Reviews

ButchersHands
ii "junked" by Amy Perkins

Sweeping back a less than flawless white dustsheet, I find myself in a rag and bone cavern under railway arches at the end of bethnal green road. Apparent at the farthest depth of my nocturnally adjusting vision is a mans' lunar pale face projected to giants proportions, high on a semi circle of blackened brick wall. This ageing gentlemans' whispered, under-scored words grow into a purring ballad of a bygone era, with more than a hint of heartache. Approaching the performer on his lofty stage my attention is distracted by an old computer screen or two, depicting the same diminuitive artiste, now tap dancing. Correspondingly sparsely lit, this footage has been slowed to the pace of a sleeping beasts heartbeat.
As if in a museum of countless treasures, my progression has once more been halted but this time by a flame-lit, life size drawing of a bent figure. Alone on his white ground he seems to be slipping in amongst the shelves upon shelves of junk. At his feet not a torch but an angle-poise lamp with a sheet of synthetic packing wrap draped and gaffer taped across its mouth, a method of diffusing and softening the light that would win a nod and a wink from any east end junk man.
Around the corner and under the ever-watchful yet ever-tuneful gaze of the performer, I am double-backing on a ceiling high corridor of old televisions, video equipment, defunct lighting and other redundant paraphernalia. Had there been overhead lighting of the more gaudy fluorescent nature, I could have been trailing the aisles of a discount depot for electrical goods. Down to my right I can see a wheelchair, it too has passed the time at which it fulfilled its raison d'etre. It now serves to draw the eye to floor-level and to a glowing lightbox , again featuring the nymph-like player at its centre. Small and alone, he wears a mimes' down-turned grimace.
To the end and a fork to the right takes me into the neighbouring arch and the next den of tat, a filing cabinet, a day-glow workman's overcoat and a no-exit signpost. Resplendent above them all a second glowing drawing. Neck-craningly high and hovering over us the figure takes on the characteristics of an ecclesiastical icon. Life-like and yet not, the drawing is clearly hanging, I think from bulldog clips, and is undeniably flat but holds such weight and significance that it demands study. Perhaps it is down to the stiffened, taut pose of its' subject, who has no footing and again suggests an alterpiece favourite.
From my right I am beckoned on by a new tune from the minstrels' doleful repertoire. On a small monitor he is top-hatted and bare-chested, singing again of loss, love and longing. From a school of performance no longer relevant to todays audiences, I feel not only that I am glimpsing a lost era but that I am being entertained in time-honoured tradition. Ghost-like, the fairground prophesiers' presence transmits didactically from devices themselves invented for the purpose of entertainment. He is a voice from the past lamenting our modern world.
The surroundings become more intimate and increasingly domestic as furniture closes in from every side. Back turned and head dropped, the third and final figure stands repentant in its' alcove embalmed in warm, varnish coloured light. This figure, again life-size but smaller than seems credible, has found a home in their scrapped surroundings. The drawing appears to have been conceived with this location in mind, due not only to the colour of light reflected off the surrounding cabinets and tallboys . The view on approach is of a beautiful drawing serendipidously framed or encased by a whole spectrum of timber.
Despite the low-pitched, sombre tone of the work in its unconventionally cryptic and shadowy gallery, the spirit of this experience for me was one of intrepid exploration. In amongst the various wrecks of white goods and boot-sale fodder it was possible to glimpse rare treasure. The choice of location inspired further contemplation of the work from the audience, a quest that carried our personal observations beyond that which could have been achieved elsewhere. The unique coupling of this illogical set-up was charming, humorous and like any archeologists dig or metal-detectors hunt would hope to be, profitable and rewarding.





Butchershands
Twenty two thousand Miles
1.

Hovering behind and beyond this exhibition was the unsettling sense of an additional presence to collaborating artists Steve Dixon and Tim Sutton. It was not the robust character of veteran tap dancer, and minstrel Charles who features so prominently in the film and photographs, and lends the exhibition its name for his incredible feats of running. Rather it was a more shadowy cast member; a future self, hauled in front of us, called to account, confronted, questioned, examined, and after defending itself with dignity, and a sad grace, wandering off and leaving us with the taste of stupidly wasted youth, or middle age still in our mouths. Wistful, knowing and made wise by long experience, this self haunts and carries our understanding for a show as tender as it is painfully honest.
It is hard to decide whether to be charmed by the incandescence of Steve Dixon’s drawings or sorrowful at the ravages they uncover, to be beguiled by the hypnotic quality of Tim Sutton’s loving portraits of the last minstrel, or broken by the knowledge of time and old glories passed.
If you look, you will recognise; it’s whether you choose to look. I’m glad I did, and I will again.

Annette Richardson