Or, maybe there's something wrong with me.
I've been watching Dita Von Teese for a while. That sounds creepy, as if I'm a peeping Tom. But don't her photos make us peeping Toms? We catch her in intimate moments, getting undressed or splashing around in a glass of champagne or tied up for unseemly purposes.
It is easy to get caught up in someone like Dita, being as beautiful and naturally erotic as she is. Her come-hither eyes and red lips that have a taunting twist are provocative. I felt provoked. I felt like she was teasing me, telling me to follow her through the internet, through Twitter and Tumblr and find as many images of her as I could. To what end? Well, where I have ended up isn't where I thought I was going: I think there's something wrong with Dita Von Teese.
Benjamin Lacombe deals mostly in fairy tales: Snow White, Alice in Wonderland, Madame Butterfly, the Tales of Edgar Allen Poe, Medusa, Ondine, even Marie Antoinette. I classify all these as fairy tales because he has no interest in history, reality, or even, at times, accurate anatomy.
but then there are those pieces which don't find easy classification. Oh, I'm sure with the internet it's possible to figure out in a couple minutes the source of every piece. But I approach these pieces like a scavenger. Things found by chance. For I actually did find them by chance in the glorious landfill that is Pinterest.
I approach the the pieces as if I have nothing except my contemporary understanding of culture, history and literature. These days we are more apt to encounter art this way, out of the superimposed context of a museum.
And there is is a valid and important argument in favor of rejecting titles, authors names, in fact all context so that we may approach a piece of work freshly and freely. It makes the piece more ours because our interpretation personal and unmolested.
Approaching Lacombe's works relatively unfettered has been a horrifying journey into my childhood and has caused me to reevaluate melancholy and my relationships with animals. It has not been pleasant.
The figures uncomfortably fit within their scenes. The animation is obvious: the heads are larger than normal, the eyes extraordinarily large and round: the bodies have the dimensions of what would be defined as "cute". The colors are vibrant, there are adorable cats, the women are dressed lavishly and enviously, and the figures may or may not be dead.
These pieces are quite horrifying, but lack the traditional dread which would accompany it. Rather, the characters in these works have resigned themselves to their story. They have complete hopelessness. They look at us with the last expression a suicide would have.
I've said too much. So much for my quest to create a fresh, free art experience. Enjoy. Or, as at least, try to.
I'm Lady Ristretto, writing under a pseudonym. My pseudonym has a pseudonym.