Carlo Gibson’s art is interactive — so why, asks HAZEL FRIEDMAN, isn’t the viewer allowed to participate?
ACCESSING Carlo Gibson’s realm means entering a land where the literal and the obtuse sometimes meet in a muddled embrace. His first solo show — at the Rembrandt van Rijn Gallery, at the Market in Newtown — promises the exciting prospect of straddling performance, installation, drawing, sculpture and audience/artist interaction all at once. But the freshness of Gibson’s ambition becomes shackled by inexperience, self-indulgence and pretentiousness.
Without a doubt, the “show” is well hung. So well hung, in fact, that Gibson — or rather his social sculpture — has attracted hordes of “philistines” attending performances of Kafka, Medea and Meze, Mira and Make-up at the Market Theatre. They pull his strings, use his suspended pens to make profane comments on the gallery wall, and giggle at the naked artist with the kabuki-clown make-up.
“Of course, the show is supposed to be an interactive exhibition,” says Gibson plaintively, “but really, their participation is ruining the performance.”
It is Monday night and time for Gibson to do his thing by activating a chain reaction from his web of elastic cord supports, which suspend felt-tip pens above small white circles painted on the gallery floor.
But Gibson is reluctant to perform in front of all these people. He has also decided that he wants to change the performance altogether, to remove the instruments (the pens) which make marks on his body and on the white circles on the floor, in much the same way that graffiti violates the pristine surfaces of walls and doors.
“From now on my performance will be constructed around clothing, not nakedness,” he says as he starts undressing, not a trace of irony in his voice.
In the centre of his exhibition space is a plaque with the epithet: “Every thought creates a wave in the unifield. It ripples through all layers … spreading out in wider circles. As they radiate, your thoughts have an effect on everything in nature.”
The web of supports is constructed in such a way that simply brushing against them causes ripples and squiggles and doodles, which could be interpreted as surrealist meanderings or, alternatively, as expressionistic marks. They become the focus of the exhibition with Gibson functioning simultaneously as activator, prop, canvas, installation and performer. But, once you’ve been privy to that small revelation, the rest of the exhibition becomes merely a literal reinforcement of a singular truism: that actions have consequences.
Not that I am privileged enough even to engage with the artist and his unicircle. After removing the felt-tips — for reasons that are unclear, given the participatory nature of his show — Gibson begins his installation- performance only when the gallery has been cleared of the crowds. (So much for the sign at the foot of the stairs which reads: “This is social sculpture.”)
There is something Kafkaesque about the the whole scenario — an appropriate analogy, given the fact that the only meaningful interaction going on in the space is between myself and the cast of Kafka Dances, being performed in the adjacent theatre.
I sit. I pick my nails. I attempt to engage with the inert form lying in a state of grounded levitation on the gallery floor. I try to coax my thoughts to spread in concentric rings, hoping — in vain — to merge them with Gibson’s unicircle.
Kafka might describe it as trying to fill a space with emptiness.
Carlo Gibson’s installation is on view at the Rembrandt van Rijn Gallery, at the Market in Newtown, Johannesburg, until March 9. Gibson holds performances on Mondays, Fridays and Saturdays at 7.30pm, and conducts walkabouts every Wednesday and Thursday between 12.30pm and 2pm