Catalogue text for the series ’Some Secret’,  2002

by Rune Gade, lecturer, Department of Arts and Cultural Studies, University of Copenhagen

”They come
different and the same
with each the absence of love is different
with each the absence of love is the same"
Samuel Beckett 

It looks at me. The doll looks at me. This banal observation about the emanating power of the doll, which at once hits anyone who is confronted with Eva Merz’ ’Some Secret’, already initialises the psychological complexity of the series. For what is actually looking at me? A doll, a thing formed in a human image, i.e. a figure. Something which appears before me, allowing me to recognise it in my own likeness. If it looks at me, even though it is just a lifeless thing, it is because I recognise myself in it, and impose layers of meanings with my own eyes. I am met by the thing as if it were alive, because I am able to make it alive, breathe life into it, animate it. With the feeling of being subjected to its gaze I have already surrendered to its magic. I am at its mercy. I am raped by its stare.

It is not just a doll, i.e. a thing formed in the likeness of man. It is a picture of a doll, and not just any picture, but a photograph. A peculiar characteristic of the photograph is that it secures a likeness between the photographed object and its representation. It looks like a doll. But not only that. It looks like a doll that looks like a human. Just as the doll is different from the human it resembles, the photograph of the doll is different from the doll it resembles. Strangely enough, the photographic representation brings the doll closer to its human blueprint, its origin. The doll is almost more alive in photographic form than as a thing. It stares in a different manner. The very act of taking a picture of the doll, portraying it, is an act of love which brings it to life, breathes life into it. Someone has played a life into this doll, filled it with meanings, made it meaningful.

It is well known that the child’s relationship to the doll is contractual. The one moment the child plays with the doll as if it were a living child. The next moment it throws the doll around as if it were a lifeless object, as indeed it is. The belief that the doll is alive (the illusion), is kept alive through play (ludens). Play can be postponed, broken off, suspended, whereby the doll is immediately transformed form being to thing. When one can still be emotionally affected, perhaps become uneasy, when seeing the child brutally throw away the thing it treated before with such great tenderness, then this is because the transformation animated being to lifeless thing is never as complete as the difference between the two states suggests. A vestige of life substance still remains in the doll, even in its condition as thing, and maybe more so for the adult, than for the child. In other words the doll is never a thing. Even as a pure thing it stares at me with its gaze as clear as glass.

The doll is not alone. There are many of them. One has to suppose this is in its state as thing, i.e. in its objectivity, where it is just one of many dolls cast in the same mould. The world is full of identical dolls. But in Merz’ photographical series it is not the doll as object which is multiplied, but its image. There are many photographs of the same doll. It is accompanied by many variations of itself, like a clone flocking to meet other identical incarnations of itself. There is no original, no truer version than any of the others. But in all their uniformity one can pay attention to their mutual differences. It is the same doll in different attire, staged as nine different characters or types, photographed against different backgrounds. It is impossible to only look for the differences or similarities in individual portraits. This is precisely why they work as a series, with marked similarities and differences. The doll is always the same, but it is still another every time. Each time the same in a different way.

It is larger than me. The doll is blown out of proportion, out of scale, gigantic. It is not a little copy of me, but an over dimensioned, superhuman version of me. Larger than life. It stares at me from a place where it is no longer in my power, but the other way around, it has taken power over me. Its size alone overwhelms me. It has child-like features, but the size of a giant. A monstrosity, whose penetrating unease has its origin in the combination of the child’s unfinished, characterless physiognomy and its supernatural, overgrown size. It is no longer a miniature model of myself that I can pick up in my hands and play with as it suits me, dress and undress. It is larger than me, unwieldy and huge. It suggests something immovable, a statuesque peace, an admonitory grandiosity, which makes me ephemeral and insubstantial.

Is it sexless? Is she a sexless doll? With her round cheeks and the hint of a smile on her lips the doll appears to be predominantly feminine. But give it a blue bonnet on and it changes itself imperceptibly into a boy child. Undress it, surreptitiously cover its nipples with black tape, and its flat chest leaves one in doubt about which sex it is. In Merz’ dramatization the doll becomes the object of curious crossings between an asexual body and costumes with strong gender connotations. It becomes a medium through which gender can be played and posited, precisely because it cannot be present(ed) of its own accord. Here there is a lack of anatomical sexual characteristics, and therefore no possibility for essentializing the biological gender. Sexuality can only be invoked through working with external codes. She can be painstakingly constructed as a girl through the immanent sexual gender markers, deeply set in the cut or colour of a coat, the stitch of a knitting pattern, the buttons of a blouse. The sexless doll becomes a perverse reflection of the grown-up individual’s ideas about childhood innocence, which is literally brought into being through eliminating the seat of shame: sex.

The doll arrives from another era. It is a survivor from the 1930’s, complete with water-combed side parting and big blue eyes. Full of hope and optimism, a conserved piece of the past. But at the same time covered with patina and battered by the years which lie between its birth in a Parisian mould and its present appearance. The hole in the nose bears witness to a fundamental impermanence, but also gives the doll an almost statuesque authority. The brutal “wound” points beyond the exhibited doll’s permanent childhood, on the contrary, it provides evidence of its high age. Worn and torn she becomes an aging woman who inhabits a child’s body. At once child and adult. She stares at me through ordeal of more than half a century. This doll in every way bears a tarnished innocence. But she also carries the memory of another era in the shape of her meticulous attire and fresh backgrounds. She is equipped with an aura of plenty of time, shrouded in a kind of love for material which is no longer found. She is a ghost of solitude, cuddled half to death.

There are nine different dolls, but still only one. A parade of variations over the same confrontational pose. Nine figures, nine identities, nine stories. The doll looks at me appealingly. As if inviting to be told. It sets itself up as this magical sphere of possibilities, where stories can unfold. I can look back at the doll, imagine its character, its temperament, its past, its fate. I can play with it, work further on its identity. But this doll has its own life, it will not be manipulated with unrestrictedly. It looks at me, it has its own will. It plays with me. In the host of smooth skinned doppelgangers penetratingly looking at me. I am reduced to becoming an object the doll plays with. Its look at me is a scathing stare, which maintains an unblinking confrontation. It is as if one becomes witness to a peculiar private ritual in the enclosed space of a hall of mirrors. The doll does not reveal its secrets, but lets me sense them as strange riddles.

It looks at me with an emptiness that has a strange wholeness, as if it has made its lack into its greatest possession.

Katalogtekst til billedserien ’Some Secret’, 2002

Visse hemmeligheder – om dukkens liv

af Rune Gade, Lektor, Institut for Kunst- og Kulturvidenskab, KUA

”They come
different and the same
with each the absence of love is different
with each the absence of love is the same"
Samuel Beckett

Den kigger på mig. Dukken kigger på mig. Med denne banale konstatering af blikkets emanerende kraft, der som det første vil slå enhver, der står over for Eva Merz’ ’Some Secret’, er seriens psykologiske kompleksitet allerede anslået. For hvad er det egentlig, der kigger på mig? En dukke, som er en ting, der er formet i menneskets billede, dvs. en figur. Noget, der viser sig for mig og lader sig genkende som lig mig selv. Hvis den kigger på mig, selv om den blot er en livløs ting, er det således fordi jeg genkender mig selv i den, og med mit eget blik indlejrer en række betydninger i den. Jeg mødes af tingen som om den var levende, fordi jeg er i stand til at gøre den levende, indgive den ånd, animere den. Med følelsen af at være underkastet dens blik har jeg allerede overgivet mig til dens magi. Jeg er i dens vold. Dens blik voldtager mig.

Den er ikke kun en dukke, dvs. en ting formet i menneskets billede. Den er et billede af en dukke, og ikke et hvilket som helst billede, men et fotografi. Noget af det særlige ved det fotografiske billede er, at det bedre end andre billeder fastholder en lighed mellem den fotograferede ting og dens afbildning. Det ligner en dukke. Men ikke nok med det. Det ligner en dukke, der ligner et menneske. Ligesom dukken er forskellig fra det menneske, den ligner, er fotografiet af dukken også forskelligt fra den dukke, det ligner. Pudsigt nok bringer den fotografiske afbildning dukken tættere på det menneskelige forlæg, den i udgangspunktet har. I fotograferet form er dukken næsten mere levende end som ting. Den stirrer på en anden måde. Selve det at fotografere dukken, at portrættere den, er en form for kærlighedsakt, der indfælder liv i den, beånder den. Nogen har leget et liv frem i denne dukke, fyldt den med betydninger, gjort den betydningsfuld.

Barnets relation til dukken er som bekendt kontraktlig. Det ene øjeblik leger barnet med dukken som om den også var et levende barn. Det næste øjeblik kaster det dukken fra sig som den livløse genstand, den i virkeligheden er. Troen på at dukken er et levende væsen (illusionen), opretholdes gennem legen med den (ludens). Legen kan udsættes, afbrydes, suspenderes, hvorved dukken øjeblikkeligt transformeres fra væsen til ting. Når det alligevel kan røre én, f.eks. forurolige én, at se barnet kaste den dukke fra sig som det kort forinden omfattede med stor ømhed, er det fordi transformationen fra animeret væsen til livløs ting aldrig er så komplet, som denne skelnen kunne antyde. En rest af væsentlighed forbliver i dukken, selv i dens tilstand af ting – og måske i højere grad for den voksne end for barnet. Dukken er med andre ord aldrig kun en ting. Selv som ren ting stirrer den på mig med sit glasklare blik.

Dukken er ikke alene. Der er mange af den. Man må formode, at dette gælder i dens tilstand som ting, dvs. dens genstandsmæssighed, hvor den blot er en af mange dukker, der er støbt i den samme form. Verden er fuld af identiske dukker. Men i Merz’ fotografiske serie er det ikke den genstandsmæssige dukke, der er multipliceret, men derimod dens billede. Der er mange fotografier af den samme dukke. Den er i selskab med variationer af sig selv – som en klon, der flokkes om andre identiske inkarnationer af sig selv. Der er ingen original, ingen mere sand udgave end en anden. Men i al deres ensartethed kan man hæfte sig ved deres indbyrdes forskelle. Det er den samme dukke i forskellige påklædninger, iscenesat som ni forskellige figurer eller typer, fotograferet mod forskellige baggrunde. Det er umuligt udelukkende at se enten forskellene eller lighederne mellem de enkelte portrætter. De fungerer serielt netop ved på samme tid at markere lighed og forskel. Dukken er hele tiden den samme, men alligevel også en anden hver gang. Hver gang den samme på en forskellig måde.

Den er større end mig. Dukken er blæst ud af skala, overskaleret, gigantisk. Den er ikke en lille kopi af mig selv, men en overdimensioneret, overmenneskelig udgave af mig. Larger than life. Den stirrer på mig fra et sted, hvor den ikke længere er i min magt, men snarere omvendt har taget magten over mig. Alene i kraft af sin størrelse overmander den mig. Den har barnets træk, men kæmpens format. En monstrøsitet, hvis indtrængende ubehag har sit udspring i kombinationen af barnets ufærdige, karakterløse fysiognomi og den overnaturlige, forvoksede størrelse. Den er ikke længere en miniaturemodel af mig selv, som jeg kan tage i mine hænder og lege med som det passer mig, klæde på og klæde af. Den er større end mig, uhåndgribelig og kæmpemæssig. Der er noget urokkeligt over den, en statuarisk ro, manende grandiositet, som gør mig flygtig og forsvindende.

Er den kønsløs? Er hun en kønsløs dukke? Med sine trinde kinder og læbernes antydningsvise smil fremtræder dukken overvejende feminin. Men giv den en blå kyse på og den forvandler sig umærkeligt til et lille drengebarn. Klæd den af, dæk hemmelighedsfuldt dens brystvorter med sort tape, og dens flade brystkasse efterlader én i uvished om, hvad dens køn er. Dukken bliver i Merz’ iscenesættelser genstand for kuriøse krydsninger mellem en intetkønnet krop og stærkt kønnet kostumering. Den bliver et medium, hvorigennem kønnet kan leges med, netop fordi det ikke af sig selv er præsent. Her er en mangel på anatomiske kønskarakteristika, og derfor ingen mulighed for biologisk essentialisering af kønnet. Kønnet kan kun manes frem gennem iværksættelse af dets ydre koder. Hun kan møjsommeligt konstrueres som en pige via de immanente kønsbetydninger, som ligger dybt indfældet i en trøjes snit eller farve, maskerne i et strikmønster, knapperne i en bluse. Den kønsløse dukke bliver en pervers genspejling af det voksne individs forestillinger om barndommens uskyld, der bogstaveliggøres gennem en eliminering af skammens sæde: kønnet.

Dukken ankommer fra en anden tid. Den er en overlevende fra 1930erne, komplet med vandkæmmet sideskilning og store blå øjne. Fuld af håb og optimisme, et konserveret stykke fortid. Men samtidig patineret og medtaget af årene, der ligger imellem dens fødsel i en parisisk støbeform og dens nuværende fremtoning. Hullet i næsen vidner om en fundamental forgængelighed, men tilfører samtidig dukken en næsten statuarisk autoritet. Det brutale ‘sår’ peger ud over dukkens forvisning til den permanente barndom, det vidner tværtimod om dens høje alder. Skrammet og slidt bliver hun en aldrende kvinde, der tager bolig i barnets krop – på én gang barn og voksen. Hun stirrer på mig gennem et halvt århundredes prøvelser. Det er på alle madder en anløben uskyld, denne dukke er indfattet i. Men hun bærer også erindringen om en anden tid med sig i form af pertentlige klædedragter og ferske baggrunde. Hun er ekviperet med en aura af god tid, indhyllet i en form for kærlighed til materialet som ikke længere findes. Hun er et omsorgens spøgelse, kærtegnet halvt til døde.

Ni forskellige dukker er der, men alligevel kun den samme ene. En parade af variationer over den samme konfronterende posering. Ni figurer, ni identiteter, ni historier. Dukken kigger på mig, appellerende. Som om den inviterer til at blive fortalt. Den opstiller sig selv som dette magiske mulighedsrum, hvori historier kan udfolde sig. Jeg kan kigge tilbage på dukken, forestille mig dens personlighed, dens temperament, dens fortid, dens skæbne. Jeg kan lege med den, bearbejde dens identitet yderligere. Men denne dukke har sit eget liv, den lader sig ikke uforbeholdent manipulere. Den kigger på mig, den har sin egen vilje. Den leger med mig. I vrimlen af blankhudede dobbeltgængere, der stirrer indtrængende på mig, reduceres jeg til genstand for dukkens leg. Dens blik på mig er et sønderlemmende blik, der uden at blinke fastholder konfrontationen. Det er som at blive vidne til et besynderligt privat ritual i spejlkabinettets indelukke. Dukken røber ikke sine hemmeligheder, men lader mig ane dem som mærkelige gåder. Den stirrer på mig med en tomhed, der har en sær fylde – som havde den gjort manglen til sin største besiddelse.