The story of art is strewn with half-careers. There are those who didn’t live long enough to make good on their promise, and others who disappeared before their reputations could catch up to their achievements. Christina Ramberg belongs in the second group. By 1995, when she died, aged 49, from Pick’s disease (a form of early onset dementia), she had produced the impressive body of sharp, funny and innovative work now on view at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. A few steps into the first gallery, and you may already be asking yourself why you’ve never heard her name.
Equipped with the graphic boldness of comic books, the wry wit of pop art, and a taste for mild kink, Ramberg quilted, collected, sketched and painted her way towards a vision that combines precision and constant flux. She obsessed over the way you could look at an inanimate object and see its meanings multiply. In one 1970 series an orange-and-black tiger-stripe corset morphs into an armchair, then into a one-piece bathing suit, a goblet, a 1940s victory-rolls bouffant, a mushroom and a muffin. The bumps and bulges don’t change much, but the resonance does.
Ramberg treated familiar imagery the way an amateur mechanic might treat a car motor: breaking it down into its component parts, then reassembling it, not necessarily in the original configuration. She found joy in visual puns and saw the harmonies between, say, a corset and an urn, both cylindrical, curved, upright, and suggestive. “Similar in shape and similar in function, they both hold and retain,” she wrote. She might have added that the first encloses live flesh, the second its cremated remains.
One of her most persistent subjects was the feminine body and its erotic trappings: long fingers with painted nails, hair-dos, high-heeled shoes, formfitting lingerie. In her hands, each of these elements becomes a geometric abstraction, capable of taking on a range of moods and even genders. In “Wired” (1974-75), bra-bound breasts double as eyes, turning a torso into a face. Curls of body hair sprout in unpredictable places, gathering into a whole coiffure where the stomach should be. Two-fingered hands, like a matched set of labia, dangle from snakelike arms.
Those provocative mixtures of the sensual and the monstrous sprang from the mind of the seemingly mild, unpretentious young woman in glasses who appears, cradling a cat, in a large photo at the entrance to the show. That wholesome grad-student look contrasts with her ceaselessly imaginative variations on fetishes and bondage.
Tying and being tied up was a central theme. A 1971 series of hand studies shows a white sash twining suggestively through fingers with scarlet nails. The “Waiting Lady” bends herself into an S, her body strapped into constricting underwear, arms pulled back and out of the frame as if her wrists were bound. In “Schizophrenic Discovery” (1977), one half of a headless body is bandaged and the other has almost disappeared, leaving a useless coil of rope. Is the subject broken or breaking free? It’s impossible to tell.
Ramberg wrote in her diary of her attraction to contrasting dyads such as “abandon/restraint, concealment/revelation, strong/weak, chaos/order, broken/whole”. Her talent lay in the clarity and virtuosity with which she wove those opposites together so that they read as separate but intertwined, and always charged with sexual energy. Bindings, coverings, veils, and obstructions — these things contain our urges and magnify them at the same time.
In “Probed Cinch” (1971), we see a woman’s torso from behind. Her rear end is packed into two layers of undergarments: fluffy white bloomers beneath a glossy black girdle. The straight line of her spine plunges into the gap at the waist, and a slender finger — her own, presumably — reaches around to explore that opening, too. The effect is that of an erotic hush.
As a child, Ramberg watched avidly as her mother got dressed in a compressing, bulge-sculpting contraption known as a merry widow. “I can remember being stunned by how it transformed her body, how it pushed up her breasts and slendered down her waist,” she recalled. “I thought it was fascinating . . . In some ways, I thought it was awful.” Ramberg herself preferred baggy sweaters and comfortable pants (although who knows what she wore underneath), but women’s ability to shape-shift continued to amaze her.
The musical Hair, which opened on Broadway in 1968, trumpeted the joys of long, wild, tangled, dusty manes. The following year, Ramberg produced a series of paintings by the same name in which she treated tresses like Play-Doh. In one tiny acrylic-on-Masonite square after another, we see a woman’s hand patting, parting, pulling, shaping or plaiting her locks. Yet each image is disorienting in a slightly different way because we can make out no features and there’s no way of telling whether the little triangles of bare skin are patches of forehead, chin, nape or scalp. Are we watching from above, in front or behind? It’s as if Cousin Itt from The Addams Family had modelled for illustrations in a teach-yourself-hairstyling manual.
The exhibition, which was organised by the Art Institute of Chicago, includes a slideshow of Ramberg’s photographs, demonstrating how eclectically she sourced her motifs. She rooted through vintage print ads for pictures of pointy lingerie and spiked heels, found elaborate foundation garments in old magazines, responded to the cinch-waisted cooling towers of nuclear power plants, examined wigs of many styles and colours, studied the drapery of Jesus’s loincloth in Renaissance crucifixions and copied the stony liveliness of graveyard reliefs. She regularly rearranged her collection of dolls into phalanxes of silent guardians or secret friends.
In the end, though, she distilled all these private fixations and a voracious appetite for imagery into works that are cool, sleek, elegant and exquisitely opaque. She relished the tension between that reserved surface and the churn beneath, fully aware of the energy it could generate. “I want my paintings to affect other people’s consciousness,” she confided to her diary in 1977. “And as long as I’m holding back my paintings, my secrets, I can fantasise that when I DO show them, they’ll KNOCK ’EM DEAD.” And so, at long last, they do.
To June 1, philamuseum.org
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