Recognition/Reconnaissance
Janine Fung, Shauna Beharry, Larissa Fan, Janine Fung, Gitanjali, Nancy Tatebe
Introduction to catalogue
Commissioned by Oboro Gallery, Montreal
Is there a topic more likely to turn even the darkest hair grey than—wait for it—“family”? Mere recognition of the word triggers a whole bank vault full of memories. Just who are these people—these sometimes strangers, who we are born to and from whom and to whom we are connected whether we like it or not, acknowledge it or not?
Recognition, a collection of film and video—a mere two hours of screen time, packs in more “stuff” on the family than the Brady Bunch, Oprah and a couple of Star Trek The Next Generation episodes put together. Combined like a regional spice mix, it is truly a distinctive, memorable and fluid set of glimpses, thoughts and tides of ideas, pulled like Lycra, in every other direction.
But all this is done in ways that appear deceptively simple. Take Seeing is Believing by Shauna Behary. In a matter of nine minutes, employing shots and framing devices so simple they appear almost child-like, she captures an ocean of thought around mother-daughter relationships, inheritance and clothing, in all its manifestations. Using her own voice, and in today’s world, the remarkably refreshing sound of silence the rest of the time, Ms. Beharry’s work reached places in my soul that felt so familiar and so recognizable /recognized, I winced. It had an affect that was almost like a dream or a stream of consciousness. And yet, the very use of silence, no music to pull you into another world, and the close-up tracking shots of images of her late mother—“Now I use these hands to search through her photographs, not knowing if it’s me I’m searching for or her”—her fingers adrift on the surface of the snapshots, keep the viewer anchored in reality.
In Leftovers, Janine Fung expands on the theme. I am tempted to suggest a subtitle to Ms. Fung—“Leftovers—America’s Most Satirical Videos.” Surely that scene with Mum and the turkey knife would win some kind of prize! Ms. Fung takes us to the Heathrow airport of family lore: the much-touted-family-gathering-cum-cataclysmic-argument. Finding out her family didn’t really like her friend Carol—who happens to be gay—well, Ms. Fung’s DNA begins to unravel. And as all of us know who have been in this situation, the most painful aspect lies in the fact that the family dinner with turkey proceeds “normally”! That and hearing Mum say “fuck” for the first time, feels like a bucket of ice water thrown in the face—a shock, but hardly painful.
Comparatively, Nancy Tatebe’s film, Momiji: Japanese Maple adopts the subtle approach. Beginning with a markedly atmospheric, grainy, slow motion sequence, she introduces us to the idea of childhood visits to her grandmother’s house. Ms. Tatebe unravels the well-told but unfortunately not widely well-known story of internment of Japanese Canadians during the Second World War. While she has adopted a traditional docu-drama format, Ms. Tatebe clearly excels at using a highly personal and subjective facet within a story to propel it into an entirely new plane. The sequence wherein Nancy’s Mum describes her father’s disappointment upon his return to a post-war ravaged Japan remains seared into my consciousness. As I wept watching it, I remember wondering a) how hard it must have been for Nancy to shoot this scene and b) how she felt having got it. Recognition. Loss. Often it seems records of facts, figures and other rather abstract information abound—but what of emotional maps, personal anecdotal history and stories—like flotsam and jetsam, rarely does one see true pearls washed up on any shore.
In very direct ways, each of these pieces is a slice of time, a representation of a woman at the point on her journey, in her process of Becoming. I became most conscious of this while watching New View, New Eyes by Gitanjali, an almost achingly intimate video record/travelogue of the videomaker’s first trip to India. At a running time of over an hour, Gitanjali’s revelations abound and reach an intimacy that at times borders on some kind of emotional exhibitionism. Simultaneously, Gitanjali mixes incisive commentary, family history and observations including some none too gentle questioning of her own role(s) in the situation. “Miss Taken Identity,” Once there was a girl who went all the way to India to find herself. When she arrived, she was surprised to find that there was no one there.”
Strangely enough, there’s only one quick shot of Gitanjali in the entire piece—I wanted to see her in India! I wanted to see a manifestation of the long-held dream. Was this a crisis in self-representation? Do parts of us, especially when voyaging between Home Bases, suffer from jet lag? Are there parts of ourselves we wish we could leave behind like unclaimed baggage?
Leaving “selves” behind—or sisters, Ten Little Dumplings, Larissa Fan unveils family myth-making and its maker, her father. Ironically she confesses right from the top that she “doesn’t have a very good memory.” Through animation, old photographs, and recreations, she retells the myth. Her father and his nine brothers—who all excelled, surpassed their parents’ expectations, found and married women whose breasts were exactly the same size—but then Larissa finds out there was a sister and a “half-sister.” Ms. Fan investigates some of the issues around gender in Asian culture(s) to navigate space, time and generation, creating a brand new family tree.
It is that very drive—pushing the boundaries of our identiy/ies that leads these women to leap time between places, ages, people and stories, composing a new kind of family connection. Instead of a family tree, the resurgence resolves around one person—the video/filmmaker—and her passage back to (a) given time(s), people and places.
Being a Citizen of the World, connected to three countries on three different continents, and growing into adulthood in Quebec, I can see that part of this process of self-recognition has to occur frequently and rapidly. In hostile environments we’re forced to reinvent and re-negotiate who we are many times in one day. Whatever else it is about, it is about survival and about finding a safe space in which to exist. Perhaps this is what this collection is truly about. In terms of recognition, part of the loss of self is recognizing that as individuals we will never be fully “known” by another person. There will always be something, some story, some slice of pain or shame, or a golden afternoon spent in the company of a beloved, too terrifying to reveal or too precious to share.
Published 1997
Recognition, a collection of film and video—a mere two hours of screen time, packs in more “stuff” on the family than the Brady Bunch, Oprah and a couple of Star Trek The Next Generation episodes put together. Combined like a regional spice mix, it is truly a distinctive, memorable and fluid set of glimpses, thoughts and tides of ideas, pulled like Lycra, in every other direction.
But all this is done in ways that appear deceptively simple. Take Seeing is Believing by Shauna Behary. In a matter of nine minutes, employing shots and framing devices so simple they appear almost child-like, she captures an ocean of thought around mother-daughter relationships, inheritance and clothing, in all its manifestations. Using her own voice, and in today’s world, the remarkably refreshing sound of silence the rest of the time, Ms. Beharry’s work reached places in my soul that felt so familiar and so recognizable /recognized, I winced. It had an affect that was almost like a dream or a stream of consciousness. And yet, the very use of silence, no music to pull you into another world, and the close-up tracking shots of images of her late mother—“Now I use these hands to search through her photographs, not knowing if it’s me I’m searching for or her”—her fingers adrift on the surface of the snapshots, keep the viewer anchored in reality.
In Leftovers, Janine Fung expands on the theme. I am tempted to suggest a subtitle to Ms. Fung—“Leftovers—America’s Most Satirical Videos.” Surely that scene with Mum and the turkey knife would win some kind of prize! Ms. Fung takes us to the Heathrow airport of family lore: the much-touted-family-gathering-cum-cataclysmic-argument. Finding out her family didn’t really like her friend Carol—who happens to be gay—well, Ms. Fung’s DNA begins to unravel. And as all of us know who have been in this situation, the most painful aspect lies in the fact that the family dinner with turkey proceeds “normally”! That and hearing Mum say “fuck” for the first time, feels like a bucket of ice water thrown in the face—a shock, but hardly painful.
Comparatively, Nancy Tatebe’s film, Momiji: Japanese Maple adopts the subtle approach. Beginning with a markedly atmospheric, grainy, slow motion sequence, she introduces us to the idea of childhood visits to her grandmother’s house. Ms. Tatebe unravels the well-told but unfortunately not widely well-known story of internment of Japanese Canadians during the Second World War. While she has adopted a traditional docu-drama format, Ms. Tatebe clearly excels at using a highly personal and subjective facet within a story to propel it into an entirely new plane. The sequence wherein Nancy’s Mum describes her father’s disappointment upon his return to a post-war ravaged Japan remains seared into my consciousness. As I wept watching it, I remember wondering a) how hard it must have been for Nancy to shoot this scene and b) how she felt having got it. Recognition. Loss. Often it seems records of facts, figures and other rather abstract information abound—but what of emotional maps, personal anecdotal history and stories—like flotsam and jetsam, rarely does one see true pearls washed up on any shore.
In very direct ways, each of these pieces is a slice of time, a representation of a woman at the point on her journey, in her process of Becoming. I became most conscious of this while watching New View, New Eyes by Gitanjali, an almost achingly intimate video record/travelogue of the videomaker’s first trip to India. At a running time of over an hour, Gitanjali’s revelations abound and reach an intimacy that at times borders on some kind of emotional exhibitionism. Simultaneously, Gitanjali mixes incisive commentary, family history and observations including some none too gentle questioning of her own role(s) in the situation. “Miss Taken Identity,” Once there was a girl who went all the way to India to find herself. When she arrived, she was surprised to find that there was no one there.”
Strangely enough, there’s only one quick shot of Gitanjali in the entire piece—I wanted to see her in India! I wanted to see a manifestation of the long-held dream. Was this a crisis in self-representation? Do parts of us, especially when voyaging between Home Bases, suffer from jet lag? Are there parts of ourselves we wish we could leave behind like unclaimed baggage?
Leaving “selves” behind—or sisters, Ten Little Dumplings, Larissa Fan unveils family myth-making and its maker, her father. Ironically she confesses right from the top that she “doesn’t have a very good memory.” Through animation, old photographs, and recreations, she retells the myth. Her father and his nine brothers—who all excelled, surpassed their parents’ expectations, found and married women whose breasts were exactly the same size—but then Larissa finds out there was a sister and a “half-sister.” Ms. Fan investigates some of the issues around gender in Asian culture(s) to navigate space, time and generation, creating a brand new family tree.
It is that very drive—pushing the boundaries of our identiy/ies that leads these women to leap time between places, ages, people and stories, composing a new kind of family connection. Instead of a family tree, the resurgence resolves around one person—the video/filmmaker—and her passage back to (a) given time(s), people and places.
Being a Citizen of the World, connected to three countries on three different continents, and growing into adulthood in Quebec, I can see that part of this process of self-recognition has to occur frequently and rapidly. In hostile environments we’re forced to reinvent and re-negotiate who we are many times in one day. Whatever else it is about, it is about survival and about finding a safe space in which to exist. Perhaps this is what this collection is truly about. In terms of recognition, part of the loss of self is recognizing that as individuals we will never be fully “known” by another person. There will always be something, some story, some slice of pain or shame, or a golden afternoon spent in the company of a beloved, too terrifying to reveal or too precious to share.
Published 1997
