Ivana de Vivanco: Temple of Inversion

The exhibition "Temple of Inversion" is the first solo exhibition of the Chilean-Peruvian artist Ivana de Vivanco in 68projects Berlin. "In the exhibition I will transform the gallery into a ‘temple of inversion’, in which controversial authority fgures of our society fall down and the hitherto oppressed rise up," says Ivana de Vivanco, describing her motivation for the exhibition: "The exhibition space will be changed in such a way that visitors forget they are in a gallery.” The following essay was written by the art historian Wolfgang Ullrich: We should take it seriously that Ivana de Vivanco describes her exhibition as a temple. Apparently it is not enough for her that paintings are simply looked at, talked about, or purchased. Rather, she expects her works to perform what is usually expected from cultic objects or religious practices. What she wants might be described with big words such as “healing” or “creating meaning.” The more precise description of the temple as “Temple of Inversion” is simultaneously more specific and yet remains quite general: The Chilean-Peruvian artist wants to awaken powers that enable and facilitate change. But how should this happen? It is certainly not enough to simply quote traditional forms of religious art. Rather, if they are referenced, they must be won back, and filled anew. De Vivanco does so in an exemplary way with the Christian genre of the triptych. This plays an important role above all in religious art from the late Middle Ages to the Counter-Reformation, and the hierarchy between the larger central panel and the smaller side panels was used to distinguish heavenly and earthly motifs, and to illustrate the temporal dramaturgy of the history of salvation. In the triptych Este oro comemos, Ivana de Vavanco takes up this hierarchical structure by keeping the two outer panels very simple: without colors, like a mere preparatory drawing, which appears to have been corrected, emphasizing the impression of being unfinished. The central panel, on the other hand, is executed in intensives colors, every shape is clearly defined here and comes into its own. The aesthetic difference of the panels, however, corresponds to a kinship in terms of composition and content. For example, two figures that are turned towards each other in the central panel and who, with pronounced gestures, exchange a plate, appear quite similar on the two outer panels. So did de Vivanco continue a sketch on the central panel that is visible on the side panels, but cut in two halves? In fact, the side panels have a clearly identifiable model. This can be found in one of the most important chronicles of the early 17th century, by Huamán Poma de Ayala, a high-ranking Inca, who describes the history of his people, and especially its colonization by the Spanish, and documents the injustices and abuses in the viceroyalty of Peru, that is to say, Ivana de Vivanco’s home country. In addition to the text, the chronicle contains almost 400 drawings which do not merely illustrate the descriptions, but should be interpreted as a strong and pointed gesture of resistance against the conquistadors. For example, on the drawing chosen by de Vivanco, the figure on the left is portrayed as higher-ranking than the figure on the right: he sits on a stool, directly in front of the gate of a larger house which thus appears to be his property. The other person, on the other hand, kneels on the ground and appears in the position of a petitioner. But as the caption tells us, this one represents a Spanish conquistador, whereas the sitting figure depicts an Inca. The drawing from the 17th century thus offers an early and quite surprising example of an iconography of empowerment: the subjugated Incas depict themselves not as victims, but as strong and independent. The drawing is intended to motivate them to fight against the injustice they suffered, and stimulate their pride and self-confidence. The intention is not just to remind viewers of better times in the past, but also to evoke a better future. And by taking this drawing up, and executing her painting in such a large format and strong colors, and enhancing it as the significant central panel of a triptych, Ivana de Vivanco increases the empowering intention significantly. In this way, the inversion of real power relations becomes even more programmatic, in tune with the exhibition’s title. However, for de Vivanco the issue is no longer just the specific historical conflict. For her, it functions rather as a blueprint of comparable conflicts. Therefore the figures’ clothes and the environment are contemporary or timeless, and in numerous details de Vivanco uses her possibilities as a painter to enhance the meaning of the painting. What a facial expression, for example, the figure on the left has! One the one hand, we sense sadness and resentment over humiliations suffered, but the shining eyes speak above all of vivaciousness, will power, and enormous energy. And these eyes look directly at us, and thus we are directly called upon to become allies. Empowerment means just that: discouraged individuals become a community where everybody encourages each other. The gaze of the other figure, in contrast, seems dull. He may still wear a hat and better clothes, but is already losing his power, growing lonely and isolated. In the end, de Vivanco ridicules him: on the upper arms and thighs, there are zones of much lighter skin—an indication that the figure usually wears more clothing. So has he not already lost control of himself to a certain degree if he appears so carelessly dressed? He may pass on golden nuggets on a plate and show off his wealth, may even claim his kind eats the gold (the title Este oro comemos— “this gold we eat”—de Vivanco took from the original drawing) but if he really did that he would suffocate. While Ivana de Vivanco uses the genre of the triptych and the special validity claim of the central panel here in order to take sides and deal, as it were, a death blow to the already stumbling aggressor, this is directly staged in other paintings. In Santiago-Rayo, we see a horseman falling off, hit by lightning. Is his fall a divine intervention? Or an accident that benefits a woman who stood in his (St. James’) way, wanting to stop him? Her fiery red socks attest to her resolve, and are a complementary contrast to the green trousers of the fallen man. His facial expression is striking: perhaps he is screaming, but his open mouth might also be interpreted as laughter. Might he be glad, even relieved, to have lost his power? An enigmatic, oscillating figure? St. James was a symbolic figure of the Spanish colonialists in South America, who established Santiago de Chile in his name. He stood for a power that was hostile to the indigenous population. Therefore, they wanted to topple the regime symbolized by him, and get rid of it. But step by step, his role changed: he became the patron saint of the suppressed, he, as it were, actually changed sides. Perhaps this happened because the Christianized faithful could identify with St. James as a martyr, which he also and indeed first and foremost was, perhaps they hoped to transfer his power to themselves if they accepted him and took him in. After having painted the saint in the moment when he loses his power and seems to be glad of his new role, in another painting, Warmi Pachakutik, de Vivanco depicts a slightly later moment. The indigenous woman hosts the former enemy as her guest at home. She serves him a drink, but they are not sitting politely at a table, but rather their bodies are intertwined on a bed. The man is doubled over and is naked – which means simultaneously that he has lost all status of power, but also that the situation could change into an amorous game at any moment. Will the woman approaching him from above also undress? Or would she rather view the man as a prisoner, and take revenge? Given this incredibly sophisticated iconography, both seem equally possible, and we look for clues as to how the scene might play out. With the two paintings discussed last, we are in a viewer position, downright witnesses and voyeurs of the exciting, historical event of an inversion or reversal of power, with the painting Ekeka we might hope to leave the Temple of Inversion a little more powerful ourselves. The painting is actually more of an object, and in contrast to the other works, here the outer edges of the canvas are also painted. More importantly, the painting reaches beyond its rectangular surface, because the gold chains painted on it continue as real chains that are attached to a pair of golden feet on the floor. That something that was initially only painted—something fictitious—here becomes quite real illustrates the claim this artefact makes: as the title suggests, it refers to a cult, Ekeko, a divinity responsible for wealth and happiness, which in this case, however, appears in a female variant. Ekeko figures and images in countries like Peru and Bolivia are responsible to turn something that initially only exists as an ideal or an image of an ideal into reality. Traditionally, an Ekko hat various objects attached to it that symbolized what one wanted to have, indeed to which one attached one’s wellbeing, so the figure was equipped with money, jewelry, a house, or food, on de Vivanco’s painting there are several other objects, too, like a megaphone and a rainbow object. These are part of the basic equipment for activist movements, for demonstrations on the streets, and therefore testify to the wish to break up or reverse existing power relations. And has that not already been achieved in an impressive way? After all, the male god has become a goddess that is perhaps more likely to grant the wishes of women more than the wishes of men. She seeks – like the figure on the triptych – to establish eye contact with those who are in front of her, wishing for something. And with her raised forefinger, she downright encourages us to wish for more, and not be too modest. Oh yes, in the Temple of Inversion, patriarchy and colonialism seem to be almost finished…