The protocols of cruising for gay sex—such as those that take place most evenings in the woodland in Hasenheide Park, a short walk from the Bethanien studios—have more than a little in common with the rites in the life of an artist travelling between international residencies. Each approach—to the object of desire or, more prosaically, an art gallery—involves a double-take. Both see the parties weighing up the pros and cons of committing to the other in the understanding that it will only ever be temporary.
The cruiser, for example, must consider if each stranger he spots half-cloaked by the foliage is worth beckoning. Sending an inviting look too readily risks the other party crudely rejecting the advance, perhaps in expectation of a better offer later. Mismatched hopes breed frustration, and this makes the cruiser’s aesthetic choices erratic. The sex, when—and if—it finally happens, may prove disappointing, too, thus effectively merely dulling each man’s desires until the following evening.
The artist wishing to temporarily establish his studio in one of the world’s art capitals, likewise, must follow a gambler’s strategy. While many suitable opportunities ostensibly exist—the art residency network is as dense as a forest—the energy exerted by an artist in developing a successful application, raising funds, and packing his life into a few bags has an opportunity cost. Even if the artist is lucky, his commitment may or may not be rewarded with critical attention as he competes with many (often also transient) others. The residency, thus, may or may not inspire him to make work that’s more worth producing there than elsewhere. It will, however—as the park does for the cruiser—spur him to seek a placement in another city only a couple of months later.
Such games involve attraction, deception, and compromise. Gili Avissar’s practice thrives on them. Regardless of their outcomes, the pursuit is consuming. The artist’s temporary residency studios—fitted with only a handful of tools, such as a sewing machine, on his arrival—quickly turn into dense gardens. Using fabric cut-offs, Avissar constructs theatrical sceneries for intrigues in which he is both the protagonist and the chorus. He makes his props by day and rehearses the cruising dance among them at night.
When installed in the gallery, the textures of Avissar’s fabric installations are immediately seductive. They conjure innocent fancy whose pleasant cacophonies of color would not be out of place in a comedy pantomime. Hanging textile backdrops, its patchy patterns resembling camouflage, frame the exhibition space. They seduce entrants into a carefully orchestrated game of surrender and make-believe.
A witness to this scene might notice that the draperies are not merely the innocent shrubbery of the fairytale copse. Each is also a costume for Avissar and his many doubles to hide in. Masks, sock-puppets, and cloth sacks offer the artist the perfect vantage to assess his audience, before turning them into the prey of his corruption. One of these creations turns him into that lascivious man lurking behind a tree stump. Another—as if there were a difference—makes him the snake in the Garden of Eden. The ultimate duplicity is that he remains an artist in each.
Avissar turns the gallery into a sinister fancy-dress party as he dons one disguise after another. Yet he reserves unquestioningly the plausible deniability which the art space offers him. The man who seeks out the sexual attention of others in public might, likewise, refute his intent if questioned. “I’m just strolling, officer,” is only so far from “this is merely an art performance.” Avissar, wrapped in his fabrics, thus conceals his true intent. This may be his restraint. It may be merely practice.
Text: Pierre d’Alancaisez
