In his versatility, da Corte perhaps reveals his diversity of influences. Much of his oevre smacks of a Warhollian Americana, but his piñata fixation hints towards a childhood spent in Venezuala, whose polychromatic visual culture seems to continue to blanket everything he touches. The dark undertones of his work reveal the cynicism that I can’t help but imagine accompanies his professed love of pop (he “loves” Britney and thinks ketchup is “perfect”). His work feels at once cheap and expensive, like a sort of Dior Big Mac, as he renders tacky plastic objects into art world holy grail, with a signature slickness of finish.
But despite the glow of pinks and greens, and the delicious streak of dark comedy that runs throughout, this is a deeply haunting show. Hair-tingling sound design from Passion Pit’s Nate Donmoyer adds a powerful sonic element, and the occult imagery is convincing in its freshness – avoiding cliche for a stripped down, contemporary take that merely nods towards the ritual altar.
There’s a psychological penetration here, as we come head-to-head with da Corte, that we’ve seen before in his Activity series – a photographic body of works documenting mundane performances of sorts. In it, Da Corte scouted his subjects, all heterosexual males, in parks and other public spaces, then documented them repeating set acts over an over, until they neared a mental breaking point captured by his unremitting lens. His makeshift models glug litres of soda in their boxer shorts, have strawberries stuffed into their mouths, or are smeared in glitter – all quite intrusive bodily acts to be subjected to. Da Corte is homosexual, and his sexuality is of course central to these works, but not in the way that Robert Mapplethorpe et al’s adoration of the male physique before him were. Credited with “subverting the queer gaze”, Activity makes for uncomfortable viewing. “It’s totally awkward. It’s not fantasy, it’s NOT about the prelude to a wild and sexy time. It’s the exact opposite,” da Corte has said of the series.
Completed in 2007, the Activity series is perhaps still one of da Corte’s most powerful, so it’s no bad thing that much of its appeal is replicated here. The repetitive elements, the closeness to our single male protagonist, the visual decluttering of the pictorial plane down to its powerful minimum. Here, too, there is that slightly uncomfortable, confrontational quality, and especially when the video series is watched in the context of the gallery: the dynamics of Mothers Tankstation’s brilliant ex-warehouse space, with its large expanses of white wall and omittence of natural light, greatly heightens the intensity of the viewing experience in a way that YouTube can never measure up to.
The videos literally surround us, playing in sequence on three different walls as we are left suspended between them, in the dark void that fills this white not-so-cube. It demands our attention in a way that video art, when it’s not presented this strongly, has a tendency to fail to achieve. And so da Corte’s direct gaze is all the more difficult to avoid, as he snuffs out a candle with his fingers at the closing of the trilogy: the haunting final image of an intense three-part viewing experience.
A Season in He’ll is on at Mothers Tankstation until December 22nd. The gallery is open between 4pm and 6pm on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.
