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DIFC Gulf Art Fair
Dubai
By Emmanuelle
Gauthier
B y conventional wisdom, the Middle East seems an unlikely
choice for the launch of a international art fair; the headline
news in recent times hasn’t been particularly endearing
to the region. Iraq is a mess, neighboring Iran is going nuclear,
and everywhere you look it appears that people are in an awfully
big hurry to meet their maker. But take a closer look, and
you’ll also find people engaged in art. For example,
Iran is home to an impressive community of independent (albeit
mostly underground) filmmakers, Lebanon is a cultural hot
house, and the tiny oil rich emirate, Dubai, has just stepped
up to the plate, playing host to the newly minted Gulf Art
Fair, which took place March 7-10, 2007.
Gathering a decent roster some of 40 exhibitors at a secluded
Disneyesque oasis in the Madinat Arena, the fair made a respectable
debut, drawing about 9000 visitors. Setting aside the hyper-luxurious
trappings of the theme park venue (which rivals Las Vegas
kitsch), what really puts this fair on the map, in cultural
terms, is the selection of participating galleries. For example,
the Diana Lowenstein Gallery (Miami) showed large prints by
Michael Flomen; The Third Line, based in Dubai, showed Huda
Lutfi; Sundaram Tagore exhibited monumental canvases by Nartrar
Bharsar; the Max Lang Gallery (New York) showed works by Keith
Haring and Andy Warhol juxtaposed with ethereal Sugimoto photographs.
Other notable contemporary galleries present included Flowers
East and White Cube (London), and Bose Pacia (New York). There
were also traditional blue chip dealers, such as MAM Gallery
(Austria) which showed an Alexander Calder mobile that was
purchased by an Indian collector during the first hour of
the Patrons Preview. The gallery also showed a mysterious
Jan Fabre sculpture made from nails and polyester. MAM director,
Waltraut Mauroner, waxed ecstatic about the fair, talking
of plans to come back next year.
The official title of the fair, DIFC Gulf Art Fair, refers
to its partnership with Dubai International Financial Centre.
Director John Martin, who in 1999 worked with Ralph Ward-Jackson
to develop ARTLONDON, teamed with Dubai businessman Ben Floyd
in the summer of 2005 to come up with the idea for the Gulf
Art Fair. Soon thereafter invitations were sent out to galleries
who might be interested to participate. Of these, some100
applicants responded for the 40 available spaces. The fair’s
collector base derives primarily from the emirate’s
unique population that boasts an ex-patriot community of wealthy
British, Germans, Indians, Iranian and Russians with an abundance
of tax free income to spend.
The fair also enjoys hefty backing from government and private
sources. Its recently formed partnership with the Dubai International
Financial Centre is comparable to the support that Art Basel
receives from its main sponsor, UBS. Then there is the political
endorsement of Her Royal Highness Princess Haya Bint Al Hussein,
wife of HH Sheikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Vice-President
and Prime Minister of UAE and Ruler of Dubai. Indeed, what
at first seemed like a far fetched idea, today has the aura
of inevitable success.
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Tanyth Berkeley
Bellwether Gallery
By Ola Manana
L ingering on subjects that betray a certain imprimatur of
humanity; a mix of bravado, frailty and insecurity or the
universal struggle to get through each day, Tanyth Berkeley’s
The Muse, The Fugitive and The Frequency is an installation
of 160 6 x 4 inch photographic portraits of people who inhabit
New York’s Times Square. Side by side, the photographs
wrap around a corner of the gallery wall in a continuous ribbon,
suggesting a filmstrip. These are the ubiquitous people in
the crowd, captured unaware in the semi-private space that
a crowd affords. Captured as it such, the layer of anonymity
disappears and we are invited to stare as long as we want.
With the stark realism of an Antonin Artaud pencil drawing,
these snapshots show the individual vulnerability of her subjects.
Some of Berkeley’s photographs seem as if stolen, in
others the subject appears to be aware that he or she is being
photographed. A pudgy middle aged blonde haired woman stands
contrapasto, nonchalantly sucking a pacifier. An out of focus
smile of a black woman is captured, with light reflecting
off the shiny glaze of her lips and flickering in her eyes.
In another photograph Berkeley frames the studied walk of
a very pregnant woman as she moves through the street. Berkeley
seems to be honing in on the quality that separates her subjects
from the status quo. For example, she completely omits “tourist
types.” Identity through image is a concept that most
everyone can relate to. The accoutrements of image; hair,
skin,race,weight and clothing take on extra importance when
there is no other context available. Everyone is a stranger,
until they’re not.
Image often infers these qualities, taking on a life of it's
own. This show offers an overdue homage, if you will, to anonymous
people in public; but with a twist, these are the misfits.
Each seems to have some kind of misbegotten style, somewhat
diverging from the homogenized black on black, well cut, no
fat hanging off the sides of your pants style that infers
good taste and upbringing. Their faces reflect a pantheon
of different expressions, but all seem somewhat disturbing.
You feel for them, because they've missed it, the one thing
that separates the fit-ins from the misfits. They have betrayed
themselves by showing their humanity. The homogenous manners,
looks and expression that defines class is missing. And this
is why we connect with them.
The connection that Berkely has to her subjects places her
work in unique category. She is not a voyeur in the exploiting
sense. Her subjects include singular portraits of albinos,
transvestites and assorted unconventional characters; people
whose “image” is as much a choice that influences
their fate as the other way around. In Grace, a fairly good
looking albino girl stands in front of a yellowish door in
a blue striped dress. Were it not for her inverted gaze and
the way her hair blends into the color of the door, the portrait
might seem unremarkable. The flesh of her legs seems strangely
cool, her skin plump, her stance stiff. Like one of Manet's
many portraits of the famous model Victorine, this subject
commands full attention and there is something beautiful about
her. In another portrait of the same model, we see her lying
on her side, her mouth open as a red lollipop dangles from
her lips. You can almost feel the hard candy clanking against
your teeth, this portrait is loneliness incarnate. She appears
like a single tree fallen in the forest. The striations of
pink, from the bursting flesh of her pink breast twice cupped
by light and the rose lace slip and a strappy salmon nightie
owes a lot to painting. These photographs are extremely sensuous.
The high resolution allows the viewer to see everything even
more clearly than in real life.
In Linda Levin, clearly a collaboration between artist and
model, an emaciated transvestite, Bette Davis lips afrown,
eyes outlined in black, leans back in the doorway. The artifice,
the chintzy fabric of sheer leopard and rose print, green
vinyl pumps, excessive make-up all seem rather bizarre despite
the best of intentions. To be sure, the allure of a beautiful
woman in a fashion driven society is a fleeting position of
privilege and power. Dresses, pumps, lace heels, makeup and
so on, are more than trivial indulgences. For a woman, these
things can mean personal power, or sexual power, but they
don't define gender. But for a transvestite, these womanly
enhancements are transformative, not only to the surface image
but to the core identity. This photograph goes beyond voyeurism;
it somehow captures the pathos of a life of rejection, the
battle scarred condition of a misfit.
In Grey Lady, a sad little nymph of a mime stands in the
shadow of a concrete wall. Her dress, grey, her face and hands
covered in grey theater paint. The shadow she stands beneath
almost seems to swallow her, her body barely distinguishable
from the wall. She seems antithetical to her fancy dress,
indeed the only thing that the sun has been allowed to spill
onto is a bright yellow plastic pail, a dollar folded optimistically
over the rim.
Everything about Berkeley's photographs is in the details;
a thin strap cutting into the bare shoulder, a handful of
daffodils, eyelashes white in the sun. The exhibitionism of
a transvestite or a mime is somehow not incongruously paired
with to the desire to be invisible. Berkeley does not so much
document these differences, she empathizes with them and invites
the view to do the same.
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