Jelena Telecki, 'Opening night (painter, sitter, muse)', installation detail, 2016. Photo credit: Amanda Williams, courtesy 55 Sydenham Rd |
An ensemble cast of characters pass
through Jelena Telecki’s paintings. They appear in multiple works in disjointed
and variable scenarios and relations. Some are individualised, such as General
Tito, the ex-leader of the former Yugoslavia. Others are types such as sailors
in head to toe whites, or nurses smoking cigarettes. There are stage
performers, and costumed sexual fetishists, and men in tracksuits wearing
incongruously shiny white shoes. Their faces are in many instances obscured.
Their distinguishing features are blurred, or disfigured or erased. Identity is
contingent. A person might merge with another party, with an object, with a
background detail. Characters are differentiated by their uniforms, by the
prosaic details of their garments: the white lace-up brogues, the thick sport
socks, and nylon Adidas trackpants: by what marks their place, or excludes it,
from an established order.
In the last couple of years
Telecki’s exhibitions have been stalked by lifelike figures who alternately
posture, recline, or endure puzzling physical restraints. The faces of the
sculptures are not visible. They wear sheets over their heads, they are thrust
head first into furniture, they sprawl as if they are sleeping something off,
or ready themself as if they might leap out of position and snatch your phone.
Pathetic and menacing: pushed around, and set to push back.
Multiple characters are in play in Telecki’s 2016
installation, Opening Night (painter,
sitter, muse). A man stares out from a painting: his face competes with his
lavish fur coat and stately bulk for the viewer’s attention. It is a 1915 self-portrait
by Swedish portrait painter, Anders Zorn, which Telecki has reworked. Zorn’s
image regards two life paintings of male nudes, pinned to the opposite wall.
One of the faces has been draped with paint, the other is screened by curling corners
of unstretched canvas. On the gallery floor below is a tidy pile of packing
foam, cardboard, raw canvas, and pooled dry paint. Discarded crumpled oil
paintings seem to float to the surface: this is by the looks, the stylised
rubble of art history where reputations and artefacts are consigned, and on
occasion retrieved. Here the white shoes of one of Telecki’s stage performers, hover
over a face in another painting: Telecki’s finely painted rendition of Jan Van
Dyck’s Portrait of a Sixty-year-old Man (1618).
Two of Telecki’s figures are present.
At one end of the gallery is a man in a brown tracksuit, white shoes and white
cotton gloves. He is wedged face down in an upright seat, trapped in perpetual
collapse by a second chair jammed onto his back. Foam packing is strapped to his arms and legs
and over his face. He strains toward a scrunched piece of paper that has been
placed, or has landed, just out of reach. Slouching on the facing wall is another
model, his head and torso shrouded by a white cloth. A blank canvas is balanced
on his head. He is also in a state of disarray: a shoelace hangs loose from his
glossy white shoes and a grimy $5 note pokes from the pocket of his black
Adidas pants. Both of his gloved middle fingers are raised in obscene gesture. It’s
as if the figures have unexpectedly manifested as reluctant emissaries of the
unconscious, forced to reveal the goings-on behind the scene. It makes for a
startling, comic and uncanny tableau.
The title of Telecki’s exhibition is
a reference to John Cassavetes’ 1977 film, Opening
night, in which a theatre actor rejects the authority of the script over
the role in which she has been cast. The play’s narrative is repeatedly
thwarted as Myrtle abandons the set mid-scene, addresses the audience, cries
out or lies motionless. Her refusal to accept a diminished status, in art or in
life, leads to her haunting by a dead teenage fan, who Myrtle willingly invokes
as a doppelganger of her younger self. As Myrtle unravels, an exorcism is
arranged; hallucinating, she violently annihilates her rival self. Myrtle subsequently
arrives late and blisteringly drunk to the opening night but manages at the
last to improvise an alternative ending and, in refusing the weight of
established narrative, she sidesteps her character’s fate as well as her own.
Telecki’s sculptural figures have the quality of
apparitions, summoned to revert time, and reclaim what has been lost, abandoned
or repressed. The white shoes Telecki has frequently painted and clad her
sculptures in, are ghosted by earlier editions of themselves: the white naval shoes
worn by Telecki’s father and his comrades, sailors in the navy of the former
Republic of Yugoslavia. Telecki’s characters wear the shoes like fetishes: like
haunted props for the restaging of memories. The sculptures’ heads are covered with
sheets in an echo of the simulated ghosts of early spirit photography, and they
are a similar means of testing the capacity of representation to claim veracity
and authority.
Much of Telecki’s portraiture has been the result of
her research into State Artists who are employed to repeatedly produce realistic
portraits of the leader of a state. Telecki’s interest in the visual
requirements of authority led her to assume the role herself. The performance soon
went awry. In one example, Hijacked
portrait, a classically rendered depiction of General Tito has been painted
over and a woman’s face has been inserted in the place of his. In other
portraits coloured circles buzz ominously over the leader’s face and inflated
shapes press insistently at his temples. Rather than cementing authority, in
Telecki’s work realism points to its own hallucinatory disintegration; and repetition
of an image scrambles, misremembers and effaces its outlines. The leader’s
portrait, once Telecki’s finished with it could be anyone or anything: a
rubber-suited gimp, a cosmos of dead stars or a fat man in furs surveying his
subjects.
Cassavetes’ Opening night suggests that narrative is oppressive, that defying
its authority to determine an outcome is a matter of not just life and death, but,
equally importantly, of life and art. Telecki’s work shares this resistance to
authority and its directorial scripts. Like actors who’ve turned to take on the
director, Telecki’s characters won’t stay in role. They refuse to play it
straight, they are going to keep throwing their lines, adlibbing, interjecting.
The blank canvas on the head of the cocky chancer in Opening night (painter, sitter, muse) is a challenge: try to fill
it at your own risk. On the night of the opening an unknown viewer filched the
$5 that dangled from the tracksuit pocket, goaded on perhaps by Telecki’s
tableau of art history and power, narrative and defiance. Telecki replaced it, laughed.
Lynne Barwick, February 2017
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