Eating disorders, along with alcoholism and other addictions, have a
precarious place in the realm of disease. The afflicted person is often viewed
as selfish, at fault, and the antagonist of the family, rather than a suffering
body and mind strongly governed by dependence on substance or ritual. Those who
have such a person in their social group are perhaps more aware of the tangle
of complications surrounding the disorder. Artist Joy Christiansen fights the
mentality surrounding eating disorders in an interactive exhibit currently at
the U of R’s Hartnett Gallery.
Like so many medical and psychological anomalies, an explosion of attention
was paid to eating disorders when people first began to recognize their
existence. But in a culture that idolizes too-thin
celebrities, with “average” clothing sizes shrinking by the decade,
unhealthy body image has rapidly become the norm. And in our miracle-diet-pill,
exert-no-effort society, very little attention is paid to the mental and
emotional work that needs to be done in order to repair the roots of the
problem. Individuals are left starved for emotional connection, and with a
distorted sense of the value of their lives and self worth. What then becomes
of the quality of life at home, when cultural pressure reigns in opposition to
health and familial support?
In an endeavor to reflect on the apparent versus the unseen tensions in the
lives of the disorder-afflicted, Christiansen transformed the triangular space
of the Hartnett into a family room, hosting multiple domestic stories, but one
in which the furniture and objects testify to the secret and painful nature of
life within those walls. The space is clean and cozy at first glance, but
suddenly and disturbingly a sense of stale and cold isolation creeps in. A few
chairs, a couch, a desk, a bookcase, a china cabinet, tables, and more, are
neatly arranged, but awkward in that three-sided room, and spaced at such great
distances from one another. Then viewers notice the pictures of
despondent-looking people printed onto the furniture’s fabric, and their
personal testimonials, collected through interviews by the artist, which are
embroidered over the images. These pleas for awareness and fear of judgment
begin to whisper to the viewer; the messages of confusion, frustration, and
powerlessness are issued not only from the people with the disorders, but also
by family members and friends. We are privy to the breakdown of order and of
control, on multiple levels.
Heightening the sense of isolation, most figures are
printed alone; only the couch features two women at opposite ends, adamantly
curled away from one another. In reading the messages, the viewer gains a sense
that blame and resentment are flying about like blind arrows, and very little
trust exists between family members. One mother treats her daughter’s bulimia
as “a separate entity living in [their] home,” while her daughter
feels that she is being punished for her desperate scramble to fit in. In
another story, an adult daughter expresses weary sorrow for her dashed hopes
that her mother, anorexic for nearly 30 years, would share a meal with her at
her wedding reception. In a lone armchair in the farthest corner, a man with
averted eyes fears “being accused of being too nosey,” and though
continuously hurt and pushed away while trying to be supportive, states that
“through the ups and mainly downs, [he] wouldn’t change [their]
relationship.” It’s unclear if he is referring to his wife or daughter.
Gradually, the whispers become shouts as more and more messages surface.
Heeding signs posted by the artist that encourage the audience to interact, I
wandered from object to object, pulling the cord on lamps to illuminate text on
the shades (as she observes her emaciated form in old photographs, a woman
expresses incredulous fury that no one ever tried to help her), peering into
the china cabinet (forlorn faces printed on plates mirror our own, staring into
the empty dishes), and sorting through stacks of embroidered throw pillows to
read the text. Off by itself, a college student’s desk
stands immaculately organized, but upon noticing the words “a moment on
the lips, a lifetime on the hips” scrawled half-hidden at the bottom of a
paper-clip container, I realized there was probably much more to discover. The
opening of each drawer revealed a photo of a nude woman curled away, exposed
but defending in a fetal position, surrounded by a scribbled diary-confessional
on every interior surface of the drawers. Reading the words of shame felt like
happening upon something overwhelming, more than I could handle, which I
believe is precisely the point.
What is a body to do when it has a negative relationship with a substance
that it cannot avoid? This question is put to the audience by an anonymous
viewer of the show, who posted it on the response wall provided by the artist.
The fact that food is our necessary fuel complicates anorexics’ and bulimics’
ability to steer clear of the object of the disease. Another viewer expresses
that she is torn between fostering the tremendous talent of her dance student, and
the realization that her student will not be able to kick her disease while
remaining a dancer. As with any complicated social issue, we all have to own
our part in it (society and culture are made of us, we perpetuate or alter its
course), and work to keep communication open. Christiansen’s show offers both a
valuable examination and a venue for discussion.
Family Gathering: A Look into the World of Eating Disorders
Through April 2
Hartnett Gallery, University of Rochester,
WilsonCommons,
River Campus
275-4188, www.sa.rochester.edu/hartnett
This article appears in Mar 19-25, 2008.
