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‘Inhabiting the Duration
of a Look: a Letter on Portraiture’ by
Anthony Auerbach, in Ines Lechleitner,
Puzzle Box, Maastrcht: Jan van Eyck
Academie, 2010.
Ines’ Puzzle Box promted
me to write a sequel to my letter on portraits and consequently another reflection on the matter at the heart of my own practice of drawing.
Ines’s publication takes the form
of a box modelled on a puzzle
box instaled in the Gorilla enclosure
at the Zoo in Munich. The text of this letter
is contained in a leaflet inside.
Dear
Ines,
You showed me a replica of a
box mounted on the wall of the
gorilla enclosure in a zoo in
Germany. This box, you said,
would be the container for something
of yours, and the form of a publication.
Thus you prompted me to slot
something in, to post a letter.
Is this green box a toy, or is
it a test? It is, in any case,
an invitation, an invitation
to reply, to reflect, to be exact:
to revise, to look again (and
so it turned out to be, for you
too).
In my first letter (before I
saw the green box), I wrote about
portraits: your gorilla family,
a piece of cinema, a portrait
of your father: your experiments.
I made some observations on
portraits which, in a clumsy
way, I wanted to call anti-social,
if only to distinguish them from
social portraits. A social portrait,
I suggested, is supposed to provide
an acceptable likeness of an
individual, with the emphasis
more on being acceptable than
on being like, or indeed, being
individual. The qualities of
the social portrait are those
which, in Oscar Wilde’s
story The
Picture of Dorian Gray,
happen to stick to the man instead
of to the painting. While a portrait
painting (for instance) is always
more like other paintings than
it is like a person, in so far
as a portrait is supposed to
be the likeness of an individual,
a social portrait produces the
semblance of individuality.
There is another kind of portrait
somewhat other than a picture
(although sometimes a portrait
can be both social and other).
This other kind of portrait is
an instrument, a pretext, an
apparatus of looking: some kind
of experiment with difference.
This kind of portraiture, I suggested,
demands a duration of looking,
a duration perhaps justified
by a photographic instant, perhaps
only camouflaged by that instant.
Its procedure places an object
under observation, under surveillance,
and dissimulates the specificity
of your gaze, its voyeuristic
intent, in the genera of looking.
You carry your hide with you
in the discreet form of a camera
in which your vigil is interrupted
only by photography. Such a portrait
stakes out its object, lures
its quarry, duration, with a
look. A portrait of this kind
makes appointments, is there
on time, stays until closing,
visits and revisits, often.
I want to keep talking about
portraits because, although you
visit the zoo often, that doesn’t
make you a zoologist. Although
you live among humans, that doesn’t
make you an anthropologist. When
you work, you mind your own business.
You appear to attend to your
equipment. You listen to your
microphones. You look into your
cameras. You don’t speak.
It is as if the paraphernalia
of your art were the props for
a mime, or rather a family of
mimes (of resemblances): portrait,
likeness, semblance, indifference.
The family of gorillas, minding
their own business, being indifferent,
seem to suggest a model which
you make a criterion, which you
imitate and multiply. (I recall
how you described the pose of
an elder male gorilla, who sat
placidly at his work — eating — seemingly
unperturbed by the wild gestures
of the humans: like a lady, you
said.)
Indifference: being not-different,
but still, not the same. Clearly,
you don’t identify yourself
with the gorillas any more than
they would identify with you.
You only adopt their habit, being
not different, and not identical.
What mediates, that is to say,
what makes
possible this non-identical
relation(ship), is glass: that
thick glass panel which, in the
zoo, mutes the relation; isolates
the gorilla family from the ape
noises of the humans on your
side of the partition; makes
the gorillas’ gestures
into mimes (the mimes you revised — returning
to your video recordings — and
mapped with a cryptic notation);
drains reciprocity from the gaze.
There is nothing reciprocal in
the young gorilla’s stare
you slotted into the box — only
you, a human, could call her
look uncanny.
Isabelle was indifferent. (She
showed you how she could adopt
a habit, literally, when she
dressed up as a nun.) When she
called you her assistant, she
declared her own, other, purpose.
You told me that when you were
assembling a portrait of her
in your book, Pièce de
cinéma, near the end,
you asked her opinion of your
composition, but, you told me,
Isabelle insisted you should
treat her (images) just like
the gorilla(’s). In this
way — you were surprised,
apparently, by the way she put
it — in this way, it seemed
to me, Isabelle refused to intervene
in your work, to approve or authenticate
it. It seemed to me there was
some kind of trust in that refusal
which I could only call intimate,
although I couldn’t explain
it very well. It seemed to me
that her trust in you was other
than deference to you, you the
normal one, the artist, the expert.
Not deference: indifference.
The puzzle is, how could Isabelle
compare herself with (and thus
make her trust analogous to)
an animal(’s) she knew
was never asked? We would have
to ask her what she had in mind,
but I imagine Isabelle recognising
that in your portrait of the
gorilla, you did not anthropomorphise
him. That is, you did not attempt
to make him resemble a man.
You required indifference of
your father for an otherwise
impossible portrait of him. A
portrait you say is not public
in any way, suggesting something
unseen, or perhaps your intention
not to exhibit this work, but
also something intimate, which
I respect, and of which I remain
ignorant. To be sure, in the
glimpse I got of it (in the context,
as it happened, of a report to
an academy), the photograph did
not disclose anything intimate.
What impressed me about it was
something other than (a) social
(portrait). I am convinced this
portrait is an important piece,
and, in the present context,
an important piece in the puzzle
posed by your green box: a question
of portraiture, a question of
photography.
When I saw the photograph, you
explained that it was the first
time you were able to make a
portrait of him that somehow
fulfilled your criterion. What
made it possible, you said, was
that you asked him, and he agreed,
to pose as a gorilla.
If I were to imagine the diagram
of this portrait, it would be
like this: for you, he posed
as a gorilla, and so did not
pose. He, muted, mimicking indifference
and thus only resembling a man;
you watching, inhabiting the
duration of a look, your side
of the glass. In this instance,
the glass of the camera alone
suffices to silence him, to engender
your look. No glass wall like
the one that mutes the gorillas’ enclosure
is required.
If I were to draw your portrait,
it would trace an image from
another report to an academy,
a video image, already glazed:
you not looking, only (silently)
listening, recording, devising
an experiment; behind you the
forest, a camouflage screen that
transmits only sound. You made
your guide in Sumatra mimic the
vocalisations of the (unseen)
gibbons in the forest. You solicited
his interpretation, but you insisted
on your indifferent attention,
ears cupped by headphones.
The gibbon who heard your playback
into the forest, the orangutan
who heard your tape of his forest-kin
in the Berlin zoo, the passers-by
interpellated by your prompter’s
boxes, do not answer the calls.
They only turn to look.
Anthony Auerbach (revised) London, June 2009
... return: On drawing
Images
Ines Lechleitner: video still
from Puzzle
Box
Ines Lechleitner: video still from Between and Image and a Sound
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