Marcel Dzama

Entering Marcel Dzama’s exhibition “Of Many Turns,” we are reminded, by way of a curatorial statement, of the artist’s myriad influences. These range from pre-war children’s storybooks to Marcel Duchamp, James Joyce and Dante. If one is to be influenced by Joyce and Dante, then by extension (or by root) one is also influenced by Greek mythology, most notably the epic poem, the Odyssey. It is the exhibition’s title that has me thinking, too, of the mythological labyrinth, and this analogy does seem suited to Dzama’s very significant work now on display at the Montreal Museum of Contemporary Art. The path he lays out for us, laced with perils, beasts, seductive women—complete with a minotaur in the centre of it all—does cause us to collectively double back, doubt our steps and, above all, contemplate which direction is indeed forward. Dzama is one part Daedalus, the legendary inventor and craftsman, and one part Odysseus, the clever-tongued wanderer, the master of disguise, the reluctant yet heroic warrior who senses the futility of war. And while the theme of war and conflict does indeed recur in Dzama’s work, and despite the fact that American audiences and critics are eager to attribute these references to current Middle Eastern conflicts (although certainly these events contribute), the references are probably best interpreted as an oblique statement on war and its lengthy history, alas fated to repeat itself due to mankind’s inability to learn from the past.

Since his move to New York, Dzama’s watercolour drawings have become more dynamic and complex than earlier works that were notably sparse and whimsical. The colour palette is still muted, although there is now a great deal of red, a serious kind of vermillion. The line is confident and the use of colour casually precise. The paintings are weighted compositionally with a symmetry of relationships between characters propelled by balance and counter-balance, offence and defence, part choreography and part synchronicity. Through these complicated compositions, which can be likened to a Dadaist machine, the characters are the interdependent moving parts, with the suggestion of motion bringing to the foreground another notable characteristic of these pieces—the movement inherent in each drawing. The multiple subjects all seem engaged in a predetermined purpose, actively participating in a convoluted, and at times precarious, narrative often involving ascending ladders, balancing atop tip toe, swinging from trapezes or hanging from gallows.

Less spectacular than the dioramas and more reticent than the watercolours are the small elegant acrylic paintings, some with text and some without. Of particular note was the series of three portraits entitled Forgotten Terrorist (#9, #13, #15 respectively). In these naively painted portraits, a female assassin assumes a posture of quiet contemplation on the end of a bed as her machine gun rests at arm’s reach atop the pale bed cover. These are, to be sure, the sweetest, most tender renderings of a terrorist, perhaps illustrating Dzama’s unbiased approach towards his heroes and villains and emphasizing the sometimes nebulous line between victim and aggressor. This ambiguity between hero and villain is a theme constant throughout the history of literature and art—Odysseus being a prime example. Depending on vantage point, he is seen as “agile and ingenious hero” or else “artful, deceitful trickster.”

The exhibition dedicates one entire room to the dioramas, the space becoming one part museum of natural history and one part absurdist theatre, each case housing a different narrative and different (if only slightly) players. The most dramatic diorama being On the Banks of the Red River, 2008, a dreamscape battle setting suggestive of a contemporary Goya. It comprises 300 ceramic pieces, with large Lotus flowers (another allusion to the Odyssey) glazed a glossy and vibrant shade of red that could be associated with revolution. Strangely, the eyes of the dead (deer, birds, decapitated heads) appear more vibrant and suggest more life than those of the hunters who seem blind either by choice or by fate. It’s a particularly poignant illustration of de-individuation—the loss of identity that leads to disinhibited behaviour, better known as mob mentality. This scene could be a film still from Buñuel or an episode from Dante’s Inferno.

Also of note are the sculptural pieces fashioned from plaster, wood and found objects—creatures half man and half beast, some aspiring to transform: The Alligator Has His Mind Set on Becoming a Famous Soldier, 2009; others happy to entertain: The Great Enemy of Mankind Can Play Guitar, 2009; others committed to a higher cause: The Minotaur, 2008. Like the polytropic qualities present in Ulysses, as noted by literary critic Fritz Senn, these hybrids suggest “the volatile mutability of all things.” In looking at these roughshod creatures, which suggest a blend of personal and classical mythology, and most of which are missing one limb or another, I couldn’t help but think of Beckett (who, in any case, easily comes to mind in association with Joyce and Dante). Both Beckett and Dzama seem to share an interest in the human condition, a love of misfits, and the ability to communicate a sombre message cloaked in optimism and wit.

Through the creation and application of a self-made and personalized lexicon, Dzama is able to interpret important histories through various media with a degree of poignancy that leaves a lasting resonance. The skills that make him a notable storyteller suggest that, with one eye on the past, his trajectory is perhaps winding, but distinctly forward. ❚

“Of Many Turns,” curated by Mark Lanctôt, was exhibited at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal from February 4 to April 25, 2010.

Tracy Valcourt lives and writes in Montreal.