Hoxton may
be hopping, but 'home', based sowf of da riva, in Camberwell, is
well worth the bus ride from Oval tube station. It's an imposing,
red-bricked corner house which begs to play host to a murder-mystery
game, but instead had the luck to be transformed into a live-in,
live art space and gallery. When curator Laura Godfry-Isaacs says
"15 unique spaces," she includes a luxurious bathroom with the fabulous
Oh Lover Boy neon by Italian artist Franko B, and the dining
room boasting an Andrew Kearney photograph. All the art, from pudgy
animal ceramics by Laura Ford and lively new paintings by Fran Burden,
is for sale. Just sink back into a gigantic turquoise leather sofa
and browse, soft-bottomedly.
Live art salons
occur once a month and I caught an evening with Marcus Fisher, the
alter-ego of Israeli artist, Oreet Ashery, a woman who dons a black
ill-fitting suit, hat, glasses, black beard and peyos - the ringlets
worn by adult Jewish orthodox men. Each guest was given a number
and invited to watch two of Ashery's works on video, until called.
A short dance video, What is it like for you?, shows how
Marcus Fisher evolved. Inspired by a portrait called Duchamp
Tonsure in which Marcel Duchamp sports a five-pointed star,
Ashery follows his lead and has a Magen David (Star of David) shaved
on her head. As Marcus Fisher, armed with a portfolio, the artist
runs up the stairs of St Martin's College like an agitated impostor,
and then later removes his beard, sideburns and hat. It's an energetic,
compelling piece with a garage soundtrack composed with a sound-artist
friend. A longer mockumentary called Marcus Fisher's Wake
chases Marcus from Tel Aviv, through sex clubs of London, where
he shakes a frighteningly long dildo over a hollering crowd, to
a Turkish men-only bar in Berlin. In these works, Ashery is not
concerned with interaction, simply doing street intervention as
a slightly seedy, dysfunctional orthodox Jew. In each situation,
people ignore him or struggle to disguise their bemusement. As Marcus,
Ashery trespasses single-gendered space which is not open to her
as a woman and secular territory that a Hassidic Jew would not enter.
It creates a deliciously confounding set of oppositions - a cultural-religious
drag which pushes art into something dangerously live.
"Marcus was
born," Ashery explains,
when a friend
in Israel became an orthodox Jew and we lost the friendship. I did
a series of portraits and then went out in costume to a gay club
in King's Cross. I'd no trouble going in, and was cruised, but when
I ordered a drink, someone threw a drink in my face and was very
aggressive. I'm not sure whether it was me being a pretend orthodox
Jew or a pretend man that got to him.
At 'home',
my number is called and I am ushered upstairs to a closed room for
the Say Cheese performance. Inside, Marcus lies on a double
bed, fully clothed. The white cotton tzitzis (thin tails of the
undershirt) trail over his trousers. He beckons me to sit beside
him. A stills camera points our way. He hands me the cable release.
It gives me strength but he has all the power. Marcus' voice is
disarmingly gentle, girlish even. I want the artist to laugh and
toss aside her beard. I want to touch it, try it on. I want to touch
him, breaking one of the biggest taboos for a Hassidic man. But
this is a queer artist, I can do what I like. I feel sleepy - always
a sign of boredom or arousal. I want drama, a scene at least. "What
do you want to do?" he asks. I want direction. "I think we should
hold hands and look at each other," he says. It's so tender, I am
disappointed. It's so safe, I am relieved. Anything could pop out
at me. Real or prosthetic. Anything could pop out of me. Prejudiced
or erotic. Instead we hold hands and I take the still. I emerge,
tingling with the thrill of a close shave with an alive fetish.
Later, the
image arrives in the post. My memento of an acted intimacy has an
uncanny realness. It is doe-eyed Marcus and I. Ashery is not in
the picture. I call her. Her first interactive and most intimate
work has left her totally drained. Some of the thirty clients/participants
were silent and acquiescent. Others demanded sexual favours. One
woman had asked Marcus to say that he didn't love her anymore. Then
she replied that she knew why... One woman was shocked and confused
by his/her gender identity, which, for her, remained uncertain throughout
the evening, while another doubted her own sexuality during the
session. The confessions of a Hassidic, transgender Jew sound kind
of Catholic. The least sexually explicit were the most interesting
images, Ashery admits. "What wasn't filmed and what was said were
more exposing."
The following
salon at 'home' presented Ernest Fischer's The Art of (Self)
Service-a Master Class In Etiquette and Presentation, based
on Fischer's training as a butler. Book for 'home' online at www.lgihome.co.uk.
Cherry
Smyth is
a writer based in London.
