Nicola Tyson’s most recent
show came with an epigraph, declaimed by the press release: imagination I hold
to be the living Power and prime Agent of all human Perception. . . . A
repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I
AM.” Thus Tyson’s twelve new paintings, which purport to plumb the depths of
“the imagination and the unconscious,” were brought under the Romantic sign of
the lines’ author, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. This reference deftly marks out
Tyson’s ambitions here, but it’s only the beginning of the hunt for her sources
and stylistic influences. Ubiquitous in discussions of Tyson’s
“psycho-figuration” are litanies of her sundry appropriations. Here one might
note an indebtedness to Francis Bacon’s flayed subjects; there a self-conscious
nod to Hans Bellmer’s fetishistic dolls, or Hannah Hoch’s riotous collages, or
Egon Schiele’s raw draftsmanship, or Cindy Sherman’s constructions of malleable
identities.
Tyson’s paintings, which
often resemble the results of a one-player game of cadavre exquis, admit to
such pillagings without being delimited by them. The artist’s
Pop-surreal forms present bodies as libidinous portents that only tenuously
come together, like textbook illustrations of the mirror stage of infant development.
As amalgams of allusion and technique they would strain under their own
ponderousness were it not for Tyson’s cheekily punchy colors (often forming
near-monochromatic single- or double-hued grounds of unspecific place and
allusion) and perverse genetic mutations. In such works as Full Length (all works 2005), a woman’s
anatomy is a campy, hyperbolically rotund form, mutating the convention of the
full-length portrait into a topsy-turvy caricature. Others, such as Nude, torque physiognomy so fully as to
render it abstract: a breastlike protrusion might also be a chin, and the whole
form a spindly, wafer-thin phallus. Then there is Twist, a pliable wishbone, legs swiveled and impossibly contorted
and crowned by a hair-covered skull, a tangled mask obfuscating the figure’s
identity.
Tyson’s are bodies not so
much becoming animal—although there are signs of emergent wings (or are they
breasts too?) in Pointers—but
something alien or mineral (witness Landscape
Contemplating Itself’s craggy,
headlike formations). They are often androgynous, as
in Bearded Artist, which shows the “artist” in aggregate profile. A passage of
deep blue paint covers the cheek while the merest suggestion of an eye gives
way to dense brown fur, leaving the nose and forehead to decompose into
permutations of acrid pink. The image suggests a kind of violence done to the
form. Even so, it is unclear whether such veils might not be defensive in their
covering, armoring as much as defacing that which they overlie. As ciphers for
projection and disavowal, Tyson’s paintings raise specters of scopic-desire
together with autoeroticism, displacing and confounding the very term—much less
the site—of otherness in the process.
Writing of his own dolls,
Bellmer averred: “The anagram is the key to all my work.” It followed that “the
body is like a sentence that invites us to rearrange it.” In Compulsive Beauty, Hal Foster suggests that Bellmer’s shifting of desire thus
“doubles back, turns in, as if to capture the object, to make, unmake, and
remake its image again and again.” At the risk of adding yet another source to
Tyson’s ever- spiraling constellation, this sure seems apt.
— Suzanne Hudson