[The following excerpt is taken from the thirty-first chapter of D H Laven’s fantastic work-in-progress 'The Story of Forgotten Art’. In the introduction to this pioneering work he writes: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this passage he looks at a contemporary ‘body-artist’ whose achievements are frequently misinterpreted by feminists and cynics alike.]
My body is a work of art. I refer not to myself, of course – I merely repeat that over-familiar cliché for effect. That gaudy, ghastly, insolently persistent battered cod of a cliché, of which so many of the world’s poorest artists’ are so fond (aesthetically poor, that is, not economically). The phrase is a sleeping pill: in its tepid tedium it tires me instantaneously. Whenever it plummets like a putrid pear from the moist mouth of an artist, any audience is well advised to run for cover. Ninety nine percent of the time it functions favourably as a warning sign, painted in bright fluorescent pink on a dull black background, reading as follows: ‘THIS ARTIST IS A WASTE OF TIME’.
Ninety nine percent of the time. A percentage lofty enough for most art historians to take it as a rule. But not those of us dedicated to repeatedly diving into the swampy kingdom of dross in order to pick up the smallest stone of significance. For creatures such as us, that remaining one percent simply cannot be ‘rounded up’ (to use the language of the mathematician). The fact is, were we to ’round it up’, we would be neglecting some of the greatest artists of our day.
Maria von Uppelhärt is one of the better examples. ‘My body is a work of art’ said Maria in 1991. The critics left by the nearest exit. A few remained long enough to hear her trot out another cliché – ‘Great art is born of suffering’ – before picking up their velvet jackets, finishing off the complementary glass of wine and following their compatriots to the door. It wasn’t the first time that a contemporary artist had delivered a string of inanities – and it won’t be the last – but it could hardly be said to have boded well for her future. After all, at the moment these words came spilling from her lips, she was seated on a glass throne atop a raised triangular podium in the centre of an empty white-walled gallery. It’s all very well arguing that artists ought to let the art speak for themselves, but when there doesn’t seem to be any art of which to speak, one does need to cast one’s net a little further. What happened next, however, did little to assuage the worst fears of the assembled company. Von Uppelhärt sprang from her throne, dropped her smart brown trousers and invited the nearest bystander to land a punch above her knee. Needless to say, she was wearing equally smart underwear, but the effect was nonetheless of a moderately startling nature, which may explain why this nearest bystander – a small bald man resembling a Renaissance Christ child – rejected her request and rushed from the room. He was not alone in leaving.
By and by, von Uppelhärt weaselled a volunteer from her audience and received the punch she required. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but no one expected it to be. When someone invites you to punch them, it doesn’t seem decent to give them all you’ve got – even if that is what they are wanting. In any case, Uppelhärt was satisfied enough with the result. She smiled at her viewers. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll give you art’ she said. And true to her word, she did. From this gentle clout to her knee she wheedled a remarkable bruise, two inches square, four shades deep and irresistibly beautiful to look at. At which point, she reproduced the second chestnut of the evening: ‘great art is born from suffering’ and wrapped it in a quasi-ironic smile.
Maria von Uppelhärt was born in Chicago, the only daughter of Marta and Hector. Originally from Dessau, her father had moved to Chicago in 1937 in the hope of getting a job at the New Bauhaus, but he ended up designing labels for a mixed nut company.[1] Both her parents were deeply involved in the performance art scene in the 60s and both her conception and birth took place in a gallery in the year of 1968, ensuring her status as a ‘living work of art’. At first Maria showed little inclination to follow her parents into the art world, dabbling in the heady world of corporate salesinstead. Eventually, however, she gave in and, to the relief of many, soon set about superseding her parents’ relatively meagre achievements in the field.
Her first exhibition was only a minor success, but in the last fifteen years she has undoubtedly gone from strength to strength. Despite this, the basis of her artwork remains the same. Her medium is bruise; her pale white skin the surface on which she builds her works. The initial inspiration always comes from an outside source, but the finished result is almost always reliant on her own particular nurturing skills. Which is to say, she still demands punches from her audience, with the odd poke or stamp thrown in for good measure. These she readily earns from her viewers, bringing the bruises into fruition before their very eyes, albeit in such a way that no one can quite say how she does it. Indeed, having punched her myself, I can verily vouch for this fact. Having been asked to contribute to her work in such a way, I was not inclined to repudiate her appeal, though it must be stated that I am not in the habit of striking the fairer sex, and did so with some reluctance. My fist landed on the spot she had indicated, just below her ribcage, producing no immediate sign of bruising. Barely ten minutes later, however, von Uppelhärt had worked my fragile thump into a contusion of such aesthetic delicacy that I was mesmerised by the sight of it. Duly entitled D H Laven Hit Me Below My Ribcage the piece was a palpable triumph. Shaped like an ox-bow lake, the bruise seemed to have the depth of a lagoon.[2] I struggled like a flea-ridden dog to shake the appropriate simile out of my brain. It was a bowl of thick Russian parsley soup, an oil spill nestling on a shimmering ocean, a black cloud in a winter evening sky, coagulated coffee spilt on a moss green carpet and the nape of a mallard smeared with marmite. The more I looked at it, the less certain I was of my ability to describe it. This was a bruise of unbelievable beauty.
A rare photograph of a von Uppelhärt bruise reveals one of the most regrettable problems with her work. Professor Gordimer Stamped on My Left Foot (see below) was undoubtedly one of her very best pieces, but unless you were present on the evening that it was created, it is unlikely that you will ever have the pleasure of enjoying it to the extent that it deserves. Not only have you missed the performance of the conceiving punch, there remains the fact that the photograph has not even come close to reproducing the visual sensation of the bruise itself.[3] The central toe of Von Uppelhärt’s left foot is poorly represented here; the mottled flower-petal pink underlaid with a deep yet delicate damson purple and edged with a slightly greying ultramarine has lost all of its subtlety, emerging as a constant burnt ornage. Seen live, this toe was iridescent, transfixing, endlessly absorbing. In its photographic state, it looks like nothing more than the type of bruise that you or I might have.
Professor Gordimer Stamped on my Left Foot (1997)
Lest I get caught up in any further pseudo-spiritual enthusing on the subject of these creative masterpieces, the time calls for a word or two concerning the artist’s detractors. Needless to say, many have raised their eyebrows. Whilst they struggle to deny the beauty of the works, they claim to have misgivings concerning the morality of creating ‘art’ from a blatant act of violence – however staged that violence may have been. On this point, one wonders whether these super-oculus elevators ought not to reconsider the logic of their argument. Artist’s have been committing violence against themselves as a prelude to creation since art began. And as humans, can we deny that we have never been entertained by pain? Pain is the basis of the majority of our entertainments. As well as following the tradition, Von Uppelhärt’s work creates a mature commentary on the self-indulgent suffering of the artist and the long history of producing beauty from an act of violence. On top of this, she has the decency to do her suffering in the open – and to invite others to help her with it.
This last act has, yet, caused further controversy. Two years the feminist cultural historian Peggy Grounter pointed out that all of von Uppelhärt’s bruises were created by men. This fact had escaped my knowledge, but it is not inaccurate. Spontaneous as her invitations to punch her always are, Von Uppelhärt has never asked a member of the female sex to supply the all important blow. For this reason, Grounter was quick to suggest that the work contained an oblique if not ironic commentary on domestic violence. Exactly what this commentary was, however, Grounter was unable to say. This interpretation was followed by that of Natalie Jorge-Masson, who suggested a thoroughly sexual reading of the artistic process, with the punch symbolising intercourse and the pain of pregnancy and with the bruise standing in for what she called the ‘mysterious pleasures of children’ (to simplify her argument).[4] Though neither of these were entirely imprudent elucidations, the artist herself choose to counter them with the statement that they ‘represented the purest kind of pigswill’, arguing that she ‘had never any intention of drawing attention to domestic or sexual violence’ and ending with the strident declaration that ‘I am principally a colourist’, to which I am happy to add my seal of approval. This is certainly how her work is best understood and appreciated.
In actuality, Maria von Uppelhärt is a relatively traditional artist. She values and chases an ideal. Beauty as a word is bruised, but on occasion it is inescapably in evidence. These bruises contain that lost (if not battered) beauty. If only more viewers were prepared to slice through the fuzzy tiresomeness of the simplistic artist’s rhetoric and dated atmosphere of the post-performance art packaging, they might appreciate this beauty for themselves. Otherwise, as I have intimated, the work of Maria Von Uppelhärt, so deficient outside of the area and time in which it is exhibited (bruises like beauty do fade, after all) will be lost to them forever.
Notes
[1] Hector von Uppelhärt based his hopes on getting a job at the New Bauhaus on the basis on having once had a conversation with László Moholy-Nagy in the men’s room of a German bar, during which he revealed his intentions of designing a chair that could be built entirely out of hardened saliva. Moholy-Nagy is said to have thought this a ‘great idea’, though sources suggest he may have either drunk too much at the time, or offered the compliment with a side plate of sarcasm.
[2] It is worth noting that, although she never sets out to fashion her bruises in amusing or educational shapes, Von Uppelhärt is often inspired by accidental coincidences to further to accentuate the eccentricity of a bruise’s outline. The best I ever saw was in the shape of the Southern Italian coastline.
[3] The existence of this photograph goes against the wishes of the artist herself, who would rather there was no attempt to record her artworks in any medium other than a written or oral description. On the occasion that an attempt was made to video record one of her exhibitions, the man behind the camera left the evening with some impressive bruises of his own.
[4] See N Jorge-Masson ‘The Late Great Baby Bruisers’ in New Readings of Old Tarts (Bowox Press 2001)
