The Strangest of Neverlands: Ray Caesar’s Luminous, Defiant Lost Girls
Monday’s Child (2007)
I was first introduced to Ray Caesar’s work when writing the catalogue essay for Carrie Ann Baade’s
Cute and Creepy show
, which
was exhibited at Florida State University’s Fine Art Museum this past
October. I haven’t been able to shake the images of his haunting, and
haunted, beauties ever since. Trapped forever between woman and girl,
human and creature, these lovelies radiate a strength and light amid the
perils that threaten their very existence. Take
Monday’s Child,
whose innocence and purity radiate and fill the sphere in which she is
encased. While she is “fair in face” just like the nursery rhyme
promises, her hands — ruby red and branch like — surely belong to some
other species. Is she kept within the sphere for our safety or to be
protected? She is certainly child-like in her little baby doll dress,
but look more closely, and we’ll see that she’s also sporting thigh-high
stockings. Is she girl, woman, plant, or alien? Might this be how many
of our little girls feel, growing up in a strange consumerist world
where they are taught often contradictory rules about what makes them
special? The clock that sits on the top of the sphere might indicate
that at a certain time the top half will open or that the legs will
start moving – suggesting that the sphere is alive on its own accord,
a kind of mechanical nanny guarding the precious creature inside.
Asterion (2012)
Asterion plays off of the famous Minotaur, but this curious
bull is still a little girl in size, despite the sexualization of her
body. She glares at us with a force I’ve yet to really encounter in the
gaze of Manet’s Olympia. Who is she waiting for in that barely furnished
room, with no shade to cover the lamp’s naked bulb? I am frightened for
her and by her, not knowing if she is victim or predator.
Fly Trap (2005)
The same might be said for the little one standing behind the curtains in
Fly Trap.
Residing somewhere between boy and girl, the young face looks up
longingly, mouth open perhaps in song or siren call. I cannot tell if
the mouth is bloodstained or if some sick adult got crazy with the
lipstick. Her eyes, unlike Asterion’s, have little fight in them, only
a sad kind of hunger. But this child’s body, rather than being gaunt, is
wondrous in its monstrous form. Spanning three window frames, the
delicate yet giant legs are probably the
last thing one notices in the picture, yet they frame the entire story, for surely this creature is ready to escape.
Fly Trap (study)
And here, I believe, is the power of Caesar’s work — to infuse these
children with a sense of unspoken power. He has personally seen the need
for such a narrative, having worked for 17 years in the art
&
photography department of the Hospital For Sick Children in Toronto.
There he documented “disturbing cases of child abuse, surgical
reconstruction, psychology, and animal research” (Gallery House). I’m
not sure how one survives seeing such havoc wreaked upon the bodies of
the young, but I admire to no end the mythic power of art to help heal
such wounds. Caesar is unrelenting in showing us the physical and
psychological injuries that children suffer — his art has that visceral
effect. At the same time, he opens a doorway into the unreal, a place
where they might be safe. I often think of the gods who turned Daphne
into a laurel tree so that Apollo could not assault her. But Caesar does
not complete the act, keeping these little ones in frozen
transformation, invoking the power of the grotesque as he does so.
Beloved (2011)
One might say that Caesar is transgressive in his very medium, using the
3D
modeling software called Maya instead of brush, charcoal, or pen and
ink (Gallery House). Perhaps this quality is what also lends an
otherworldliness to his work, a light that seems to emanate from his
work despite its dark subject matter.
Beloved and
Ebb Tide
fall more into the realm of the Weird, perhaps, rather than truly
grotesque. I find myself entranced with the pieces that show us the
softer side of Cthulhu. Both girls have a genuine serenity in their
expressions, despite their obvious (and certainly inconvenient)
relationship to the monstrous. In
Beloved, the baby’s tentacles
don’t seem threatening, but am I the only one who thinks the girl’s
face is a tad too close to them? She shows no fear, but neither is it
quite adoration. The light bathing her face casts her into the role of
some Victorian Madonna, unsure, perhaps, of just what she has given
birth to, but obviously intent on protecting it.
Ebb Tide, despite its peaceful scene, still has elements of
subtle horror: the giant belt that imprisons her waist, heavy
petticoats, and calico leggings with steel tips for her tentacles. She
looks off into the distance, perhaps dreaming of the wild life she once
lived in the sea. It doesn’t appear that she abhors this beached
domesticity; in fact, the scene is one of rather stunning beauty. Are
these our choices for femininity — either dark creature of the abyss or
paralyzed loveliness?
I’m not sure you can look at Ray Caesar’s work and remain
undisturbed. I’m not sure he’d want you to. There can be a paradigm
shift when art holds our attention for longer than a second, when we are
so seduced by its contradictions that our minds truly begin to work at
untangling them. Because, you see, when we engage with grotesque art,
we’re not entering into the realm of logical analysis but into a liminal
space where you meet doppelgangers, monsters, and
children-creatures — all crying out for us to be more redemptive humans.
see article
Wierd Fiction Review by Nancy Hightower
To see more of Caesar’s work, visit
Gallery House or
Ray Caesar’s website.
Image Credit: Gallery House/Ray Caesar. Used with permission.
