Andy
Warhol once said, “If you want to know all about Andy Warhol, just look at the
surface of my paintings and films and me, and there I am.” If you want to know
all about Joy Episalla, you’ll need to do exactly the opposite. You need to
dig.
           The subjects of her photographs,
videos, and installations are not terribly interesting: a mattress, a couch, a
wall, a bookshelf, a curtain, a carpet, a handbag, and a couple of towels.
Apart from one photograph of a blasted-out car windshield, you might be
forgiven for thinking that Episalla just spent a day wandering around her
apartment with a camera.
           But the focus of this show is her mother’s apartment — in particular,
the couch in her mother’s apartment. Episalla tells the story of how, when the
couch was put up for sale, she was approached by a woman who offered to buy it,
but only for its “skin.” She wanted to use the velvet covers to make teddy
bears. The deal eventually fell through, but this bizarre encounter inspired
Episalla to film herself performing a kind of ritualized skinning of the couch.
She then orchestrates her own personal chainsaw massacre as the “carcass” is sliced
vertically into five equal pieces.
           These padded wooden structures stand
like giant pork chops in front of three simultaneously running videos
documenting the various stages of this art-butchery. Apologies for the
over-extended metaphor, but I linger on the visceral details to make a point:
This show is not about domestic paraphernalia; it’s about the body.
           So the two towels hang like figures
in purdah; the video, which traces the surface of a trampled carpet, pausing
over dents left by furniture, might as well be traversing someone’s skin, with
all its dimples, creases, and imperfections.
           A large photograph of a gaping
handbag, viewed from above, is laid out on the floor of the gallery’s small
project room, whose curving walls are papered with images of the couch’s
undulating cushions. It seems like an odd combination until you suddenly realize
you are inside a womb.
           Another space evokes life and death
through two deceptively simple pieces. In curtain,
a handheld video of translucent cloth gently blowing in front of an open window
also records the movement of Episalla’s own breathing as the frame moves slowly
up and down. This is paired across the corner of the room with car #1, a photograph of a windshield
punctured with a large mouth-shaped hole. The gray ash all around signals that
it was taken in the aftermath of the 9/11 disaster. It is as if the car had
gasped its last.
           Death crops up again in a seemingly
innocuous photograph of the couch under a protective white sheet, like a coffin
under its pall. Above it hover the ghosts of three pictures that have been
removed from their hooks, leaving faint stains on the wall where they once
hung. A close up of these, entitled wall
#3, hangs opposite like some minimalist version of a three-paneled
altarpiece.
           The most moving work in the show is portrait of FM, the only title that
directly references a person — the initials stand for Frank Moore, a close
friend of the artist who recently passed away. You might have expected Episalla
to call it bookcase,as that is the subject of this enormous
photograph. But unlike her other pieces, this one makes no claims to
universality; it is a tribute to a particular person, or more precisely, a
particular mind. The books on the shelves describe a man with broad interests
covering science, geography, history, nature, travel, and literature. These
books tell us about how he lived. AIDS
Treatment News and the Atlas of
Immunology tell us how he died.
           There is also a Holy Bible. Perhaps this could tell us where he went. But as Episalla hints in her
dedication — “to Frank Moore (wherever he is)” — it is up to the individual
to decide. And herein lies the strength of so much of Episalla’s work. Her
subject matter is so simple and often banal that it positively invites the
viewer to create his own interpretation. If you watch the full 10 minutes of
her entrancing video of light flickering around on a ceiling (it seems to be
reflecting off a bath of water) it’s hard not to start speculating about what
it means. Is it about fairies, will-o’-the-wisps, the soul, the afterlife, or
even Frank? I’m not sure. But I enjoyed the ride.
removed, an
exhibition by Joy Episalla, continues through January 4, 2003, at the Visual
Studies Workshop, 31 Prince Street. Hours: Tuesday through Saturday, noon to 5
p.m. Admission: $2, $1 for students. 442-8676.
This article appears in Dec 18-24, 2002.
