Second in the draw for the High Street Project's LOTS, the new-venue
series of two artist shows, Brian McMillin and Paul Sutherland present
"MUTE" from May 19 to 31. ...a soundtrack and video sequence (ca.
twenty minutes) played simultaneously on a big, brown, wood veneer
TV set and a small, sepia, monochrome monitor, plus several dozen
snapshot-sized colour closeups of a screen on which the video is
being played. The TV sits on a small table; video and amp on top,
big brown 70s styled speaker below. The monitor is mounted almost
opposite it, above head height, on the partition wall. The photographs,
as if trying to take up as much room as they can, are neatly tiled
end to end in thin lines, at a conventional painting level, mostly
on the walls of the next room.
The video starts and ends with shots of a video screen showing the
dotted line and pixilated letters of a remote control prompted "mute"
tag. So it's the title shot, and it's the one captured in various
states of colour bleed and blur by the photographs. It's a really
nice image; a pithy visual bite on box-watching emptiness, signal
loss, medium's-the-message, all that stuff; luminously proving its
own point as a found phrase from the all-but-wordless on-screen
lexicon of a VCR. Given this much emphasis, though, it risks drawing
circles and arrows around the show's Achilles' heel. In a risky
and obvious way it claims intentional "meaninglessness" in the face
of the inevitable frustration in communication/similar vague thesis
(choose your own favoured description) as an alibi for not having
come up with much for the show.
The rest of the video tape is a meandering collage of film and video
footage quite attractively but predictably exploiting the built-in
image decay of those media, with grainy and ultra close-up abstracted
colour fields, grey brown slide sequences, scratched film, videoed
video, and other noise-over-signal rendered prettiness. Through
the murk is visible a cast of pop arty cultural icons of a curiously
Cold War stripe. Various characters turn up, sway, nod, turn green,
flicker, nod, switch back to colour: Ronald Reagan, Fidel Castro,
anonymous Asian women, Robert Muldoon, Chairman Mao, Phillip Sherry.
Old news. By the time Wonder Woman and then the Moscow skyline show
up, the way this evocative chaos makes its point seems certifiably
overfamiliar to me. Aren't these exact same throwaway references
the stock imagery of simplistic nothing-means-anything strains of
'80s "postmodernism"?
The accompanying soundtrack in a similarly pleasant way mixes recognisable
aural icons of yesteryear (scraps of T.S. Eliot reading his poetry,
the Beatles' sitar, 60s jazz) with more abstract manipulations,
tape rumble, stop/start clunks, hiss, ff & rw chatter, and other
wheezing, roaring, machine age distortions. Accompanying these visuals,
even the 'Nam 'copter stutter of a juddering reel-to-reel tape recorder
sounds like an underscoring of the same terribly vague, nostalgic
post-war ambience.
Out of all this, Eliot (as previously heard from Sutherland in collaborative
work with L.Budd, by the way) entertained me best. His RP intoned
metaphysical blah survives the cut ups to ring with distinct, solemn,
modernist pessimism, describing for me in the gallery my own "...growing
fear of nothing to think about...." Being no sissy, however, and
with a reviewer's duty in mind, I defied the rather flat presentation
and made my own fun; enjoyed the attractive bit of pink and green
rolling horizontal lines, and skipped with amusement through the
half hour or so of the episode of the costume drama "The Tide of
Life" (complete with old ads) that follows on the tape.
Jonathan Bywater
26 May 1997
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