The electric doors swish open
and we’re in, to the left a sinister whispering sound in a darkened room, to
the right the low pitched moan of a kettle nearing the boil beckons.
After a moment’s indecision
we head right into a large, light, airy room, the atmosphere moist with the steamy
discharge from six shiny chrome kettles. If we look closely, we can see that
the kettles each have a word engraved on them, creativity, autonomy, fecundity,
latency, reverie, liberty.
Arranged on the floor, and
sporadically coming to the boil, they take turns to spew their steam onto the
fastidious surface of a series of vertical glass ovals. Intercepted by these
mirror-less mirrors, the nebulous vapours coalesce into droplets which drip
their way onto pristine leaves of blotting paper neatly piled below.
Circumnavigating the
kettles, we mount the stairs, and are gradually stifled by the massed emissions
of a roomful of plug-in air fresheners, each mounted on the end of a long
electrical lead, plugged into one of a set of organically linked multiple adaptors. The patently artificial smell of the
sanitising devices completely swamps any natural scent that might be coming
from a vase of fresh flowers, placed on a small table in the gallery. This
olfactory fiction, it’s narrative flow tightly controlled by electrical timers,
is countered by a languid, almost ecstatic, female voice.
She reads aloud verses from
a poem; luscious imagery of evanescent flowers coupled with descriptions of
intricate needlework seem to allude to something more exhilarating.
Throughout the visit, we
have been aware of another story unfolding in the adjoining double height
gallery, barely audible whispers have leaked out of the space, and from the landing areas, we can see down onto a large
plinth, the top of which radiates the orange glow of a bed of cornflakes lit
from below. Scarcely perceptible movements or eddies disturb the surface of
this esoteric pot pourri.
On the adjacent wall, a spy
hole hints at lush pleasures and pains within, beneath it, at groin height, a
video monitor shows close up images of crushed juicy plums, and when we finally
adopt the peeping Tom role, we see a cold metal vice, in which a vulnerable,
delicate, tumescent plum is held on the very cusp of rupture; one final, tiny
touch, and the juice will spurt forth.
Lost in a private reverie,
we could easily miss the dozen or so observation mirrors, mounted high on the
walls. Out of reach yet all too tangible, they remind us that we remain under
constant disapproving surveillance. While whispered warnings of the likely
consequences of deviance, add to the sense of being observed and critically
assessed.
These installations play
with several of the viewer’s senses. The wholesome taste of breakfast is
recalled, but the cloying artificial smells in the next room are clearly there
to mask something less palatable. The
steam cleaning of the clear glass, by the seemingly autonomous, yet carefully
regulated kettles, speaks of the pleasures of doing something entirely for its
own sake, apart from the covenants of society.
There is no right or wrong
reading of these works, the viewer will inevitably bring their own history and
expectations with them, perhaps these may be subtly revised or reappraised
during the visit, or afterwards in the private spaces in our heads and homes.