I am Jealous of John Abrams

by Christina Zeilder

 

I am jealous of John Abrams. The painter. As a filmmaker I am jealous of the painting: the object. An object to be brought downstairs, put on the table, unwrapped, set on the floor, handled, tripped over when the door rings, lined up, re-arranged, hung on the wall, ignored and stared at.  That the experience of this object is not beholden to the narrative stopwatch, the relentless need for plot, the omnipotent voice of the filmmaker, the random sigh from the audience, the creak of a chair in the theatre, the telephone ring, the march of time, the context.

 

Abrams' paintings in Cinema Vernis reference the work of three filmmakers: Jean Luc Godard, Lina Wertmuller, and Jean-Jacques Beineix. In the first series, Abrams has created twenty small-scale paintings of each film: Breathless, Swept Away and Betty Blue. The choices of films and of frames are significant, subjective and telling. But they are not freeze frames. They can be read as representations, translations or adaptations of the original but they also exist separately. Alone.  The narrative qualities of film are referenced but kept askew. We can choose to read them in any order. We cannot read them as montage but only as relational. We are not forced to see them in sequence as we would in a film. So we can focus on other aspects, arranging them by colour, figure, text, etc. Or choose just one image to focus on. During a studio visit with John, the canvases sprawled out before me; I am invited to take one home. I am to choose.

 

The painting sits beside my television as I watch the movies over again. It is funny, simple, small, trapped by its frame. It is the portrait of a man and a woman in a bed. They emerge from the canvas in pink and blue. The scene is intimate. They stare at each other, their expressions blurred slightly by the painter’s hand to be somewhat inscrutable. Do they fight? Do they talk of love? What is happening between them? But these thoughts are interrupted before they happen. The painted image includes the English subtitles of this French film. “Do you know William Faulkner?” “No, have you slept with him?”.  Instantly we know this scene: its reference, its implied sexism, and its petty jealous nature.

 

The painting mulls the fundamental miscommunication of two people. The need to posses, but also, the willful inability to connect. The seducer is goofy, brutish, sexist, foolish and possessive.  His naked torso is brimming with manliness. His suggestion is idiotic: the only way she could know another man is sexually. Yet it is funny because it is knowable. This is a joke we all get. The woman’s covered waifish body waits for seduction. She is stoic, submissive, cultured, beautiful and angry. The muscles in her neck are pronounced and tense, she seems poised. Her cultured references are read by him as excuses for her need to prolong the seduction. The romantic implication persists: what women really want is to be possessed by a man. 

 

I believe that there is autobiography in this work; John admits to me that he is drawn to the movies because they represent real relationships. Not just the romantic Hollywood notion of couples. The focus on the relationships between a man and a women above all else: narrative, plot and the linear nature of time. This is the theme, which links his choice of films: the focus on the relationship between a man and a woman above all else. They are all very sexist and reflect the times they were made in. So is this love for these films a wish to return to a highly sexualized but sexist world??? What compels the need to dwell within these roles??  Perhaps it is the desire to represent sexualized heterosexuality without it being ironic or straight ahead porn. But John also references the work of some of his gay contemporary art peers. He admires the freedom of sexuality that their work possesses. I see nods to the work of Andy Fabo, Colin Campbell and Stephen Andrews; that they can reference domestic relationships, explicit sexuality, and the banality of relationships, still within a politically charged contemporary milieu. To radicalize heterosexuality is Abrams then forced to take us back in time? Back to the pointed reference to these four films? Back to the man and the woman? Back to a time where heterosexuality ruled undisputed?

 

In the gigantic canvases from Swept Away the dialogue is conspicuously missing. We are obliterated by the scale of the paintings. Our criticisms, our disbelief, our skepticism is washed away. This is a love story. The technique changes, Abrams still references the letter box, so we still know this is a movie, but the paint splashes out more freely. This is not time for literary references, schooled pretensions about art. This is the primal fantasy. A man, a woman, a beach. They are getting it on. The colours are vivid and lush. Their skin glows. We are all wet. This is a love story damn it. Thank god he left out the dialogue because “I am going to rape you, split you in half, you ball-breaking bitch and teach you what a man is” does not translate so well these days.

 

As seen as an adaptation of the films Abrams' paintings can do what these films could not in their medium. Stop time. Rearrange the relationship. As Abrams moves into the scenes from Contempt, he uses the paint in more “painterly” ways. The faithful representations