ettanamn
Haaretz Newspaper

Friday 12.3.10

One Eye Closed / Stockholm, Moscow, Montreal
By Uzi Tzur

"Silent Mess", curator Sandra Weil, Inga Gallery, Tel Aviv


This beautiful and intelligent show deals with the purity of the female sex, femininity
that comes from the energies and complexities of refinement. The female artists are
not from here, or they are from here but now live and work in other cities, and this
otherness enchants their works. Ester Schneider was born in Moscow and lives and
works here, but it is a here that is European and distant. In her portraits, she merges
the Christian divine spirit with a Jewish sense of exile. Schneider has hung her
paintings wisely, exposed and with no frame, she constructs a kind of altar to her
inner world. In her works, one needs to closely examine the brush work that weaves
with black ink threads the free, almost chaotic patches of color. Separated from the
rest is a gloomy vertical painting of a Dostoyevskian figure; enveloped in the folds of
his miter is the bluish light of holiness; the sensual face is Schneider's own, with her
large dark eyes that glow in many of her paintings. It is as if she glued a black beard
onto her face, emphasizing her thick Frida Kahlo-like eyebrows that meet in the middle.

Revealed behind a ruche curtain partially raised to the light is the scapegoat of Pagan
rituals, with psychedelic rainbow colored horns – a work that contains wonderful
contrasts between organized geometric components and deceptions. The portrait of
Saint Pervoslavi is surrounded by a gold halo, his pure heart is displayed like a white
mask with precise circles cut into it. The Kabala torch is a colorful geometric form
that multiplies itself, as in Ardon's stained glass windows, but with Schneider, the
darkness creeps into the colorful light.

To come: Schneider as an enigmatic and delicate Pushkin in a Cubist game of shapes
and surrounded by sweet diamonds. Another self portrait is a combined face and
mask, a sort of collage drawing-painting that contains the David Hockney-like graphic
and illustratory qualities. From her head swing two peacock feathers, a green tear
dripping from each one – another poetic, comic and beautiful connection. There is
also a flat and voluminous drawing in combed ink, along a length of pared birch
wood, with drips of paint in the field in the background. Schneider's painting is
symbolic both in spirit and in execution.

Schneider's lone birch tree converses with Zohar Kfir's snowy woods. Kfir was born
here but lives and works in Montreal. She exhibits a home movie that she found
thrown out in New York. The abandoned raw material is a treasure in itself:
domesticity that is very aware of itself and of aesthetic values. But Kfir intervenes in
the dreams and memories of others, she appropriates them for herself and her art by
amplifying the dream and memory within them. She changes the photographed frame
and creates close-ups, intensifies the color, plays with the speed and adds external
sound, for example, texts by Gertrude Stein and Samuel Becket. Tree trunks on the
snow block the field of vision; a man in rich brown clothing strides across the ice
desert; distant people walk at the edge of a settlement and anonymous children play in
a yard. To come: a peek into a home interior and again, a view of the forest and a
close-up of bearded man smoking, followed by a close-up of a baby's face. Between
the photographed image and the one projected on the eye's retina appear and
disappear a range of random visual disturbances sewn into the elusive stitches of the
language of dream and memory.

The sense of dream or legend is present in the delicate watercolors by Maria
Luostarinen who was born, lives and works in Stockholm. In the text that
accompanies the exhibition the curator Sandra Weil writes that Luostarinen is
influenced by Nordic artists and intellectuals, including the painter Carl Larsson,
whose Art Nouveau style watercolors memorialize the ideal of the day-to-day
Swedish family life. Luostarinen moves away from the mundane towards the
illustration of fairy tales and Northern folklore, combined with figures and toys from
her childhood. On the whole, she leaves the subjects of her paintings on the snow
white of the paper, which becomes a dreamlike material itself.

On a long sheet of paper, like an illustrated scroll, a mustachioed circus muscle man
wanders on bended knee before a saintly ghost – all executed with wonderfully
detailed brushstrokes. In another scroll a pale doll in a dress whose checks have
melted away holds the string of a black balloon hiding the face of a clown. At the
other end of the scroll long nosed arrogant youths in tight black jeans verbally abuse a
young boy. Women whose upper bodies have become shadows run through a
maelstrom of large lilies towards spinning dogs, and at the far end – the shadow of a
cardinal. A man in a plaid jacket and sunglasses inflates and releases into the air male
and female balloons. And between them, hangs a chandelier from a Nordic church.

And to come: what could perhaps be a self portrait, beautiful and calculated, of a
mermaid whose nose develops into a fragile branch upon which dance shadows of
little people. They also dance along the length of the branch that grows from her
breasts; her ears are dark flowers dripping back honey. A black monkey in a checked
shirt is tied to a large anchor along which walks a proud peacock. A red-haired lady
wielding a knife looks with longing at the feet of a black dog – Luostarinen’s
watercolors are rare in their perceptive beauty.

It is fascinating and exciting to discover the juncture between place and time in the
works of these three artists who do not know each other. They seep into each other
and solidify into a kind of translucent and frosty layer. The exhibition opens and
closes with the display window that opens onto the southern street, an independent
creation installed by the curator Weil, she traps the chilly and distant wind of the
exhibition: remnants of a sooty brick wall, like a burnt European house; a ruin built by
Ester Schneider in black ink strokes, the ruins of memories from another place that
flame for a moment then go cold forever. Above, at the vanishing point, hangs a
single old photograph of a man walking away from us down a snowy path in the heart
of a pine forest. It is the father, the personal and mythological father turning his back
on us.