling the art itself. Take it from me, the sound of bones cracking can’t retain us once we spot evidence of public disapproval. It pokes our curiosity.

“Reflecting the Gaze” proposes a much-needed upgrade to cultural notions around the female role. Leading this proposition with candor are Mayer and Reyes. Their bold works pose as substitutes to outdated stereotypes and announce these are past expiration date, no longer acceptable for mass consumption, and especially sensitive to the female gut. Discard them now and we’ll hit pause.

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