The art of Marcus Coates allows us to imagine life from an inhuman
perspective. He is often his own laboratory rat, using his body to test
the boundaries between man and animal. Yet the lot of such unfortunate
rodents is certainly not the best analogy as Coates' endeavours are not
scientific projects - though they may use science - but are artistic
enterprises. His works have no specific theory to prove or disprove, and
most importantly are concerned with exploring what humans can learn
from animals as much as the other way around. Venturing into the moor or
heath, estuary or woodland - or domestic human habitats as we shall see
- the artist's videos and photographs tackle the vicissitudes of
consciousness and philosophical formulations of ‘the wild' with the
stout boots of conviction.
Philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari's notion of
‘becoming-animal' is a means of escape, a way of unthinking identity and
subjectivity where the human and the animal enter into a functional
alliance.
The reality of becoming lies not in the transformation of
fixed points but in an alliance itself. How better to understand the
perspective of a small mammal of the family Mustelidae found throughout
the northern temperate, subarctic and arctic regions than to walk a mile
in its boots? Accordingly in the video Stoat, Mustela erminea
(1999) we see the artist in peculiar home made stoat stilts stumbling
and bungling in his attempt to walk, approximating the gait of the
weasley animal. Coates act is absurd though earnest in its self-mocking
hazard at leaving the confines of human locomotion. By operating from an
inhuman point of view, Coates does not assume a fixed and unchanging
role.
There is no reason why Coates's filmed performances cannot be read as
an addendum to both this renegade anti-metaphysical streak in
continental thought and a tradition of absurdist British TV comedy
sketch shows such as The Goodies (1970-82). It is the presence
of apparently cohabiting opposites in Coates's practice - the
philosophical and the ludicrous, slowness and speed, the real and the
mystical, and not least the animal and the human - which give it its
sense and nonsensical energy.
Coates knows just as well as Deleuze and Guattari - or a Red Deer
stag - that ‘it is actually through voice and through sound and through a
style that one becomes an animal' (1). In his video Indigenous British Mammals
(2000), for example, a repertoire of guttural groaning, bellowing,
snorting and choking vocalisations are heard apparently emitting from a
patch of moss in a rolling landscape. Deleuze and Guattari characterise
this state almost too perfectly:
"The animal does not speak ‘like' a man but pulls from the language
tonalities lacking signification; the words themselves are not ‘like'
the animals but in their own way climb about, bark and roam around,
being properly linguistic ... in short, an asignifying intensive
utilization of language ... a circuit of states that forms a mutual
becoming, in the heart of a necessarily multiple or collective
assemblage (2)."
Coates' work studiously avoids metaphorical allusions by focussing
instead on behaviour, most conspicuously its explorations of birdsong.
The birds that become persons - are impersonated - throughout Coates'
work, from the pottering Coot, to the nevertheless formidable
Short-eared Owl, seem in any case far too phlegmatic to be symbolic
champions. Of course the subject of Coates' 1998 self portrait
photograph Red Fox, Vulpes vulpes, in which the artist appears
in the distance on all fours in a red boiler suit, is more used to being
ascribed human values. The wily and cunning fox is a staple of
anthropomorphic children's literature, for example, from the tales of
Thornton Burgess to Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox (1970). Yet
Coates's image escapes this reading of nature by referring to a genre of
photography, and a peculiarly British brew of tabloid sensationalism
and folklore, concerning cryptic animals. The grainy, blurred photograph
of an indistinct shape is the prototypical evidence of everything from
the Loch Ness monster to the so-called Beast of Bodmin.
In the series of works in which the artist makes a transition into
shaman, Coates' ‘becoming' skills are applied towards a specific social
purpose, testing the power of animal becoming and the role of the artist
within the public arena. Coates modifies this ancient tradition of
communication with animal spirits into an artistic and functional
consultancy tool.
"All over the world learning the language of animals, especially of
birds, is equivalent to knowing the secrets of nature and hence to being
able to prophesy. Learning their language, imitating their voice, is
equivalent to ability to communicate with the beyond and the heavens
(3)."
We could contrast Coates' approach with the work of Joseph Beuys, a
somewhat unavoidable figure in this context, particularly given the
artists recent works exploring the role of the shaman. Throughout his
practice Beuys cultivated a shaman-like persona through works such as Coyote, I Like America and America Likes Me
(1974).
For this action, Beuys spent the duration of the exhibition
caged in a gallery in New York with a coyote, that was made to function
as a mystical conduit in a ritual of realignment and reconciliation with
native Americans. In works such as Journey to the Lower World (2005) and Radio Shaman
(2006) Coates takes on the job of talking to animal spirits on behalf
of the residents of a Liverpool tower block with contrastingly modest
expectations and a knowingly dubious quasi-Yakut ritual. The appearance
authenticity is replaced with bathos and domestic modification.
The
stipulated sweeping of the ritual area is done with a vacuum cleaner,
the shamanic drum takes the form of a stereo with a ‘plastic shaman' CD,
and car keys stand in for bells. What Coates' performance lacks in
seriously earnest self-indulgence it makes up for in charm and disarming
humour.
Both Beuys' and Coates' acts of native-peoples cultural
appropriation might be somewhat ethically problematic - yet, the latter
seems to say, let's at least not pretend to be going about it in the
‘right' way.
Coates' knowing fakery taps into the desire to be seduced by the
essential strangeness of the non-human, and, however irrational, to
entertain the possibility of the unknown. In the video Finfolk (2003)
he acts out this abandonment of apparently ‘common sense' viewpoints
with a hearty dose of slapstick. Merging himself with the liberally
imagined faculties of a finman or a selkie - the shapeshifting
amphibious seal-human creatures of Orkney Islands' legends - the artist
emerges from a stormy sea and blunders around on a jetty in his ‘selkie
skin' track suit. Walking and occasionally dancing in the gale, this
creature's incoherent ramblings create a kind of fusion between
foul-mouthed Scandinavian drunk-speak and saline linguistics, before it
spots an approaching family and descends into the sea once more.
Herman Melville's Moby-Dick (1851), the celebrated story of
one Captain Ahab's obsession with a huge white whale, seems pertinent
here.
Just as Ahab's becoming-whale occurs as he begins to think as if
he were the whale, entering into an animal relationship with the animal,
Coates ceases to become himself and enters into a comedic process of
composition with the seal-ness of the selkie. He assumes he is a seal
and as such is impersonating a human. Instead of a classical humanistic
search for sense, or what is somehow hidden, these slippery marine
creatures offer up the pursuit of the incomprehensible and of inhuman
perceptions.
The bathos of Finfolk's perfectly lame rendition of a
mythical beast reveals not a grand symbolism of life or rebirth, but
presents itself as a modest proposal to transform oneself by perceiving
difference through particular properties, the thick rubber hide wet suit
for instance, and most obviously through voice and sound.
Metamorphosis through voice and sound is a state that Coates has long
been exploring through his series of works that exploit the possibility
for compressing and expanding time with video. Coates's interest in
this technique reaches its apogee with the multiscreen video and sound
work Dawn Chorus (2005-7).
The artist worked alongside wildlife
sound recordist Geoff Sample to make a series of, simultaneous
recordings within a woodland in Northumberland.
Working early in the
morning in the spring - the most active time for avian songsters - the
songs translate into fourteen screens, as each species of the chorus is
given over to an accelerated human interpreter. Men and women in
apparently sedate everyday settings suddenly sing like birds - it seems
for a few seconds that there is a Swallow in a car park, a Wren in an
office, a Pheasant in a sitting room, or a Blackbird in a shed, for
example. Each participant, filmed in their own houses or going about
there daily lives, sat with an earpiece that played a tape of each
bird's song or call that had been slowed down many times, to which they
mimicked. The resultant video footage was then in turn speeded up by the
same number of times, returning the bird mimicry into its ‘real'
register and each participant into a twitching and alert avian
apparition.
Birds often sing to mark territory (and Deleuze and Guattari make
much use of this concept of the ritournelle or refrain) and so do
humans. In a number of works the animal is a collection of
possibilities, functions or actions: for communication, for movement.
The birds are not asked to ‘mean' anything. Local Birds (2001), A Guide to the British Non Passerines (2002) are both precursors to Dawn Chorus.
In A Guide ... we see the artist undergoing an accelerated process as
he sits and renders all 86 species of commonly occurring British
non-perching birds, announcing each in turn in deadpan fieldguide
systematic order before lurching into speeded-up sections of squawks and
cries. In Coates' Out of Season (2000) we note the lone male
Chelsea football supporter chanting his repetitive songs, threatening
curses and bragging in an idyllic woodland brimming with summer
birdsong.
The incongruity is superficial, his territorial behaviour is
akin to the functionality of the male bird's song, their tuneful calls
disguising a declaration of their species, virility and territorial
claim. The ethological loop has come full circle. Art, as Deleuze and
Guattari claim, is not a question of imitation, but of becoming:
more : http://www.picture-this.org.uk/library/essays1/2007/marcus-coates-and-other-animals