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I remember how the Ash Wednesday fires blackened the earth. Exploring the bushfire ravaged landscape afterwards as a child, I felt as though I was on another planet. Familiar shapes had morphed beyond recognition, while others were still horrifically all-too familiar. But within this negation and nakedness there was the promise of regeneration and regrowth. Natalie Ryan, however, offered no such respite in her recent installation A Void.
Ryan presented us with a perfect square mat, extending nearly the width of the exhibition space. Astride were a number of shapes—some were clearly animal, with four legs, a body and a head—while others were less identifiable. Each of the shapes and the floor itself were wrapped in perfect and unmarked stygian black velvet.
I did not need to spend long with these pieces before I felt the tingle of horror up my spine, aroused by the sensation that I was back in that post-bushfire scene. But this was worse. This Void was utterly impenetrable, and revealed nothing of the artist—or even that it was the product of an artist. What terrible event had occurred at Kings that I should be confronted with such a harrowing scene?
Bushfire was the first impression, but it was forcibly felt. The details had been erased, the animals had been seared to the earth, their ears, mouths and other distinguishing features had been obliterated, while other forms were now totally unrecognisable and alien. This led me to my second impression: of the animals and humans that been petrified by the volcanic blast at Pompeii. Ryan’s figures had the same stillness, the same total absence of life.
Amy Marjoram’s absorbing accompanying essay extolled the show as