Writing by Simon Buckley 2024 Simon Buckley

Forged Papers and Permits

Walking around an exhibition by Kate Theodore

Comedy is a tragedy that happens to other people

Angela Carter (1991)

Work 1

There is a rolled-up mattress like object squashed onto a shelf about 10-feet off the floor. The object just about fits on the shelf. It immediately reminds me how much I hate carrying mattresses and camping beds and how I (genuinely) have one of these shits rammed into the top of a walk-in cupboard in my flat.   

Here, however, that which is normally squished into one of the backstage spaces of our lives is being (perhaps slightly reluctantly) dragged out and shoved under the spotlight. Now we see you up there, all crumpled up and grumpy.  

There is an implied anthropomorphism. Whatever this thing is, it is so mattress like I can’t not read it as being such, and subsequently as an object designed to provide the human form with comfort and rest. But it’s not doing that here. It looks smelly. It looks damp. It does not look, well, particularly comfy or inviting. And as such, there’s a violence in this work, a pain born in its contorted form, ‘out of the way’ status and slightly worn appearance. 

The waxy fabric carries this outdoorsy aesthetic sensibility even further, but not to a place of Barbour jackets and campfires in the Cairngorms. Instead, there is a slightly boggier and more agricultural aroma drifting down… like a military jacket that’s been rolled up as a pillow to provide a broken sleep near the front. Necessity not comfort. (What’s that saying, ‘home is wherever I lay my hat’ or something? Whilst there’s no hats, there is a sense of migratory transience). 

I notice the title: ‘My Actual Bed’. At this point, it’s hard to assess if this is the artist being literal, or just trolling me for being rude in my own head about what now may or may not be the actual object she sleeps on. FFS. Either way, through introducing effective confirmation that this form is indeed to be read as a bed, the title confirms that I am to understand this object through its implied relationship(s) to the human form. 

Whilst the title may reference the work in relation to the artist’s body, the processes of looking at it makes me very conscious of my own. The slapstick potential of this coiled form lurking precariously above my head implies a comedic violence reminiscent of a booby trap or practical joke, like if it fell or was activated whilst I was peering up at it, it wouldn’t kill me, but I also definitely don’t want it to unpack itself onto my face.  

A dark aside

About ten years ago I interviewed a bomb disposal expert who had been working in Northern Syria and Lebanon. Our conversation was about her experiences of Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). These small yet lethal booby traps were regularly installed by the Taliban in domestic settings after they had left an area. What stayed with me was their cruelty and visual sophistication. IEDs were so effective, she told me, because they were able to blend seamlessly into their environment, or almost. Each would deliberately have a very slightly incongruous quality designed to lure its victim into engaging and detonating the device. Examples she gave me included leaving a cup on top of a copy of the Quran, putting toys at hand or head height, leaving a cushion or pillow strewn upon the floor, or folding the corner of a rug or blanket back in an unusual way.

Work 2

The next work I meet is again a soft (yet slightly coarse) material form flopped onto the floor. In scale and colour, it has the appearance of the inside of an old duvet. It’s also folded over the top of itself (as many a duvet is when slung back first thing in the morning). I’m starting to get a sense of absence. Or loss. 

There is again a feeling of crumpled resignation here, of not being cared for. The exposed innards of this duvet appear naked and vulnerable. I’m stressed they’re going to get dirty and start to smell. (Whilst I’m in the gallery, I grit my teeth as several dogs and dripping umbrellas travel dangerously close to the work’s unprotected and absorbent off-white surface).

Unlike my duvet at home, however, this object has two holes bored through it. They look very much like arm holes, but I don’t know why. If I put my arms in them, it would be like giving this thing a hug, but I’m not sure it would be a nice hug. Or maybe like one of those hugs when the other person carries on too long and you start to get uncomfortable and conscious of their smell. But maybe it wouldn’t be like a hug at all. Maybe it would be more like being smothered in some kind of soft-play trap, like a feverish childhood nightmare where the bed starts to eat you like you’re melting down into quicksand. Suffocating. Surreal. Silencing. 

It’s starting to remind me that beds aren’t just spaces for rest and retreat. For many, they’re places that they cannot escape, that will not let them go (be this through physical or mental ailment). They’re the places that we take to in our most vulnerable states, and indeed are the carriers that most of us will exit this life upon. 

The holes can also read as cartoonish eyes, turning the edge of the folded mattress into a semi-grinning mouth. And we’re back on this knife edge of comedy and horror, because it’s a silly and soft face, but it’s not a friendly one by any stretch.  

The last thing I’ll say about this second mattress structure is the transitory nature of these sleeping devices is now definitely coming into focus. In both instances, there’s a sense of moving on, of not being settled or rested. Again, this isn’t in like a ‘Carry on Camping’ sense, but rather more through a need to survive in a hostile environment; of not fitting in, of being pushed on and engaging in a journey of necessity not recreation. 

This sense of displacement is compounded further when I notice the work’s title: Intrepid Escapee 5. ‘Intrepid’ is a word often followed by ‘explorer’ – a phrase (at least in my mind) synonymous with bounding across mountains, confidently breaking new frontiers and positively moving forward. ‘Escapee’, however, is a much darker companion, and much more in line with a sense of containment and struggle. The number ‘5’ implies that 4 iterations have come before, and that the one I’m looking at is, well, a part of a much larger series of struggles. Oh dear.   

I’m left thinking that it looks like some kind of deflated Victorian crashmat (which I am aware almost definitely isn’t a thing). What I mean here is that despite this object’s cushiony soft appearance, make no mistake, it will offer you no comfort, for it is as hard and cold as the floor just below it. I feel distrustful of it, like it’s a bit of a contradictory ruse. Its presence has heightened a sense of farcical humour starting to emerge through the works, but it has done so through summoning qualities of bodily violence. Uh oh.

I wish I'd had got one of these ages ago, [it's] so soft and warm – an absolute a must for a great night's sleep!

Colin from Halifax. Amazon Review of Dusk luxury down duvet (2024)

The Future is All Over

It would be remiss of me not to acknowledge Theodore’s frankly kaleidoscopic array of nods and winks to numerous moments, movements, works and practitioners from Art History. Art Povera. Hesse. Post-minimalism. Gober. Mono-ha. Oldenburg. Genzken. To a less fabulous writer, her practice no doubt offers a veritable treasure trove of easy literary off ramps for art waffle. But TBH, getting lured into wading around the Art History weeds (tempting though it might be) is not how I want to spend our time together.  

I say this because whilst there may be value in a forensic deep dive around the methodological architecture of her referencing processes, the way I have experienced it whilst in the presence of her works can be summed up in two words: dispassionate pastiche. She seems to skewer the aesthetic essence of whatever she’s interested in, extract it, and move on, objectively ironizing and subjectively ironicising the things she takes, before enveloping them into her own new artefact. So to be drawn in by any particular one of her references would be to miss the point; for it is a processes as interested in interrogating the political act of referencing, as much as it is interested in any of the particular references upon which it feeds. 

Another reason for not dwelling in the yawn farm of Art History is because her works, despite their initial appearance, seem acutely forward looking and highly relevant for today’s world, in both the way they use the bits and bobs they borrow, and through the things they make me think about and feel. But I’ll come back to this inabityo.

Work 3

This time I’m going to play it smart and look at the title of the work first. It’s called: Zero/problem solved. OK. Similar tone to the previous titles. The work is tucked away right at the back of the gallery and appears to be the last in the series making some allusion to sleeping apparatus. This one is a bit shorter than the others, more like a stumpy blow-up camping mattress. Its edges are frayed, it’s material coarse. The burnt umber colour way adds a certain utilitarian tone to proceedings, as does the object’s architectural topography of pockets, folds and (not at all comfy looking) cushions and Lombardy lumps. It reminds me of an expensive Hawkwood Mercantile jacket Liam Gallagher or Jason Williamson might wear, insofar as all these pockets and pouches feel like they don’t quite know what they’re supposed to be doing, or what they’re there for. (Like expendable pawns bumbling about the battlefield and bumping into each other in a mild panic). The work offers a welcome injection of humour into proceedings, a flash of Buster Keaton in an otherwise wholly Kafka esq. affair. 

Perhaps as the title implies, this work does seem to offer the deepest sense of searching and anxiety I’ve yet encountered. Its language of functionality points towards the recognition that there is some kind of problem or task soon to be solved, but also a failure to grasp what (or where?) this problem might be coming from. The clunkiness of the work’s almost toy-like compartments implies a sense of striving for organisation and understanding, both physical and psychological. It feels like it doesn’t quite know what it’s going to have to face. And so, in response, it’s trying to be ready for anything, which (as we have all no doubt experienced) is an exhausting and anxiety inducing state to occupy. And it does looks stressed. Distressed. 

We cannot allow our streets to be taken over by rows of tents occupied by people, many of them from abroad, living on the streets as a lifestyle choice.

Suella Braverman. British Home Secretary (2022-23)

Psychobiography and Trauma

There’s a well-established tendency within art history to frame an artist’s work through the lens of their personal biography. This is particularly true when the artist in question is dead, and even more true when the artist’s work addresses some element of trauma or mental illness. From National Gallery wall texts to TV documentaries, it’s a practice that’s as ubiquitous as it is lazy. Authorial intentionalism (as the ivory tower dwellers might call it) is pervasive as an interpretive approach because it positions the artwork primarily as an artefact, an object that can be easily understood and assigned a value (culturally and otherwise) in relation to the context of its creator. It’s a romantic way of framing things basically – the artwork is some kind of residue spawned from the tortured soul of its creator. The problems with this approach are too numerous to get into, but my top two beefs are: (i) it reduces the artwork to being something of a secondary signpost, and (ii) it makes all sorts of insane assumptions about an artist’s emotions, skills, professionalism and motives for creating something.  

Why am I going on about this? Theodore isn’t dead, and I literally just said I wasn’t going to babble about Art History. Well, because her works do make repeated references to Art History (or rather refer to the idea of referencing). They also do seem to perform, reflect and embody processes pertaining psychological and physical unrest. Add to this the fact that her titles seem to implicate her as an owner of these states, and it really does feel like she’s going there; that she is marching over to the big red Authorial Intentionalism button and deliberately face planting onto it hard. And I for one am not going to ignore it’s rare and valuable call!

For me, it’s a bold and selfless act of artistic sacrifice and clever misdirection. It’s as if she’s throwing herself under the bus, opening herself up to being taken literally through implicating herself as the origin of these states, exactly to illuminate the dangers of judging artworks and people through such a reductive and frankly religious framework. It’s the difference between showing and telling. She is demonstrating first-hand the perils of using the artist as a touchstone for what a work may or may not be about, and in doing so exposing this practice as being born out of the of hyper-individualisation that we all must live through. If you’re suffering, that can be fixed by putting pills into your body, because the problem is in there, not out here in society. If you’re not where you want to be in life, that must be because you don’t want it enough, or you haven’t worked hard enough. In short, her works lay bare the sovereignty of neoliberal individualism inculcated in the Global North’s competition and consumption driven narratives; a world view now so pervasive it is how we frame everything from mental illness to artistic creation (let alone creative acts addressing mental illness).

The pandemic of mental anguish that afflicts our time cannot be properly understood, or healed, if viewed as a private problem suffered by damaged individuals

Mark Fisher (2018)

Work 4 (Goomba Goomba)

As I make my way to the gallery’s exit, I notice a small wall-based work. It’s rendered in glazed ceramic and protrudes perhaps 10cm out from the wall at face height. It’s a curious little fella by the name of Hooksis. (Is that some fancy Greek reference that I don’t get, probably?) It has a toy-like tactility. I can feel myself wanting to reach out and touch it. I am, however, slightly wary of it for some reason. The abstract form speaks to the scale and aesthetic of a semi-decorative domestic object or architectural detail (what exactly I’m not sure… a key holder maybe… oh is that what the title meant… ‘hook’ sis?) I’m not going to describe it in endless detail, because despite being small and apparently simple, it’s laterally inverting, narcissistically reflecting form makes for a satisfyingly complex arrangement.

It seems unfair to speak about this work in terms of what it’s not, however given how oppositional it is to everything else, perhaps that’s how the artist has intended me to interpret this piece. Here goes then… It’s on the wall (not the floor). It’s small and taut (not big and floppy). It is clean and skeletal (not grubby and fleshy). It seems slick and confident (both by comparison but also on its own terms). It looks like it feels safe from harm, free from the anxieties of its forlorn counterparts. ‘Hooksis’ also boasts a strong visual consistency with the other works in this exhibition. Like the grinning mattress it sits closest to, this work also seems to possess an unpleasant looking mouth (hence my initial wariness?!), presenting some rather odd teeth not dissimilar to those of a Goomba. This piece seems to hold the exhibition’s tension between danger and folly with the most deadpan confidence, providing a razor-sharp inflection point to offset all the other works (and vice versa). It feels like the breath you take just before jumping into cold water. Silent. Pensive. Final. Perhaps it’s because I am encountering this work last, but it feels like something of a full stop or a cheat code to the exhibition, like the foil or nemesis of all that has come before. 

Are we there yet?

This exhibition is a sneaky one. At first glance, it seems like it’s going to be quite an old-fashioned affair, art like it used to be. The dour tones and overtly sculpturey looking objects gave me an initial sense of weighty dread. I needed worry NICHT! Individually and in combination the works operate as playful, powerful and wholly self-aware offerings. Her application of meta reference as an artistic technique is handled with a deliciously light touch, allowing the works to casually skip past any tedious ‘art about art’ territory, and instead point us back towards an array of subjects pertaining to our existential selves and indeed the future of our planet. What do I mean by this? 

I mean that when I look up at ‘My Actual Bed,’ I find myself thinking about those engaged in processes of forced migration - the aching limbs and sleepless nights of people displaced by political violence and environmental collapse. I mean that when I peer down on ‘Zero/problem solved’, I find myself thinking of the rough sleeper I saw near the chip shop on my walk here, her stained duvet wrapped partially around her face. Vulnerable. Alone. I mean that when I stare eye to eye with ‘Hooksis’, I realise that the generous ambiguity looking back at me is an invitation to just enjoy life’s little curiosities, to try and not meet everything with the fear and suspicion we are taught is necessary. I mean that when I look at ‘Intrepid Escapee 5’, I find myself thinking about how we can become alienated and estranged from ourselves, unsure of what it even means to be here now, let alone how to go about ‘fitting in’ or determining our place in life.

In short, I find Theodore’s practice to have a visceral humanity to it, an arresting material intelligence and formal agility which operate as powerful reminders that this thing we call consciousness isn’t some ethereal fog floating around our brains, but rather is born in the active fusion of a mind, a body and an environment (HER environment!) And this reminder is a prescient one, coming as it does in the midst of a political climate that spends its entire time feverishly Othering refugees and immigrants, and dismissing those on the margins of society as rejects and failures. 

I am sometimes criticised for being overly pessimistic about the future of our species. But I think I’m the opposite. It’s just that to really have genuine optimism (for me at least) requires a brutal honesty about the way things are going. And they’re going to get worse. Climate induced mass-migration is coming. Inequality is growing. Resource wars. Environmental collapse. Techno-feudal states policed by private armies. Whilst this might be the stuff of dystopian science fiction, it is also the plot line to our future. But despite all this, I (like Rutger Bregman) ultimately believe people aren't intrinsically cruel or even that competitive, at least not by choice. That's capitalism's big Darwinian lie. Instead, it is our immense scope for cooperation and compassion that sets us apart. And that is what I sense in Theodore’s practice - a genuine warmth and fascination for life and all it’s different parts, places, people and things (even when all the cruelty, suffering, laughs and loves don’t easily fit together [which is most of the time]). There is also an optimism - that whatever the future may bring, it will be faced, because, well, it can’t not be. Put simply, it really is quietly explosive stuff.    

References

Bregman, R (2019). Humankind: A Hopeful History. Bloomsbury Publishing.  

Bevins, V. (2023). If We Burn: The Mass Protest Decade and The Missing Revolution. Hanchette Books.

Carter, A. (1991). Wise Children. Penguin Classics.

Fisher, M (2018). Capitalist Realism. Is There No Alternative? Zero books.

Vince, G. (2024) Mass Climate Migration is Coming. Novara Media Interview.