In a new series, ‘Artist on my mind’, writers discuss an artist whose work feels particularly visionary and relevant right now. Below, Bárbara Borges de Campos explores the work of German artist, Rebecca Horn (1944-).
In a bare room Rebecca Horn paces back and forth with extensions on her fingers, feeling the delimitations of the walls. In the background, a mirror intercalates two grand windows, reflecting a door ajar. Even the lozenge-tiled wood floor, reminiscent of surrealist compositions, is uncanny. The experience of delving into some kind of ethereal world or space is presented in this extract from Horn’s video work, Berlin: Übungen in neun Stücken (1974-77), as a corporeal encounter with one’s surroundings. Isolation and bareness become palpable agents as Horn feels for the familiar, for limitations—an all too familiar predicament now.
In 1964, while a student at Hamburg’s Academy of the Arts, Horn suffered an acute lung infection after inhaling fibreglass particles, leading to a year-long stay in a sanatorium in Barcelona. She had no contact with the outside world. During this time both her parents died, leaving Horn both physically and psychologically isolated. From her bed, she began sketching body extensions, prosthetics reminiscent of medical equipment, which were, at the time, worn by fellow students and artists, and later by the artist herself. This time in confinement came to define Horn’s work.
"I feel myself touching, I see myself grasping.”
Horn continued to experiment with extensions throughout her career. These “prosthetics” enlarge the scope of what is readily available and alter sensory experiences, as Horn put it: “I feel myself touching, I see myself grasping.” This is something we are familiar with as we put gloves or masks on—gaining consciousness of the moisture and heat of our breath, or the diminished tactile experience of touching objects. Other senses take over and intensify in our new interactions with the world. A simple trip to the supermarket becomes an exercise in novel corporeal sensations.
Sensuality and sexuality are mediated by distance in isolation. Feathers appear as a motif for intimacy and sexuality throughout Horn’s practice. In Cockatoo Mask (1973), Horn wears a feather headpiece, while a performer standing before her peels the layers of plumage— an act reminiscent of discovery, of undressing or even oral sex. The performance culminates when Horn and the other performer are inside the mask together, a moment of caged intimacy. Seen through the prism of our current situation of quarantining and lockdowns the world over, it comes to be a parallel for the unnatural closeness of partners or family in confinement together. A continuous and strenuous observation of the other has become a ‘new normal’.
Elsewhere, in Feathered Prison Fan or The Gentle Prisoner (1978) a performer is completely enveloped by a luxurious round case of white feathers, two tantalising feet peek out—and in their uncovered state they become the focus, a temptation. Desire is present even though the body is out of sight. At the beginning of the pandemic, a series of articles about the future of sexual relationships stated the obvious: it is logistically infeasible to have sex while maintaining a two-metre distance from a potential partner, so why not try cam sex, sexting, and other expressions of virtual sexuality. In Cockfeather Mask (1973) Horn presents a similar predicament, half of her face is covered by a black-feathered mask, with it she strokes the performer in front of her, occasionally turning to see them. A sensual experience with a clear boundary, no skin to skin contact, and exceptional tension.
Encounters with disease are reminders of mortality, of the delicacy of our bodies and the tenuousness of existence, something we like to avoid thinking about. Horn’s early brush with death connected her to her body, its failures and frailties in life-changing and expansive ways. Equally, this crisis has heightened our awareness to our bodies too—we self-check for symptoms with the frequency of a hypochondriac, or dismiss the gravity of the situation by saying that “only the elderly die”. Whatever end of the spectrum you are on, Covid-19 has brought us all closer to the inevitability of death.
Horn’s artistic response to mortality has moved beyond working with her own body. She has turned to the cooly mechanical, translating it into sumptuous sculptures and installations. In these spectacular kinetic works, art is created by machines programmed by the human hand. In The Lovers (1991) wine and ink sit on two different containers connected to tubes which then spray them onto a wall creating drawings—a work which will continue to create beyond Horn’s lifetime.
Horn’s continuous examination of the perishable body, with all its needs of intimacy, sexuality and discovery as a means of expression, is unparalleled. It makes her work not just relevant for this painful now, but always.