Claire Hooper

AUDITORIUM / WORLD OF INTERIORS

Filmvorführung / Film Screening

Freitag, 1 9. Mai 2006, 18 - 22 Uhr / Friday May 19th, 2006
Samstag, 20. Mai 2006, 11 - 18 Uhr / Saturday May 20th, 2006
Sonntag, 21. Mai 2006, 11 -18 Uhr / Sunday May 21th, 2006

Claire Hooper sammelt ihre Ideen und Materialien aus einer Vielzahl von Quellen - Seifenopern, Lifestyle-Magazine und Filme sind für die Künstlerin ebenso wichtig wie Kulturtheorie, Philosophie und Literatur. In Form von Erzählstrukturen spielen Claire Hoopers Arbeiten mit kulturellen Codes und ihren Bedeutungen.

Der Film Auditorium (2005) entstand in einem Museum in Dunkerque, Frankreich. Der Ausgangspunkt der Arbeit ist die Inneneinrichtung des Auditoriums - die stickige Atmosphäre wird zu einem Ort, an dem sexuelle Phantasien in traumähnliche Weise ausgelebt werden. Das Klicken eines Diaprojektors geht einher mit dem Wechsel der Bilder, das die Kontinuität der Erzählung aus dem Gleichgewicht bringt.

Claire Hoopers neuestes Video World of Interiors (2006) ist eine Studie über das gleichnamige Magazin. In der Weise impressionistischer Romane des 19. Jahrhunderts wird die Innenwelt eines Erzählers durch die Bilder des Magazins visualisiert. Die gezeigten Objekte und Räume versinnbildlichen den psychologische Zustand des Erzählers.

TRANSKRIPTION WORLD OF INTERIORS

He sits opposite me and this is as close as we get to each other. The lighting is perfect on both of us.
I am wearing my black satin number, which has more sheer, glossy fabric on the floor than on me. Everything that should be covered is, but only just, -

No, I'm wearing an emerald green cocktail dress with a diamond choker and ivory silk elbow gloves.

No, a simple white suit in Marino wool bouclé and a little hat.
No hat.
No, just a fashionable pair of straight cut jeans with riding boots and a well fitting black cashmere sweater.
Short, sensible haircut.

He is femme fleur, he is femme hysterique, he is femme tragique also.

He is wearing a scarlet satin blouse with a brooch in the place of a tie, in the shape of a crown. There is a royal blue curtain in the background, but this is no member of the English Royal family. It isn't even American Aristocracy, it's far more complex than that.
He is not Elizabeth Regent Taylor and Sophia La Reine. He has no use for the look that says “I have forgotten more than you will ever hope to know”, nor the one that snaps like the safety catch on a .45 and says “I am tired of your impertinence, of your impotence”.
Apparently his purity protects him.
He is Arthur and his hair hangs shining and black around his face, occasionally his eyes glisten and burn with pity and wrath in equal measures, belying his fitful temper.

He is femme enfant.

If he were not so painfully young he would have the right words to express what he wants to say and be done forever with this serpent before him. Instead he flutters with the modesty of youth and the fragility of a person who's position has earned him years of being treated like a Fabergé Egg.
Here is the freak show, what can we do, almost cumming on our couches. Don't you just want to Fuck him? I want to Fuck him! Fuck the monster and feel powerful like a man. I want to Fuck him to see if he BREAKS, I want to see if his skin pulled and filled with poison would snap open like a sausage.
He would, if he were at all in the habit of being an adult in public, tell everyone present to question their own sordid bedtime reading.
Or is it all normal he wonders, all just full of teenage girls who know more than you and/or buff men? Is there really just fun bits of bondage to spice up the readers life? Have they really just tried the things they recommend this month on the cover's of the women's and men's magazines, in their respective colour coded racks?
Or in Bizarre? Tasteful black and white erotic Oriental girls pinned and splayed while they look out in mock innocence? Sculptured male nudes, Mapplethorpe to Terry Richardson and a million in between.

Blondes and brunettes and Asians and Black Beauties all in g-strings with pierced navels and clits and nipples.
Orange tanned jocks in sport socks bent double in the gym. Lip gloss on waxed pussys and assholes oh! endless.
A little ass play, a little pee, some food, anyone into shit? Animals? Amputees, Dead people, Cannibalism?
Ok it's all out there, and other things I can't think of.

Come now, let's get inside.

I would like to see him come; does his face crinkle up like on MTV as he would have us believe, or is it different? And when he cries?
I notice as he is talking to me that he can only open his eyes so far and no more.
He has that kind of celeb anorexia thing, that's good, I'm glad he doesn't eat, I'm hoping he doesn't work out except dancing.
And what colour is his cock? I think it's greyish/mauve and thickish in the middle with a slightly pointed tip, cut.
If I close my eyes I can see it, flashes of it, a retinal after image, a sunspot: I see him bite his lip, I see him toss his head, but then he spins and tears at his shirt - into the wind machine.
He has slipped away.
Now I see his head on the pillow, coarse black hair on white Egyptian cotton… but it's too well lit and he is giving me that beatific smile.
Gone again
I see no reflections in the enormous black part of his eyes, I see the liquid grey egg whites around them. I see the black kohl around the lower lid and the brown/black line across the top lid. I see the eye shadow, say, Christian Dior in Moonstone, slightly iridescent, not cracking, not creasing, but too heavy on the surgical scars.
I see the brow, shaped large and arching in Mocha, using 3 kinds of brush.
Concealer; Mac, after moisturiser; Khiel's, and 'Yellow Balance' by Benefit.
Then foundation; one for nose and cheekbones, one for cheeks, one for neck; Mac. Blush; Chanel.
Lipstick; Dior, matt, old rose-
I love the way that he paints his lips higher than they are because of that huge gap under his nose. Lauren Bacall has that.
His nose, well, it could have been done better if he'd only waited, a real hatchet job, a piece of archaeology.

He is femme fleur, he is femme hysterique, he is femme tragique also.

He is Tristessa St.Ange and with a defiant flick of his immense white hair he darts out the window. And when it is cut off and his scalp is shaved he even kisses the boy with the tattoo on his infantile chest that did it to him, and he laughs a beautiful melodic laugh, generous and sensual as a summer afternoon, -before the child finishes being sick and shoots him dead.
Here is the look of hurt. His look of hurt, probably followed by his look of childish exasperation.

Come now, let's get out.