With ICA’s “The Visitors,” We’re Alone Together

by Jess Ferguson

Over the past several weeks, many of us have likely sought comfort in something — whether it’s reading, watching New Girl for the tenth time (no judgment), or taking time to learn a new hobby. But for some, art can be one of the greatest sources of comfort.

The Institute of Contemporary Art’s latest exhibition, Ragnar Kjartansson’s “The Visitors,” explores the idea of being alone together in a way that isn’t sad, but rather, poetic and comforting. The piece combines audio and visual elements and features musicians performing in different areas of the same 43-room New York estate that ICA visitor assistant Kelly Chen said is “decaying in the most beautiful way.” While it was recorded in 2012, the piece’s themes are arguably more topical now than ever.

“I definitely got that feeling of the loneliness during the pandemic,” sophomore Business of Creative Enterprises major Gabby D’Ostilio said. “It kind of took me back to what it felt like to be alone in my house for months. I got a melancholy feeling, but I also thought it was so beautiful — it even made me feel happy. It was a range of different emotions rather than just one interpretation.”

D’Ostilio is not alone in this feeling. “It’s definitely presented in a very different context right now because we’ve all been stuck in our rooms for months,” Chen said. “We’re supposed to be viewing it as sort of a comforting or healing piece, and it definitely is.”

The “Visitors” exhibition lasts 64 minutes and takes guests on a complete journey, from before the musicians start performing in their individual spaces, to an ending walking through the fields of upstate New York. Throughout the piece, musicians move into rooms with others, stop playing, and switch instruments. 

“Knowing that something’s going to be an hour long in a museum is kind of daunting, but I was so entranced, and it didn’t even feel like I was watching for an hour,” D’Ostilio said. “When you’re just looking at a regular painting, you interpret it however you want to, and then there’s not much else to do. With ‘The Visitors,’ it was more like you were watching a movie — I had different reactions at different times.”

Unlike more sedentary pieces typical of a museum, the exhibition is both dynamic and accessible to a wide audience. Its popularity is reflected in the ICA’s number of guests since “The Visitors”’ September 30 opening.

“It was super duper quiet here when this wasn’t open,” Chen said. “It’s like a crowd favorite, so we’ve gotten rushes of people coming in for this sort of piece. It’s very entry-level, and very physically immersive.”

Even the sound, which seems to envelop you as you stand in the dimly-lit room, feels like a metaphoric hug. At one point about halfway through, the performers collectively reach a climax in the piece that feels like an ascension into heaven. Afterwards, they pause for a moment, allowing both the musicians and the audience to simultaneously process everything before continuing. Because of these breaks — some longer than others — the audience never feels overwhelmed, which can be difficult to accomplish in a longer-form piece.

One of the more poignant aspects of the exhibition is the vulnerability of the musicians. Nothing feels scripted or contrived, even though the music itself is arranged and practiced. Furthermore, the music isn’t even the main attraction, as the same couple of lines are repeated for the majority of the exhibition. Instead, the subjects are the focus.

By the end, guests feel connected to the musicians and almost have a greater sense of who they are, despite barely hearing these artists converse. Between full-frontal nudes, explosions, mental distress, drinking, and smoking, there is a sense of raw authenticity the audience may find themselves relating to in unexpected ways. A traditional portrait can only go so far to capture the essence of a person; “The Visitors” wholly encapsulates lived experiences and our shared humanity.

Because different musicians are presented on different screens, it’s impossible for viewers to take everything in at once — which could be for the best. Consequently, viewers like D’Ostilio may decide to come back for a new perspective. “I might go see it again because I liked it so much,” she said. Entering the experience with fresh eyes and seeing it just once may result in an entirely different viewing experience, compared to watching it in full multiple times. Each repeated viewing allows the audience to pick up on more nuances.

“The Visitors” may also connect with Emerson students, particularly those in the Visual and Media Arts department. Art, especially in a museum setting, does not have to be limited to paintings and sculptures. In fact, we may continue to see longer-form video installations gain traction in fine arts settings going forward.

“A lot of Emerson students in particular could appreciate it,” D’Ostilio said. “There’s various aspects of the exhibition that Emerson students across all departments would like — there’s the music, the visual aspect, the message.”

It looks like “The Visitors” can — and should be — visited by everyone before next August.

Mallory Drive

by Sophia Kriegel

Is it selfish to want to leave home? Is that what makes me a child? My mother asks why everyone needs to get out so bad. But how far is my mother from the city that birthed her? (The answer: 1,470.3 miles)

I’ve got a few baby teeth stuck in the pipes, somewhere. My mother has a lock of my hair in a velvet pouch beneath her mother’s pearls. Check the carpet for my fingernail clippings. Check the concrete for my blood. Check the finger paintings and the photo albums and the retainer I forgot to bring to school. What I’m trying to say is, I am a ghost before I am dead.

What I really mean is, we all want to get out. But there’s a stack of half-used journals on the nightstand of my childhood bedroom. And a tiny tooth trapped in the drain. Is it the wanting to go that makes us children? Or is it convincing ourselves that we could ever really be gone?

I came out screaming. We all did. Our mothers in their hospital gowns, pushing as hard as they could, only to be comforted by the sound of our dissatisfaction. Even then, life was never good enough.

I’m sitting at a party filled with kids I’ve known my whole life. We all knew everyone. And yet, nobody knew anyone at all. We all lived different lives, and yet, we all lived the same life. Suburban children squeezed into our mother’s sedans, screaming at the top of our lungs.

The party is at Sarah’s house. I’ve spoken to Sarah a total of three times in the ten years that we’ve gone to school together. That’s the charm of a suburban childhood — the familiarity that has fermented inside each of us for far longer than we would have hoped. Sarah lives a few streets down from my house. The model is the same, though. In this town there are three blueprints for houses, the extent of variety being the color that the shutters are painted. There is a through street — Mallory Drive — the central vein of a city that loops around itself until it is dizzy. Sarah’s house is off of it. So is mine. So is all of ours. 

You can only travel up and down the same street so many times before you start blaming it for every sadness in your life. 

I’m 11 and walking down Mallory towards Stevenson Ranch Elementary. It is the first day of school and Ella and I are wearing matching outfits. Plaid schoolgirl skirts with matching argyle sweater vests, hers pink and mine blue. My father walks us to the building just as he always has. Each of us holding one of his hands. Now, the city feels as big as his palms. Stretches as wide as his hugs. Wide enough to swallow me whole. He gifts us a sliver of responsibility, shaving off an inch of the city's size. He lets us walk home from school alone.

So, when the time comes for Ella and I to begin the two-block trek, we meet outside the cafeteria. Our feet climbing up Mallory, the same Mallory that we walked that morning, but there is less magic here. The sidewalk is not a red-carpet like my father made it feel like. It is just a sidewalk. I never realized how grey the cement was before.

I’m 16 and take a left off of my street onto Mallory. My father is in the passenger seat giving cautious yet stern directions — this is my first time driving on a residential road. I’m too cocky to be nervous. My father, aware of my narcissism, does his best to humble me in the hopes of making it home in one piece. I’m cruising down the street at a crisp speed of 34 miles per hour, the most momentum my hands have mustered in their weathered life.

“Make a right here,” my father says.

I turn my head. I hear him late and make a delayed right turn off of Mallory. I almost hit a pedestrian, a moving vehicle, and a parked car. And now I’m sobbing. My father is yelling. My hands are shaking. It’s not my fault. If only the street went on for longer. If only the road told me to turn quicker. My dad drives home. I don’t say anything the whole ride; I just look out the window, past my elementary school and the park and the pavement, tears staining my cheeks, red with adolescent resentment.

I’m 18 and in the passenger seat of my sister’s car while she drives up Mallory. It is 2 a.m. and we’re on our way home from a party. I drank too much. I did it on purpose. But now, Ella and I are fighting. Screaming at one another, something about how we can’t wait to be far away from from this town and these people and each other. I can’t take it anymore. I unbuckle my seatbelt and reach for the door handle.

“I’ll jump. I’ll do it,” I tell her.

The child lock stops me. 

I wonder if that street would have caught me. If it would have wrapped me in its arms and warded off any severe injuries. Or if it would have let me break my legs. Punishment for my passionate rage towards it. The time I yelled that I couldn’t stand this stupid town with its stupid streets and suffocating mentalities. It heard me. It knows I hate it. We all hate it. How can we not? The pavement on which we scraped our knees, fell flat on our faces, ran from home, cursed our lives. Begged to leave. 

We’ve taught ourselves to resent the roads we learned to walk on. Situate our anger at our mothers and our school teachers and the cashier at the supermarket who used to hand us lollipops when we were kids, but now, doesn’t even recognize us beneath our angst. We are angry. We are so angry at the suburb for stripping us of some sort of dreamlike city life where everything is beautiful because we do not know it.

I’m 19 and driving up Mallory on my way home from the airport. It’s my first time back since moving across the country. I realize that the suburb had sunk its teeth into my neck and left an imprint I will never be able to shake. I want, desperately, to feel like a stranger again. I want to prove to myself that we are not one — that suburb and I. So, as I drive up the street I’ve driven up one million times — the pathway home where all the homes look the same and all the children hate their parents too — I close my eyes. I want to crash. I want to prove that I do not know the twists of this town like the back of my hand. That I could not navigate this monotony with my eyes closed. That I could leave and forget and be more than Mallory Drive.

I don’t crash. 

After months and months of being away, I could drive up that hill, eyes closed, in the pitch black, all the way home. I’m angry because I hate this town. But I think I am this town. And I always will be.

The Spirit of She

by Sam Goodman

Photography by Jessica O’Donoghue

She is the Sublime. Incorporeal, the primordial energy, She defies mind, body, and spirit. She knows and sees that which we cannot. Keeper of wisdom, prophet of posterity, She is Woman, the omnipotent spirit of She. 

And I am Jacob, climbing the ladder between earth and heaven, a humble worshiper of all that is holy. 

. . .

After coming out of the closet at 15, I was adopted into a community of like-minded queer people who spent their final years of adolescence being emotionally honest, sexually expressive, outright clowns. This small circle consisted of a variety of me and various queer women with whom I developed a strong bond. They represented safety, strength, and courage in a world entirely confusing for gay people who were coming of age. 

I let these women be my guiding light through an otherwise daunting and uninviting community. As we traversed this unfamiliar territory, we slowly uncovered artifacts of queer history that began to form our identities. 

. . .

I know queerness because She taught it to me. Lepore, Venus, Divine, clerics of the queer commandments.

She, Queen of the Club, instructed on shocking glamour and the freedom inherent in radical beauty. 

She, from the House of Xtravaganza, preached that nerve isn’t a suggestion, it’s a tool for survival. 

She, The Notorious Beauty, patron of filth, pinnacle of depravity, and paragon of authenticity, illuminated the raw nature of the underbelly.

. . .

 My virgin queer eyes marveled at these women, posters on the wall. They were everything I wanted to be: real, unapologetic, bold. And yet, my attempt at defining their essence is entirely insufficient. Their aura, indescribable, unnamable, and enigmatic, is, in many ways, godly. But, this sanctity can only be defined through the lack thereof; the divine feminine aura can only be identified due to its absence. 

This absence is evident, for example, during most interactions I’ve had with gay men counterparts. I’ve found it difficult to connect with and find my place beside men, despite common queerness, due to the inherent lack of indescribable female energy.

. . .

She opened the gates to Eden and I was fashioned from her rib. This one shall be called Man because from Woman he was taken.

. . .

I continue to surround myself with queer women, marveling at their ability to display a feminine aura I will never truly understand. I have not lived as a woman, I have not walked in those shoes, and I can’t help but admire their quiet strength.

They threw me in platform boots, a rusty-red eye, and coffee lip liner and pushed me onto the proverbial stage, encouraging me to not only come into my own but to own every bit of me. Everything about me I was told was slightly odd or considerably disturbing was celebrated by the queer women in my life.

 And in times that called for it, these women were, and continue to be, enduring, fierce, and protective. 

. . .

She is my Rock, my Fortress, the foundation beneath my feet.

She is the Absolute above, provides manna to test my faith. I follow as she envelopes me in her Glory. She shields me from the red hot sun and cools the scorching sand beneath my feet.

. . .

However, the admiration and appreciation I have for the queer women in my life is not something I recognize in most gay men I meet. The gay community, dominated by these men, has been historically unkind to women. As mentioned in Lesbophobia: Gay Men and Misogyny, the 1995 pamphlet by writer Megan Radclyffe, many early lesbian activists left the Gay Liberation Front in the early ‘70s as a result of the misogynistic behavior of gay men. 1 Early gay rights movements, though led by lesbians and trans women, were dominated by gay men who pursued sexual liberation at the expense of a gender revolution.

Lesbians and trans women continue to be excluded from pride celebrations, gay bars and clubs, and other queer spaces that are controlled by men who would rather fill those spaces with their male counterparts.

 As queer and trans women continue to defy traditional gender norms and standard expectations of sexuality, they fall victim to intracommunity transmisogyny that seems to be excused because it’s being performed by other queer people. The portrayal of the queer community as inclusive and accepting allows for a shocking amount of complacency in addressing the toxic culture surrounding gay perceptions of feminity, womanhood, and female sexuality.

Having formed my identity through the lens of queer womanhood, I am now able to better understand the complex nature of my own community. My relationships with queer women have shown me the widespread, pervasive sexism and transphobia that LGBTQ+ spaces are not immune from. I understand my position as a non-female queer person and recognize how much I owe to the queer women both in my life and in the world around me. Without these women, I would be missing an essential part of my queer being that only materialized because of the unnamable, undefinable, enigmatic female spirit. 

. . .

Protector of her children, She blesses the land and promises fruit, dew, and sunlight. Beloved, builder of ancient mountains and eternal hills, She is the moon and the tide, the crown and the head, the beast and the wild. She is Woman.

ENDNOTES

1 Radclyffe, Megan. Lesbophobia: Gay Men and Misogyny. London, Continuum International Publishing Group, Ltd., 1995.

Deteriorating is a Becoming Event

Photos by Yuhan Cheng

Words by Carly McGoldrick

The last few weeks have felt particularly heavy. There’s a certain bleakness, now, as the city turns colder and old snow accumulates along the sidewalks. Puddles are getting cloudier, and I haven’t been able to go outside for more than ten minutes without freezing. Time is moving more slowly. I wish the sun didn’t set so early in the day.

I’ve been spending a lot of time swaying in the darkness of my room, blinds closed, half-comatose. I clutch my arms so tightly to my torso to contend with the cold, and also to avoid letting any important pieces of myself fall out.

There’s a nervousness and a fear, for whatever reason, that as the seasons change, and the snow freezes, and then melts and then falls again, that some piece of my identity is getting lost along the way.

It’s sort of indescribable, the feeling of deterioration. If nature is collapsing in on itself, why can’t I?

I exist in many forms.

It’s taken me awhile to believe that.

For years, I’ve suppressed my multitudes as a means of becoming

more digestible by other people.

It’s frightening to come to the realization

That I had been shaping myself so exhaustively

To satisfy the likes of others,

Rather than developing my own identity.

To instead become a shell of expectations, rather than a whole person.

I‘ve always liked to see myself reflected in my environment.

Now, instead of changing myself,

I change the things I see.

I go on walks.

I admire the water as it freezes and thaws,

Allowing its smooth form to run alongside its more jagged one,

Not fearful of the way in which its two versions are different.

Like that water,

I coexist with myself.

I am not fully one thing, but rather, I am many,

And I am transforming constantly.

I remember speaking to my mother on the phone in the airport terminal a month or two ago, before my flight home to Ohio. I had tears streaming down my face. At that time in my life, even the temporary change of a location, like the one from Massachusetts to Ohio, was disorienting. I didn’t want to go. I’m currently learning to adapt to that kind of infinitesimal change.

It was raining that day, and I remember how the raindrops framed the grime on the terminal windows, illuminating the planes and the runways and the workers and the luggage, all battling the storm outside. It’s funny how something so normal and so harmless, like water, can be such a nuisance.

When I got to Ohio that evening, it was snowing. I missed the rain in Massachusetts, but I would imagine I was glad to be see that Midwestern snow I had known and loved my whole life.

I’ve learned, or am currently learning, that there’s much to be learned from water, in all its forms. There’s power in deteriorating, in the ability to break oneself down, to then build oneself back up in another form. Like rain in one place, turning cold in another, I seek to become more comfortable with change. There lies much power in fluidity, and I’m learning to embrace that.

How Did We Get Here

by Leah Heath

They step up and close their eyes, pulling their entire selves into this moment. Complete and totally. Anticipating the final resurgence for the crowd. They begin by first moving their arms. Bones moving smoothly under their skin, shoulder blades moving…IN…OUT.

The crowd wonders what they’ve seen to get to this point. What memories flash through these women’s eyes to make them move the way they do. They create these images for the crowds as well though. One man thinks of his wife’s arm, sliding across the cream bedsheet. A woman sees her mom slam a stick near her feet in a heated act to prompt removal of one’s presence from the room.

Breathe in so loud, everyone can hear you. Hands skyrocket. Make sure not to point your toes. This is not ballet and life is not so graceful a dance as to be thought so. Snap into position, noting positions of yourself and those around the room, as well as a moment for the audience to think about that one movement, and continue.. Open lungs meet with open ribs. We make sure to put our entire selves into this dance. Giving ourselves to these strangers, who will then go home to sleep with these memories we make for them.

A man in the hall just outside finds a sharp piece of mirror. He picks it up and wraps it into his hand. Sliding the shard into his pocket but make sure to keep its grip. Slide into the crowd and experience this bewitchment first-hand. Crazy, right! You feel the rhythm. How is this not creating a chain reaction with the audience? The man with the mirror piece decides to be the first of the chain.

Stepping out of the audience and up to the edge of the stage. He stands up there with his fist raised, and within it a shard of the mirror. Everyone stops and stares. The dancers stand straight backed with hands at their sides waiting to see what he’ll do. He stands, still with all eyes on him, and slams the shard to the ground. Bursting ethereally across the dance floor. Oh no! They’ll cut their feet now, he thinks. He looks at the main dancer, inhales and steps onto the shattered mirror bits, creating a sheering sound against the ground. He starts his own dance to invoke them all. This…this is how it is supposed to be done.

Enticing the rest of the crowd, they get up and start in this flowing dance. Individually they figure out how to move their bodies in this chaotic way. Feeling the rhythm, one woman crouches low to the ground and picks up one of the mirror shards and laughs. Laughing, everyone continues, as the dancers watch. We’ve ruined this game for them, unable to dance; they could, of course, make a choice. Stay outside of what was once their box, or mar their feet forever to be a part of this one beautiful and unrelenting night full of the movement in their bones. The choice is yours.

Illustration by Queenn Mckend

Goth Glam on Instagram

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telling myself ur the sh*t to build up my spirit but also u ain’t sh*t to keep me humble and grounded :———-) :—-(

A post shared by 𝖏𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖕𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖊 진주 𝖑𝖊𝖊 (@princessgollum) on May 30, 2018 at 2:05pm PDT

You probably already know of Josephine Lee, model and artist of @princessgollum fame. Josephine is currently serving as a Dazed Beauty Player, representing the “future of beauty” on Dazed Magazine’s new beauty platform.

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motherfucker im i’ll

A post shared by J•E•THЯEE (@darkwebhorsegirl) on Aug 9, 2018 at 4:55pm PDT

“Not a girl but a horse girl” (They/Them)

Jay gives us CONSISTENT intricate goth makeup looks with spiders, barbed wire, centipedes and more. They have beautiful pet rats and frequently change the color of their mullet. They also share about their journey of recover and sobriety which is EXTREMELY bad ass and goth! Follow for vulnerability, honestly, inspiration, looks and RATS.

art by Enne Goldstein

Jay told em, “My account isn’t a dedicated makeup page, or health food page, or any type of account that I could see people wanting to follow. It’s literally just my life, and I guess 18,000 people take interest in that. I feel like people recognize that I try to be honest about the fact that while social media only shows your audience what you want them to see, my life isn’t perfect. I work a minimum wage job and live paycheck to paycheck. I’m in recovery from alcoholism and drug addiction. I watch too much WWE and I’ve found that many people find that inspiring—that’s important to me. If I can use the slight following that I have (saying that makes me feel weird and icky but I guess it’s the case) to be a positive influence of some sort and of service to others, then I’m gonna keep doing what I’m doing.”

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frizzy hair madness

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63 Likes, 3 Comments - louis (@slaytrixx) on Instagram: "frizzy hair madness"

Here at em Magazine we LOVE to see local Bostonians lighting up the Instagram feed with goth glamour. Louis of @slaytrixx frequently sports studs, chains and leather but isn’t limited to one look. His Instagram also frequently features art, with details from paintings, sculptures and photographs for a bit of macabre inspiration. Louis told em Mag, “I would describe my style as glamour mixed with gritty, raw punk and goth influences. Many of which include Lou reed, Nico from the Velvet Underground, Rozz Williams and the British punk rock movement. Androgyne is a huge aspect of my style, I like to alter my form and appearance every single day, I never leave the house looking the same as I did before, almost taking on the form of someone else, it’s very invigorating for me.”