It's a
blustery October evening, and the gallery is located on a quietish street in a
not-great part of town, among low-rent apartment buildings and cafes that have
been shuttered up for business. About
half of the streetlights are burned out or flickering their final breaths.
A sign on the
door says that the gallery doesn't open until 7:00pm - that's sundown at this
time of year in this part of the world. My phone tells me it's 7:08. I'm the
only one here, so I'm kind of getting a creepy vibe about this thing. Just as
my inner voice tells me "I've got a bad feeling about this", other
people begin showing up. A small crowd of curious art fiends forms on the
sidewalk in front of the old picture framing shop, its faded sign an indication
that it may have been years since the last time anyone did business here. The
lights are still off in the shop and we're becoming restless, wondering if we should
call 7:30 as official "ah, fuck it" time.
Just then,
the lights inside flick on, and a man in his 20's who looks like he's lived (and
suffered) for a hundred years opens the door. He welcomes us inside and tells
us the artist will be with us in a moment, but we are free to begin exploring
the gallery. As we file past him, he offers each of us a complementary glass of
champagne, which I finish almost immediately after taking the flute into my
hand. I always drink champagne too quickly.
Tiptoeing into
the main gallery hall among the other patrons, the first thing I notice isn't
the array of canvases hanging on the walls or the sculptures arranged around
the room, but the smell. It's the odour of flesh and blood, fresh and stale,
combined with the scent of paint and glue, like the smell of humanity,
dismantled and reassembled. What is the source of this unsettling aroma? How
can I be expected to enjoy this exhibit if I'm forced to endure something so
repugnant and distracting?
By the
looks on the faces of the others, I can see they're having the same thought.
But no one is leaving, and I decide that there might still be very well
something worth seeing, so I move toward the wall on my right. Most people go
left, don't they? I prefer to avoid the pack, so I begin my journey through the
room at the wrong end.
My eyes
drink in an enormous, deeply hued palette knife-driven mural of a cityscape by
moonlight. Reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night, this viscerally affecting
pastiche of blues and blacks and purples with shocks of white and grey where the yellow
should be gives me the disquieting sensation of insignificance as I shrink from
the sheer size and magnitude of it. The number 9 swirls and looms repeatedly in
the construction of the cityscape's imposing buildings. Nine's as big as
houses. On the knoll next to the largest of the nines is a tiny void of a
flower wearing a diminutive 6. The flower wilts with inferiority while gazing
up at the skyscrapers with disdain, envy, fear. I am that flower; I am the six.
Backing
away from the mural, I bump into an older gentleman dressed in a houndstooth
suit with matching trilby. The poor soul gasps and cowers away from me, taking
the hat from his head and holding it to his chest, sniveling a breathless
string of apologies for being in my way. I assure him he need not apologize, it
was my own fault for not watching my step. He smiles meekly at my assurance,
and he introduces himself.
Mr.
Touchshriek's near-nonsensical ramblings make me slightly nervous and worried
that he might not be all right in the head, but there is nothing overtly
menacing about him, so I shake his hand and excuse myself to view the nearest
work of art in my vicinity.
I'm not
alone in my slack-jawed shock as I stare at the grotesque statue: a monstrous
creature constructed from the bones of many other creatures set in shiny
polished metal. A housecat's skull resides in the chest where the heart should
be. The tail is constructed from what looks like a human spinal column. Surely
it is made of plaster, but the staining from blood and tissue looks authentic.
The monster
is adorned with unusual jewellery and clothing... earrings in the form of a
shining pair of blue iris-ed eye balls set in resin; a shirt woven from what
looks like human hair in various shades of blonde, brown, ginger, black, and
even grey and white; a brooch on that vest made from the teeth of various
once-living things, painted ironically in cheerful colours; and the piece de
resistance, a beautifully crafted handbag of an unidentified leather in a
disturbingly familiar pink flesh tone. I swallow hard and wonder if this is
partially where that gruesome smell is coming from.
I move away
from the gory sculpture and find myself called toward a wonderfully realistic
hand-drawn rendering of an adolescent girl drawn entirely in hues of red, rust,
and brown. The lines of the drawing are so fine and perfect that it looks as
though the girl could step right into the room off the canvas. Looking into her
face, it appears as though that is exactly what she wants to do, as if
something in her two dimensional world is terrorizing her, tormenting her both
physically and emotionally. The scars on her half dressed body express terrible
pain, and the wideness of her wet eyes, the only part of the piece painted a cold lake blue, display a horrid fear.
I want to save this girl from the unspeakable
fate she is clearly anticipating. I read the card next to the piece to find it
titled Baby Grace, Age 14, after interest drugs. (Whatever those are.)
Subject's blood on canvas. (Come again?)
The sick
feeling in my stomach is telling me that I've seen enough. I define good art by
its ability to make me feel something, whether that feeling is joy, sorrow, loathing
or fear, and as such the pieces in this gallery qualify for that distinction; however,
it also feels utterly wrong, as if I've stumbled into something horrifyingly
real, and definitely illegal. Something in me wants to tell the cops about it,
just in case.
Then from
out of nowhere, Mr. Touchshriek appears next to me. He tells me he knew Grace.
Her family lives in his neighbourhood, old Oxford Town. He used to see her
walking to and from school every day. Then one day he saw her talking to
someone through the window of a van. She got in, and was never seen again. I
ask him if he reported it to the police, but Mr. Touchshriek simply removes his
hat again and holds it over his heart, never taking his eyes from Baby Grace's
dark blues.
That's it,
I'm out of here. As I start to make my way to the door, the man who let us in takes
the centre of the gallery. He introduces himself as Leon, and announces that
the artist will be making her appearance shortly, and she's willing to answer
any and all of our questions. I decide that it might be worth it to stay for a
bit, maybe get a bit more information on the obviously deranged person
responsible for this horrendous display. Then I'll go to the police.
The artist
blusters into the room like a woman possessed. Dressed in leather and clanking
with heavy metal jewellery with black hair all askew as if caught in a
permanent windstorm, Ramona A. Stone is in her 50's and is doing her damndest
to cover it up. She jangles her way to Leon, kisses him with wildly visible
tongue and dispatches him with an expression and a gesture filled with a
palpable hatred.
She smirks
as she judges us silently from her pedestal. Before she can speak, the
questions from her audience begin. Who is Baby Grace Blue? Is she alive? Did
you really draw her portrait with her own blood? Finally, Ramona speaks.
Suddenly, a
raucous thunderstorm begins, releasing a torrent of rain, ear splitting
thunderclaps, and blinding lightning. The power goes out and the spectators
begin shrieking and gasping as we bump into one another and into the works of
art as we clamour to find our way to the door. A terrible cry pierces my ears -
I recognize the voice as Mr. Touchshriek's. Another cry, this time from a young
woman. What the fuck is going on? I slip on a puddle of something and land on
the floor. That smell. I know this smell. I smelled it when I came in.
The lights
come on, and as expected, I'm laying on the floor in a puddle of someone's
blood. The young woman who cried out - she's on the floor next to me, cut from
groin to throat, her guts spilled out onto the floor between us. I vomit
convulsively onto the floor, my tears dropping daintily into the pool of blood.
Mr.
Touchshriek offers his hand to help me up, a ragged gash visible on his arm. He
asks if I'm alright and I scream that I'm not fucking alright, none of this is
alright, we need to call the police!
As if on
cue, a man comes bursting through the door, introducing himself as Detective
Nathan Adler. He informs us that Baby Grace Blue's body, or what's left of it
anyway, has been found and he's got it on good authority that the culprit is
inside this gallery at this very moment in time.
There's
been another murder just now! I blurt out, and point to the young woman on the
floor, as if Detective Adler wasn't keen enough pick up on it himself.
Unfortunately, my frantic outburst draws the detective in my direction and he
begins his line of questioning with me. Have I ever been to Oxford town?
I feel
faint. This can't be happening. I just wanted to go to an art show.
Old Mr.
Touchshriek approaches in his typical skittish way, and he tells Detective
Adler that he was a witness to Grace's abduction and he's not entirely sure who
has done the killing, but he suspects it's the artist whose gallery we're
visiting, or maybe she's gotten her hapless boyfriend Leon to do her dirty
work. Detective Adler thinks aloud.
Ramona and
Leon emerge from out of nowhere and begin an bombastic, unnatural looking dance
in the centre of the room to a song with a rigid, jackhammer beat and
otherworldly lyrics. As they move about the room, their total disconnect from
each other seems almost choreographed. Ramona stops to take polaroid photos of
the pool of the fresh victim's blood mixed with my vomit and tears. She tacks
each polaroid to the wall as she continues her strange dance.
I'm
astonished at Detective Adler's inaction. Then, out of the blue, he begins to
applaud. He's being ironic. I get it. Except... a number of spectators begin to
applaud as well. Mr. Touchshriek is clapping away like a man who doesn't have
an oozing wound on his forearm. And the poor girl with her entrails all askew
suddenly rouses, and stands with help from Detective Adler, and she starts
clapping. And then a girl resembling the unfortunate girl in the portrait
enters from the back, clapping wildly,
It's all
been a vast creation - more than a show, a ghastly, dramatic piece of
performance art. Incredible. Ramona thanks us for attending. As we can see, no
one has really been murdered in the name of art tonight, have they?
Leon throws
his arms out in the direction of Ramona, encouraging us all to give her one
last round of applause. This time I participate. Leon bows and says that he
hopes that this performance has given us a new perspective on the definition of
art. Ramona glares at him with utter
loathing for only a second before blowing us all a kiss and bidding us
goodnight.
*****
Outside
couldn't have come to me at a better time if I had actually planned it this
way. Mid-October, the spookiest time of the year, is the perfect backdrop for a
concentrated listening of this creepy-as-fuck album. Outside is art in its
purest form, and it demands to be listened to as such. If you go in expecting
something you can put on at your 39th birthday party surrounded by family,
you're going to have a bad time. And everyone is going to leave. Which is okay,
because then you can listen to it properly, and really enjoy the fuck out of
it.
I advise
against listening to it in the bathtub when you're home alone on a windy night
in the weeks approaching Hallowe'en. By the time you get to Wishful Beginnings,
you will be rocking yourself in the tub going "what was that?!" every
time you hear your cat do something downstairs. It was the cat, wasn't it?
Please tell me it was the cat.
I like when
Bowie does concept albums. For me, Outside is like Nine Inch Nails fucked Twin
Peaks and then Twin Peaks gave the baby up for adoption and it was raised by
Sin City. It definitely contains some of the most disturbing ideas to come from
Bowie's brain up to this point, aka, murder in the name of art during a time of
social decay, rapidly advancing technology, and a future unknown. I have to say
that despite my initial misgivings, this album is a masterpiece that really
defines who David Bowie is as an Artist with a capital A. No doubt he is also a
phenomenal pop star and songwriter in general, but Outside takes it to a whole
other level.
It should
be noted that I omitted some of the album's tracks from my story and shuffled
the ones I did include to go with the narrative flow. To really get it, this
album deserves to be listened to as a whole. The story contained within Outside
is a bit abstract, as with previous concept albums in Bowie's catalogue. He
doesn't spell it out for you. You need to listen, and you need to connect the
dots, interpret it like you would a painting, and then you need to just chill
the fuck out when you realize that there is no resolution. Make that part of
the experience.
So without
further adieu, here it is.
Someone
should really organize an art gallery "showing" of Outside, don't you
think?
Post Script
- This post is dedicated to my friend Dave M.
I have a confession to make. There was a time
when I ignorantly rejected not only this album but David Bowie as an artist. I
recall a conversation with Dave (who, incidentally, I will be introducing you
to shortly via a special guest post!) sometime in the mid-90's in which he told me I would really like Bowie, and I
noped so hard I think I nearly gave him whiplash. I'm ashamed that it took me
this long to open my mind and see just how wrong I was, but I'm happy that now
I get to share my appreciation for Bowie's work with my dear friend. You
planted a seed, Dave. It just took a really long time to take root and grow.
Post Post
Script - If you're wondering wtf? about the nines and sixes I described in the
cityscape mural, watch The Boy with the Incredible Brain. You won't regret it.
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