Curator Marcia Tanner's thought-provoking exhibition at the San Jose Museum, Brides of Frankenstein, offers an unusual blend of technology and politics, with a strong feminist slant: it critiques our media culture, and its romance with technology, at the same time as lovingly embracing it. Tanner poses challenging questions about the state of humanity today, with our increasing dependence on electronics—our ubiquitous attachments to our cell phones, Ipods, PDAs and other gadgets, as well as our intimate involvement with digital images. Tanner states, "In this information-laden world, these works reflect the fluid, eclectic, and multitasking beings we ourselves are becoming."
Peggy Awesh, "She Puppet", DVD, color, sound, 2001
In Mary Shelley's novel, Dr. Victor Frankenstein becomes obsessed with the idea of creating life from inanimate tissue; ultimately, the creature he creates, freakish and uncontrollable, becomes his downfall. Tanner views the fifteen female artists in "Brides" as the "metaphorical mates" of Frankenstein as they stitch together their various animated hybrids, and also as Mary Shelley, pointing out the hubris and folly of playing God. Nearly half of the artists work with some form of video; many of these are engaged in an exploration of the distorted images of women with which real women must contend. For decades, feminist artists and writers have tackled this issue—one that refuses to receive a stake through its heart and obligingly die.
In the first chamber, we find an assortment of pulsing, breathing, glowing objects. Andrea Ackerman's compelling Rose Breathing: Version I is a large-scale video projection in which a sensuous, pink object blooms and then contracts to a soundtrack of deep inhalation and exhalation. Voyeuristically, we long to see what lies within. Also working with the pattern of breath, Sabrina Raaf presents Breath 1: Pleasure. A dozen circular units mounted on the wall, connected by umbilical-like electric cords, glow with technological life. Nearby, Gail Wight's The Sirens, echoing butterflies and cocoons, hums and screeches on a circular platform.
Collaborative works by portrait sculptor Elizabeth King and photographer Katherine Wetzel, along with film director Richard Kizu-Blair, provide what is perhaps the show's signature image, Pupil. A wide-eyed, poseable mannequin with a segmented neck, "she" appears vulnerable: frightened and frightening; beautiful, yet repulsive. A suite of elegant silver gelatin prints accompanies a video, where the eerily life-like mannequin gestures and expresses emotion in a disturbingly convincing way. This piece hits us emotionally at the core of the show—just how far do we remain separated from our increasingly sophisticated creations? Nearby, a nude figure, that could be her distant digital cousin, is found eternally descending a Duchampian staircase, Kirsten Geisler's Dream of Beauty 4.0.
