Model Image
Vera Lehndorff and Holger Trülzsch, Brick Wall (1978), from the "Oxydationen" series. |
by Robin Rice
Except in those brief Kafka-esque transitions between sleep and waking, from moment to moment we usually "know" who we are. But, as Vera Lehndorff, currently showing her work at the Arcadia University and Moore College galleries, says, "People are linked. We are not separate. We are more linked than we think."
One might suppose that Lehndorff's work would focus on her personal uniqueness. In a way it does -- through a kind of negation. She is a cult figure, the iconic 1960s model Veruschka. Veruschka's most celebrated appearance was in Michelangelo Antonioni's 1966 film Blow-Up, which will be shown Fri., March 28, at 8 p.m. at Moore.
As an artist, Lehndorff has devoted over 30 years to exploratory deconstructions of her own identity. Her relationship to her surroundings is relentlessly questioned through a kind of fragmentation which sometimes requires her to merge into a physical context and on other occasions, to inhabit alternate personas. Her oeuvre suggests that identity itself is both ambiguous and quixotic.
"Oxydationen," images from a 1970 to 1986 collaboration with photographer Holger Trülzsch, will be on view at Arcadia's gallery for a few more days. It is an important complement to the video and digital print installations from 1988 to 2001 in Moore's Goldie Paley Gallery. The "Oxydationen" photographs record trompe l'oeil transformation of Lehndorff's body into a peeling brick wall or heavy wooden doorway. These illusions are so impressive that amazement tends to obscure analysis. Many were taken in an abandoned fish auction house in a suburb of Hamburg, Germany -- its aura of damp and decay a sort of metaphor for the human aging process.
A video documents photography sessions in progress. We see Lehndorff in body paint gingerly stalking toward her designated context, then meticulously orienting her limbs so that painted details integrate with the background. She tucks her head to match shadows and, at last, closes her eyes, surrendering to her disappearance into an object. In another sequence, a white flower-painted teapot separates itself from an identical version in a tea set and floats off screen, as Lehndorff walks away from a still life.
Mounted on dark steel, the prints are severe, solemn and still. In contrast to the grid-based architecture of the steel-backed pictures, a large triptych of Lehndorff painted to merge with piles of cloth in an Italian recycling plant compositionally mimics abstract expressionist painting.
Three bodies of work blend in the installation at Moore. Burning City is a microcosm of destruction, recording the cremation of a model city built by Lehndorff from fragments of brick. Displayed in digitized stills glued to gallery walls and projected onto two screens, the rolling, fluttering flames could be borrowed from any evening newscast.
For the film Buddha Bum, Lehndorff played several characters in an urban environment (Brooklyn): a sky-blue Buddha seated on a rooftop, a young woman drifting against the brilliant acid yellows and greens of a real Tibetan temple and two vagrants, painted to partially merge with the sooty, graffiti-tagged wall under the Manhattan Bridge. The "camouflage" of these bums is a metaphor for the abandoned, invisible members of our society. Micha Waschke's music, played on a variety of instruments, occasionally suggests a human voice.
The structure of the film hints at cycles of aging, joy, suffering, anger, death and, perhaps, renewal, but there is no real story as such. The villainy of a government which fails its citizens is depicted here but so are the smiles of children and the serene compassion of Buddha. "Buddha said that everybody is a Buddha. We all potentially have the same Buddha nature. He is part of the city" for Lehndorff.
Historic disasters from Pompeii to Hiroshima are evoked in black-and-white photographs, "Ash Self-portraits." Each centers on Lehndorff's ash-coated head, pure as a Brancusi muse, as she lies on the sidewalk wrapped in a shawl, unconscious or dead. At a recent exhibition of this work at P.S. 1 in Queens, many related it to the events of 9/11. But its 1998 message is not anchored in time. Lehndorff observes, "We destroy so many things. It's part of life: sometimes good; sometimes bad. I don't moralize."
Prism-like images of a translucent plastic tent used to shield the artist as she prepares for her work appear in both exhibitions. A mundane emblem of transformation, its billowing light-filled planes cloak the mysteries of art, technology and nature.
In order to effectively deploy her avatar Veruschka, Lehndorff's appearance must be simultaneously pleasing and adaptively neutral. In all her art, subtle intelligence guides her in projecting the essence that animates the required persona. Surely Lehndorff's acquaintance with the transformations wrought by time, commerce and every manifestation of fortune inform a perspective which is at once spiritual, profoundly political and almost painfully intimate.