Erica Eyres: Another Dirty Room
Shae Myles - 30th April 2022
I felt… nervous? Like I was on my way to a first date or something. Probably because the show I was about to see was located in someone’s home in the southside of Glasgow. Open by appointment only, I had arranged to view Erica Eyres’ work at Gallery Celine by sliding into their dm’s which felt slutty, informal and exciting. As I walked through the park to get there, I was thinking about when Georgia introduced me to Canadian, Glasgow-based Eyres in 2020. We watched a few of her videos together over Zoom in lockdown while I was working on my Barbara series, and I instantly fell in love with her work (as Georgia predicted I would).
I arrived at the flat on Victoria Road, pushed the buzzer, and was let into the close, which was just like any other Glasgow tenement flat - dingy and cold, but charming in its natural state. There were another couple of people there too, so I climbed the stairs to the top floor behind them and was warmly welcomed into the gallery by one of the directors, who I’m assuming, also lives there. Stepping into the hallway, I was met by the first piece of work - Beryl, who I recognised from Erica’s insta profile pic. She was looking at me through small clear glasses, hugging her legs up towards her chest, while wearing a bright green swimsuit, a string of pearls and a red hat. She was old, her face and body suggested that to me. But her body language and expression was childlike and naive. She looked like someone I would want to sit by the pool and sip orange juice with.
I then walked into the large room, which I assumed was at one time, someone’s living room. It was stripped back and raw, with original fixtures and elegant decorative cornice. The walls were rough and textured - years of wallpaper and layers of paint had been removed, now leaving them flecked with imperfections. Giant bay windows allowed for the room to be flooded with natural light; the work bathed in it, despite it being a pretty grey and stuffy day.
A selection of paintings were hung around the room. On the right wall, four similarly sized oil on linen works portrayed four very different women. Traci had backcombed her hair so much that the height of it was almost the same size as her head. She stood with one hand on her hip, her pointed red nails complimenting her short bodycon pink dress, and the other hand touching her crotch. Her boobs ballooned out of her dress, and her eyes fixed on me the same way mine did her. Celia sat with her pants on, and was holding her bra as if she had just taken it off, revealing the tan lines on her breasts. Her hair was wispy and soft, and the edges looked like she was captured in portrait mode on an iPhone. Her eyes were a piercing blue, like truly piercing, to the point I opened my mouth slightly when I looked into them, almost embarrassed that our gaze had met. Her lips were parted too, and she was tilting her head as if she was just about to say something to me. Lorali sat back on a couch, legs high in the air, peering through a diamond she was making with her stocking-saddled legs. She was topless, and she seemed very relaxed, but almost expressionless, despite her open mouth. Lana was fully naked, reclining on a different sofa with a look on her face that suggested she was ever so slightly worried or uncomfortable.
These women touched their bodies in subtle yet provocative ways - sometimes, their touch was cropped out of the canvas, as if I was supposed to miss that tiny detail. I wondered, do they want me to watch them, to look at them? There were other women around the room, Belinda, who hugged her body tightly while lying down wearing nothing but white stockings and a suspender belt. Helga, who held her boobs up to her chin, squeezing them together and peering past them at me. Mona, who was seductively grabbing a cushioned velvet headboard while wearing blue gloves and a matching suspender belt, sat with her legs open, public hair emerging only slightly before the canvas cut it off. And finally, Brenda, probably my favourite. She was in a bedroom, with one leg up on a plush burgundy stool, sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands supporting her as she let her head fall back. I liked her the best because, to me, she was the most candidly captured.
Beds, cushions, skin, nakedness, fetish, eye contact, comfort (?) … the paintings reminded me of old Playboy shoots. The women proudly and confidently revealed their skin, rolls, belly dimples… it made me smile to see such familiar elements of real, unedited, unfiltered bodies. They were all done up in some way though; bold makeup, long nails, lingerie, short dresses… they were posed with certainty, and I hope they know how good they looked. But none of them were smiling. Was I intruding? Did they like it that I was looking? Every single one of them was staring at me though, maybe because I was staring at them.
As I moved around the room, my footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor; it was impossible to be quiet in the space, thanks to the creaking floorboards. The room itself was full of character, history and personality, brought to life by Eyres’ intimate snapshots. The way she portrays faces is so captivating to me. They are wonky, slightly distorted but so very real. This is translated throughout her practice, from her character work/videos to drawings and paintings. An Erica Eyres face is easy to spot, distinct and lopsided, but subtle enough to still be believable as an actual person.
In the centre of the room was a large shallow plinth, with sculptural works positioned on top. A bowl of spaghetti, cold cups of tea and coffee, opened unbranded cans of saucy beans and shrivelled wet veg, a cigarette that was in desperate need of tapping out… This scene captured a moment frozen in time. I felt like if I spilled a mug over, I’d panic and jump up and gasp and expect liquid to come rushing out, but no. There’s no room for movement. The liquid won’t slop or wobble, the macaroni can’t be reheated in the microwave, and the pile of cigarette butts will not decompose. I know they only looked wet - if I dipped my finger into the can of beans, it would be met with a hard surface and not sink into the sauce, it would come out clear and dry. Other food and drink sculptures were placed on the mantelpiece - a hybrid burger-ashtray, a detailed bubbly-breaded sandwich cut diagonally into two triangles, a mug of coffee with the words “No. 1 Dad” written on it and coffee dribbling down the side as if someone had just taken a big glug and spilt some down their chin. It would create a ring around the base of the mug if only the coffee wasn’t made from glazed stoneware and resin. At the base of the fireplace, on the floor, sat a whoopee cushion that told me it loved me. It glistened, its glossy finish making me want to touch it. Not squeeze it, like I would a real whoopee cushion, but glide my finger over it to see how cold and smooth it was. Next to that was a bowl of spaghetti with sauce splattered around the inside of the bowl. Ceramic foods are so playful and fun to encounter. Rather than making a soft, wet mess, they would smash into pieces if you dropped them from a height. Rather than being warm, comforting and appetising, they are hard, cold and would shatter your teeth and most definitely hurt your belly. I’m seeing a lot of food sculptures on insta these days, and if I’m honest, I was starting to get bored of this concept. I think it became really popular during lockdown for whatever reason (maybe I’ll write more about my thoughts on this another time..?) but Erica’s approach, paired with her paintings, really proved me wrong. I could have looked at them all day.
On the centre plinth also lay a deflated, crumpled blow-up girl. As I stood over her, I wondered what she would look like if she was filled with air. I also wondered why she was on a table surrounded by mismatched food. Again, I wanted to reach down and touch the sculpture, thinking that it should be soft, thin and rubbery, despite knowing it would be hard, thick and cold. She had a slightly worried expression resting upon her face - her thin, black, heavily arched eyebrows reminded me of one of the options you get when making a Mii, and her smile was wobbly and unsure. She also seemed not to know why she was there.
Okay so overall, I loved this show. (duh)
The gallery setting was an excellent example of how you can showcase art outside the traditional white cube space, and was definitely what I needed after feeling pretty bored of institutional galleries and their often stale, impersonal etiquette.
The sculptural pieces were a collection of contradictions that played with my mind and definitely didn’t make me hungry, but made me want to get into a ceramic studio ASAP.
The paintings were graphic, suggestive and celebratory, staring the male gaze right in the face and turning it on its head. I didn’t get the impression that these women felt objectified, rather empowered and confident in their own skin.
There was no press release or text accompanying the show, almost as if it didn't really exist and I kinda liked that. Seeing the details of Erica’s work up close and personal was incredible; her craftsmanship and technical skill is honestly unmatched. It also made me buy a new sketchbook because I want to make some new work right now.
You can view gorgeous images of the show here.