Zero to Superhero
Chloe Hawkins
At "Comix Ex-Machina," the recent inventive group show at Flux Factory, the comics-inspired pieces are not confined to two dimensions; their stories move and change according to the subtle vibrations of tiny motors, the flipping on and off of lights, the donning of a special pair of glasses. Ranging in media from painting, to sculpture to papercuts, all pieces share a common element: the invitation to interact. Narratives are revealed, created, or altered according to the playful interventions of the audience.
An overturned crate in front of a tiny stage tempts you to sit and view Remote Detonation, by Ian Burns. Handmade wooden and paper figures move across the stage, set in motion by a series of small motors and axels that hang below the set like mechanized organs. They tell a simple travel story: a bus brimming with passengers is driving by a barren landscape of crosses. This bumpy, scenic ride loops continuously until the viewer steps in. Between the seat and the stage, an actual remote control is set, pointing at the action. Press the middle button and you produce a crash–bodies fly, the bus breaks in two. And then it comes together again, and resumes its journey. But you may press the button as many times as you like to satisfy your morbid curiosity. The installation is viewable from both sides. In the front you see the paper actors flooded with light on an open stage; the mechanics and materials of their performance are exposed. From behind, the paper backdrop of the set becomes a screen onto which the actions of the characters are projected, telling the story in light and shadow.
Also exploring the theme of infinite traveling, in Lost Luggage, Jason Little uses projection to tell his story in three dimensions. Six old trunks, stacked three on three, have their viewable ends replaced with opaque white screens. A story is scrawled on these panels, describing a man who perpetually travels on an insatiable quest for depth, stimulation, escape. Within the deep interior spaces of the trunks, objects move on small rotating motors. A light projects their forms onto the screens. We see only their dynamic silhouettes: a ceiling fan, a toy train, a clear globe, an airplane in a cage. As they spin, rotating in and out of proximity with the screens, a universe in black and white, both blurred and sharp, is created for the traveler, echoing the protagonists cyclical journey of departure and arrival. The visuals, as is, are captivating. When viewed wearing a pair of the provided boxy black sunglasses, which are missing one lens, the visitor experiences a Pulfrich effect. If you can embrace this new style, in addition to laughing at yourself and your fellow bespectacled spectators, you’ll enjoy watching the images in 3-D.
In front of Aya Kakeda’s painting, Monster Palace, hangs a weighted pull-chain. With a tug, the light above is changed from blue to red, and parts of the painting appear and disappear. The menacing side of a world of charming creatures is revealed; frowns replace smiles, a ghost sits on a sleeping figure, a dead animal joins a meal table previously decorated by a cheerful assemblage of fruit and rice.
This concept of light as a narrative element is elaborated in Andrea Dezso’s The day we changed our lives forever–intimate papercuts, tunnel books made from three layers of cut paper. In a dark room, each little environment, alive with fantastical and whimsical creatures, sits on a small shelf at eye level. Peeking into these worlds from the sides are the most influential characters: tiny red, green and blue LED lights that correspond to three sliding knobs on the wall. Shifting the balance of light from blue to green changes the energies and intentions of conversing devils, whispering rabbits, dancing pixies, perching grasshoppers; the creatures live in a tenuous balance between cute and sinister according to the behaviors of red, green and blue. Here, the narratives are open-ended; we create the story as we the turn the knob.
Though their methods of storytelling are clearly outside of the box, all of the pieces in the exhibit maintain some of the intimacy of reading comics. As we approach a new curious installation, we know there must be something to partake in; we look for the point of entry in hopes that the artist will reward our efforts with a fulfilling surprise. As in reading comics when spending time with each frame offers a richer understanding of the story, here we devote our attentions to each button and compartment to discover the intentions of the artist and delight in the details. Some artists, as always is the case, succeeded more than others in attracting and holding our attention. I skipped over a couple of pieces because the instructions were too long or they lacked a visual hook to encourage a deeper look. The show seems to point out that in all narratives, the story happens somewhere between what the artist has provided us and our own imaginations. The physical interaction in "Comix" allows us to perform the reader’s role as the interpreter, the maker, the teller of stories.
