Monday, May 7, 2012
Carla Busuttil’s paintings don’t conform to this new aesthetic that is privileging form over substance, which seems to be gaining traction in local art circles. For starters, her work is not abstract; it’s semi-figurative. Nevertheless she, too, is playing with form, embracing a kind of naïve style of painting that has a (purposively) childlike quality. There is a kind of vibrancy, confidence, and daring to the style of painting at her exhibition, Exit Mode. You can see that her body is driving each brush stroke. Her cheeky art is as much a gestural retort as it is a visual one. It’s as if she has stormed the citadel of Western art and is pushing her way through the pretence and the preciousness associated with painting. The mood is rebellious and extremely playful, though the subject-matter is dark. Very dark.
Busuttil aspires to this anti-conceptualist movement; she doesn’t want to make art that is driven by ideas. “Content is secondary,” asserts the artist in her statement. But there is logic, a theme even, that guides the unnerving group of portraits she presents. The work is united by a common source: photographs depicting images of trauma, war and conflict. She works with them intuitively, producing deformed, lopsided faces with blurred, smudged and indistinct features. Her subjects look battered and bruised; as if a tanker has driven over them and squished their insides. This description suits the childlike crudeness of her rendering; her work is almost cartoonish in this sense. It’s the invisible mark of trauma that she wishes to extract as she pushes her brush across the canvas, bringing to life the dysfunctional, damaged psyches that belie the faces in the photographs she collects.
Just as she observes that she can consume images of violence with ease, so too is her translation of them uncomplicated, rudimentary. Her paintings are not quite fast-food for the eye; there is a lingering terror, horror, in them that denies pleasure, though the macabre sense of humour that laces them provokes a smile. A work entitled Ooooo, reads like a parody of Edvard Munch’s The Scream (1893). A mouth sits agape in the middle of a blue blob in the vague shape of a human head. In her attempt to capture the unseen nature of violence, she seems to have arrived at the conclusion that it is beyond her skills; the end result can only be a mockery, a sham. She is unwilling to “honour” the source of her work, preferring to deride the stock of photography that is meant to document conflict. She acknowledges that photography is limited too and photographers’ drive to expose violence, ironically, smoothes the path to our acceptance of it.
Even though she presents work that appears superficial, one-dimensional, it never quite lives up to the level of vacuity to which she aspires. The form of her work is driven by the content. Nevertheless, her paintings can be consumed quickly. There are no details, no truths that slowly unfurl in the mind as you view them. There is no need to linger in front of them, which is why she offers so many for us to see. As we move quickly from canvas to canvas, amused and entertained rather than repulsed she makes us complicit in this obsessive and twisted fascination for violence.