Little demons: Voodoo, Hoochie-Coochie and the Creative Spirit.

The Riflemaker is one of those few galleries that make you feel at home while simultaneously accommodating for a plethora of sensory stimulation all within its cosy Victorian layout. Ring ring, creak creak -- this time its little door opens up to the mystery land of voodoo.

Now, voodoo is not just about sticking pins into grimacing evil dolls. It is a universe of spirits, a creative act unleashing the fire and forces within primal man, and a religion practiced by over 30 million people. Packing psychedelic paintings, centuries of sacrificial practice from the deepest corners of the world, beeswax cauldrons, repetitive rhythms of beating drums, Adolf Hitler and more, the gallery becomes something of an educational centre, a chemical lab and your grandma’s attic in one.

On the ground floor I was greeted by an influx of information about the mystical practice; stories and histories written and displayed, slave trade routes mapped out, piles of diaries and books- a whole library of seductive knowledge and a very friendly gallery assistant ready to fill in the gaps. A true feast to my spell-starved curiosity. Ooooh. After a few big gulps of historical facts however, I noticed the ‘The Crucifixion’ triptych in the corner and all literary interest subsided. I stood entranced in front of this psychedelic tree of life filled with an overabundance of tangled bodies, like branches, recreating and sprouting, in all sorts of imaginable and unimaginable positions. Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ in comparison is children’s book illustration. Definitely a wise curatorial move to hang it by the assistant’s desk – there is enough action here to keep you entertained for days. But let the show go on.

I made a silent vow to my new loved one on the wall to return after exploring what the rest of the terrain had in store and made my way up the creaky darkened stairs into a darkened musky room. I wasn’t sure whether it was the dimmed lights, the gentle melodies of Chopin flowing from the gramophone or the peculiar silent inhabitants of this little room that got to me – perhaps a combination of all, but the effect was immediately sedative. I felt a warm calm inside, the sort you get when in a nursery, tucked away somewhere in the safe corner of the house.

The rosy serenity did not last long however as my eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings and I saw the two little children-dolls in the far corner of the room. There was something very eerie about this work -- their little bodies, dressed in innocent frilly nightgowns were turned away, facing the corner. What are they hiding? Are they afraid? Or have they been naughty little demons perhaps? A more aggressive sculpture, made out of babies’ heads confirmed the slightly chilling ambiance, which began to infiltrate the room, as I started to take note of the other presences; a rucksack made in the shape of the all seeing Masonic eye, a miniature coffin with a dead doll next to that, a dark figure playing with a marionette, and a life sized totem-like structure made out of hair. This was one twisted little nursery. I wanted to stay and play.

Two floors down, the basement, with its sterile white light was a completely different experience all together. Actually it didn’t offer much compared to the attic, only foul smells of bubbling beeswax, which seemed more like burning plastic and a few works on walls. Its not that they were bad; the works themselves can be appreciated in their genre, but rather it was the experience, or lack of it that I found dissatisfying. I did not want to stand back and look at pictures. Hooked on sensory stimulation, all I wanted to do was go back upstairs, to the warped womb of a room, and feel. There should definitely be more little rooms arousing the senses around.

Whether it is visual, mental or nasal stimulation that you seek, the show fulfils that role with sensory tricks and spooky twists along the way. You can even practice a bit of hoochie coochie in the communal wishing machine provided, without having to invest in one yourself like William Burroughs. Concerned with the mystery of the creative act, achieved through heightened states of consciousness (and unconsciousness) the rich variety of work on display encompasses the term art in all the senses of the word. Satisfaction guaranteed.

Jan 19th - April 4th 2009, Riflemaker, Beak Street.

In the blue: Seizure through a lens

At the Mirror: Elmgreen and Dragset at Victoria Miro

As I sped on my bike to catch the last minutes of "Too Late", the new Elmgreen and Dragset installation at Victoria Miro my main concern was – was I going to be late? It was 8:10pm, 10 minutes past the official closing time. I had no problem at the entrance however. Two smart men in black motioned for me to enter the gallery, which with its buzzing pink neon signage now took the form of a club, “The Mirror.” Temporarily seduced by the formality, I made my way hastily inside, but as I expected, there was only a few people left browsing, and a lot of empty bottles of beer. I had missed the party.

Once inside, it didn’t take long to realize that apart from a massive mirror ball resting on the floor, which looked like it was perhaps swung a bit too aggressively by somebody who had drunk a bit too much, there was not much more on display than empty plastic cups, bottles and cigarette butts spread out on the floor. The space was one big black empty room, lit only in corners by multi-coloured spotlights. I almost forgot that I came to see some art. Instead I felt like I did miss out on some big happening.

What mocked me the most were the ashtrays with their unfinished cigarettes everywhere. They looked so freshly abandoned. Being a smoker myself, I was instantly tempted to light up. After all, the evidence was there. I asked the bouncer if it was possible to smoke. The reply I got was rather surprising. I was informed that smoking was allowed last week, during the actual party. Was he serious? I thought the opening of the show was tonight…


Prohibited from contributing, I had no choice but to remain a passive observer. I did feel slightly amused at my willing suspension of disbelief. Did I really think they would let me light up in a social institution? It was worth a try nevertheless, the stage set by the witty Berlin based duo surely did trick me.

I decided to check out the rest of the show. From below, the numerous crowding legs made it seem like there still just might be some action upstairs. I made my way up a lengthy flight of stairs only to be greeted by a large steel door, with the engraving “V.I.P”. It was shut of course. Once again I had fallen for the illusion. The landing was really only big enough to fit five people all of whom were busy examining the photos on the wall. Photos of this enigmatic party last week, I presumed. The people in them looked like they were having fun.

Back downstairs I noticed some people staring up. I did too. Lined with mirrors, the ceiling revealed the contents of the V.I.P room. Nothing much happening there; just another room. Yet, in the far corner, the reflection of a seated body (a mannequin or perhaps even a real person, resting from a late night?) with its back to us, bystanders, somehow managed to keep the room alive, in suspense and out of bounds.

The social charade acted out by Elmgreen and Dragset becomes a success as it immerses us into the scene yet at the same time isolates us from it completely. An all too familiar feeling of exclusion in the social game, similar to that of having browsed a photo album of a not so close friend on Facebook of a party which you didn’t attend. Or flicking through the celebrity snapshots of the “Out last night” pages of the Londonpaper.


What I had walked into was indeed a party room. But the party was not there anymore. I had been left with the remains, which were intensified by all the reflective surfaces within; the ceiling, the lonely mirror ball and stainless steel walls bearing faintly printed outlines of dancing silhouettes. My own reflection did not help fill the void. Instead the presence of my body added to the feeling of displacement, which the installation evoked. I felt out of place. I doubt I would have felt different had I been on time. Here I would have always been late.