Honoring the Disappeared in the art of Lorena
Wolffer, Rebecca Belmore, and the Walking
With Our Sisters project
DEBORAH ROOT
It is 2002, and Lorena Wolffer lies on a bed. She slowly
sits and begins to remove her shirt. She reveals her breasts to the audience, and
then bends to remove her trousers. As she caresses her body the background
music fades and we begin to hear the monotone voice of a police report. Wolffer
pulls out latex gloves and displays them to the audience before putting them
on. The reports of dead women continue, and we hear details of the victims'
clothing. One is six months pregnant, raped and strangled. Wolffer removes a
pen and begins to carefully mark her body, as if to prepare it for an autopsy,
making lines around her breasts, between her legs, her neck. Every now and then
she stops, and sits in a meditation pose. Then the marking continues, and the
lines become something else, less medical and more a circumscription of the
parts of the body that are a focus of rage and desire. Finally she closes the
pen and replaces her clothes, slowly transforming herself into an ordinary
woman again. She shrouds herself with black blankets and wraps a sheet around
her neck and head, covering herself completely.
In
performances like Mientras dormíamos (el
caso Juarez) (2002-04), Mexico City artist Wolffer locates a mystery at the
heart of violence, a black hole of negation, and a paradox. It is a place where
desire and hatred are closely intricated, where society's violence against
women is cut into the flesh. Physical wounds kill and main. Yet psychic wounds
are inscribed as well, wounds from silence, from memory being driven deep
inside into a place of suffocation and emptiness. And this violence not only
marks the body of the individual, but the body of the nation as well.
The
title of Wolffer's piece translates as "while we were sleeping," and speaks to
the hundreds of women murdered in Cuidad Juarez, a city on the border between
Chihuahua and Texas. This border is lined with maquiladoras, or factories, where poor, mostly indigenous, women
come to find work. It is a place
where the atmosphere of violence is palpable, and fear permeates the energy of
the streets. One is struck by the contrast with El Paso just across the river,
bright and shiny and dead in another way. People all across the globe know what's
going on here. Everyone has seen images of the black crosses that have been
painted on telephone poles as memorials to Juarez's murdered women. Everyone
deplores the ongoing murders and disappearances, but it seems impossible to
stop the killings.
How
can we understand this? Wolffer is telling us that, at some level, we choose
not to see; we prefer a kind of unconscious dreamstate, which allows us to
sleepwalk through what is taking place on the margins of society. But who is
this "we," and why are we sleeping, still, when so much information about what
is happening is at hand? We can no longer say we don't know what's going
on—what is at stake in our silence?
There
are days when the bad news is overwhelming, the bad images, the killings and
bombs, the acidification of the seas. It sucks you in, and can make you feel
helpless. Twenty-four hour news and internet feeds promise connectedness, but
it is a connectedness that circulates around bad energy, and ultimately tempts
us to hole up and shut the world out. It is easier to sleep. But isolation is
deadly; isolation is the enemy
For
many of us who live outside the communities in which the disappearances of
First Nations girls and women are taking place, it can be a bit too easy to veil
the reality of what is happening, and to imagine the extreme violence in
Juarez, Vancouver, Winnipeg and elsewhere in Canada, as something that happens
to "them", to poor women, streetwalkers, aboriginal women, Mexicans, a
displacement that derives from a deep fear of our own complicity, and a fear of
waking up to the ways in which "them"
and "us" might be linked.
As
our eyes skim across new reports, it can be reassuring to focus on the facts of
place and circumstance where these things happen—places far away from our
own worlds. In this way we distance this violence from our everyday lives, and assure
ourselves that it has nothing to do with us, not really.
I
don't know anyone who's been murdered; it's possible I've met one or two who've
disappeared, but they've not been part of my daily world. Like most of us I've
had friends who've suffered abuse and sexual assault, friends who've not
received adequate responses from the legal system. And I've known a few who did
what they had to do to survive. But my relation to the social and historical
structures that subtend both systematic violence and its elision, is at most peripheral
and, like most other non-Natives who inhabit these lands, I've benefitted from
these structures. And because of this distancing, it can be harder for those on
the outside to connect the dots and see that the violence that happens to
"them" is related to the violence that happens to "us", to all of us, Native
and Non-Native, urban and rural, male and female.
And
there are differences in the way violence circulates around each of us. The
killings and disappearances of poor, indigenous women reflect both a long
history of racism and colonialism, and the existence of what artist Christi
Belcourt, an organizer of the Walking
With Our Sisters project, calls a "parallel universe," in which the
official response to missing aboriginal women is often indifference, with no Amber
Alerts issued for missing girls, and missing person reports refused by the
police. When Native women go missing there tends to be less fuss in the media
than when non-Native, middle-class women disappear.[1]
The
unwillingness of media to provide consistent and in depth coverage of missing
and murdered indigenous women makes it easier for those of us outside the
families and communities to slumber through the violence, and to refuse the
connection between "them" and "us." But what is this connection, which so many
of us have been encouraged to sleep through?
Certainly,
sleeping through the violence enforces the distinction between "us" and "them."
If this separation between us were to collapse, we'd all have to consider the
implications of colonial history and the ongoing struggles around First Nations
sovereignty and land rights.
Foucault
wrote that what takes place on the edges of empire reveals the nature of that
empire.[2]
"Empire" can be a state of mind—a focus on money and privilege, or on the
activities of celebrities—but it also remains a system of political
power, with police and armies, politicians and cartels. With respect to the
Juarez killings, if we recognize the United States as an empire, the countries
that lie on its borders can show us something about the structures that make
its authority possible. Would the U.S. exist without Mexico (and Canada)?
Empire is also a center, a place where wealth and power congeal, a
constellation of big cities, places where, for some of us, comfortable lives
seem distant from disappearance and murder. And so we tell ourselves the system
works, and has the potential to be reasonably fair. The center's shininess can
disguise the brutality at its edges that inevitably subtends imperial power.
And
so I ask: would the present social system exist without the women murdered on
its margins? If we are all implicated by what happens elsewhere, then the
killings in Juarez, Vancouver, on the highways lacing the country together, in
eastern Ontario (where I live), all reveal that our lives are underlain by
systems of violence that are closer to home than we may wish to think. They
reveal a truth about the disposability of women; of certain kinds of women, and
of all women. The center does its best to show the benign face of power, but
the disappearances and dead women strip away the mask, revealing the reality
that lies underneath.
* *
* *
Like Wolffer, artist Rebecca Belmore puts her body on the
line in Vigil (2002), a street
performance honoring the disappeared and murdered women of Vancouver's Downtown
Eastside.
At
least fifty women had disappeared from this poor, urban neighborhood in the
years before the killer's arrest in 2002, and many of the women who died had
been working the street, or were addicted to drugs. Many were First Nations
women doing what they could to survive. For years families and people in the
community had been aware of the disappearances, and had long called for police
action. There had been vigils by family members and activists. When the killer
was finally arrested in 2002 many stories emerged of police refusing to listen
to people about what was happening to the women on the street, and ignoring
information that might have led to the killer. In 2010 the Vancouver Police
Department issued an apology to the families.
Belmore's
performance took place on the Vancouver sidewalk where many of the women were
last seen before their disappearances. She laid out objects in plastic bags,
then scrubbed the sidewalk, then lit votive candles. Once the setting was
created, she stood. Belmore looked down at the names of the missing and
murdered women, which she'd written on her arms, then shouted their names one
by one, as she drew roses across her mouth, ripping the petals off with her
teeth.
She then lifted up a red dress and
pulled it over her jeans and tank top. She rinsed her mouth. Wearing the red
dress, she picked up a hammer and a bag of nails and walked over to a nearby
telephone pole. She nailed several parts of the skirt to the pole, then yanked
at the fabric, desperately trying to pull herself away. Finally the fabric tore
free, although scraps of the dress remained affixed to the pole. Belmore stood
and faced the audience, now dressed in her underwear.
The
video installation based on the performance,
The Named and the Unnamed, was in part a screening of the documentation of Vigil. But shining through the
projection of this documentation were about fifty lightbulbs set behind the
screen, providing a moving reminder of the spirits of these women.
In
her discussion of Vigil, artist and
writer Lara Evans suggests that, even before they went missing, the women's
social invisibility meant that they had already disappeared, or been disappeared:
Consider... that Belmore is using cut
flowers rather than live plants. One of the authorities' justification for not
taking any action regarding these disappearances for so long is that, in some
respects, the women had "disappeared" already. They left their home
communities, often a reserve, for the big city. They were, in a sense, cut
off from their homes, their sources of cultural sustenance. The women who
disappeared were supporting themselves through prostitution.[3]
I
am reminded of how the verb "disappear" functions, particularly in the Latin
American context, as a politicized, transitive verb—one is disappeared,
usually by the state or its minions. If the women of Vancouver's Downtown
Eastside had already been disappeared, by virtue of their invisibility with
respect to non-Native, so-called "respectable" society, we can ask by whom, and
in whose interests. The answer is more than the killer who was prosecuted and
convicted in the courts.
In
the early 90's Michael Taussig wrote about the activism of the Mothers of the
Disappeared in Latin America, arguing that the political disappearances in the
continent's various dirty wars, and the fear generated by these, became a way
to break and fragment collective memory, and to "refunction" it into something
private.
[It] best serves the official forces of
repression when the collective nature of that memory is broken, when it is
fragmented and located not in the public sphere but in the private fastness of
the individual self or of the family. There it feeds fear. There it feeds
nightmares crippling the capacity for public protest and spirited intelligent
opposition.[4]
In
this sense Belmore's naming of the disappeared becomes a powerful act of
resistance, an insistence that these women lived, despite what happened to them,
to their communities.
By
using their bodies to reveal violence and its consequences, artists such as
Wolffer and Belmore also remind us of its intimacy, even when violent acts
occur in larger historical and socio-political contexts, and underline the
paradox of desire and disposability, intimacy and fear. By manipulating her
nude body, Wolffer underlines the way violence can also come from someone we
know and often love. But whether it comes from a stranger or an intimate enemy,
hatred remains linked to desire, with the connection between the two operating
through bad intensity. Another paradox, and one that, for many, cannot be said.
Looking
at the documentation of these performances, I am reminded of Kafka's In the Penal Colony, which he wrote in
1914. In this story, a machine called the harrow inscribes the condemned
prisoner's sentence on his back, eventually killing him. The machine works
slowly and the prisoner, unaware of the nature of his transgression,
understands only at the moment of death his crime and sentence.
I
ask myself: what is the crime? Being female? Aboriginal?
And
yet Belmore's action of writing the names of the dead and disappeared on her
arms becomes a refusal of Kafka's harrow, instead revealing that what was done
to "them" is written on "us", whether we see it or not.
* *
* *
After the arrests in Vancouver, and after an inquiry into the
various permutations of police inaction, there was some hope for change.
Despite the example of Juarez, where talk and more talk has done little to stop
the killings, some of us imagined that in Canada, the authorities would no
longer drag their feet when women were at risk. After all, hadn't the Vancouver
Police Department issued an apology? We hoped lessons had been learned.
But soon stories began to surface about more missing aboriginal women, well over a thousand by now. This time, there's been more media attention (although not enough), along with grassroots actions, including vigils and marches across the county. There are campaigns that try to stop the disappearances, and the systemic racism that underpins them, and to reveal how these women have been treated by the justice system. Information has been gathered by organizations such as the Native Women's Association of Canada, which runs the Sisters in Spirit database, and Amnesty International Canada's No More Stolen Sisters campaign. Social media has been active as well. You can Google Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, and there is a Twitter feed (#MMIW), along with various Facebook groups. The information is out there.
After
years of calls for a national inquiry, which would coordinate data about
disappearances across provincial and territorial jurisdictions, in August 2016
Canada launched a public inquiry into the missing and murdered women. In October, Prime Minister Trudeau
attended the annual vigil for MMIW on Parliament Hill and spoke of
reconciliation between Native and Non-Native communities. So we'll see—thus far,
the inquiry's slow process has caused some concern, as has the lack of an
explicit mandate to examine police conduct and the criminal justice system.
But
learning "the facts" of these disappearances, collecting information and
investigating systemic causes, apportioning blame, and saying what must be done
is only one way to deal with these issues. It's less easy to sit with the idea
of these women's lives, allowing room for positive energies to circulate, and
for a kind of healing.
A
starting point might be to ask what are the effects of these disappearances? Christi
Belcourt of the Walking With Our Sisters
project says that each missing woman leaves behind a large ripple. These touch
the families and communities to which the women belonged most intensely, but
also affect the larger society. For one thing, the disappearances bring home the
question of how to confront—if that's even the word—extreme
violence without being poisoned by it.
It's
true that it can be an effort to keep going, to believe that violence can be
stopped, that the weight of colonialism and related structures will give way to
something more positive. People have utilized a range of strategies to engage
with these issues, including political activism, art practice and ceremony.
Many of us are taught that these are discrete entities—but what if the
three were brought together?
Walking With Out Sisters began in 2012
as an ongoing community project, in which beading groups come together to
create moccasin vamps to represent and honor the lives of the missing women
(and sometimes children). By early 2015 1810 pairs of vamps had been beaded,
with beading groups springing up in territories all across the country, and
exhibitions of the work taking place in many venues. Helpers install the work
according to teachings from elders, who transport the bundles from place to
place. All work is collective, and there is no government funding for the
project.
These
vamps are not stitched onto moccasins, but remain incomplete, like the lives of
the women.
Exhibiting
this work involves more than simply installing an art show. In non-Native
spaces such as art galleries, the gallery directors must give over to the WWOS
organizers—for instance, smudging must be allowed, despite fire codes. And
the installing itself is a careful process. Volunteers gather the medicines and
prepare them, then tape the floor and lay the red cloth, then create paths,
then place the vamps and other sacred items. In this way the Walking With Out Sisters installations
become more than art exhibitions, but rather are ceremonies in themselves, focusing
on memory and respect, and including honor songs and other commemorations of
the disappeared.
Belcourt's
understanding that being for something creates different results than being
against something becomes a way of dealing with the disappearances, and of
refusing the despair that attends such tragedies. Fear is a function of
isolation, and out of that comes passivity. Of all the consequences of
individualism, this can be the worst, because it means that we cannot share our
stories, or find paths away from hopelessness. For Belcourt, bringing ceremony
into the process changes everything, and in this sense the shows are not
exhibits, she says, but ceremonies that allow "a grieving, a re-setting of a
broken bone," an acknowledging of those lives. And most important is
kindness—that, she says, is the key principle of the project.
One
of the ways Walking With Out Sisters
creates different results is by refusing or ignoring categories that separate
different spheres of activity: art, ceremony, activism, commemoration. By enacting
the connectedness between different elements of experience and spirituality, the
project keeps the missing as part of the circle and turns the viewers into
participants, eliciting a response that engages many layers of consciousness
and breaks down the distinction between "them" and "us," helping each of us to
understand that even if the disappeared are not our relatives, we are connected.
The
artist can weave the strands together in a way that's sometimes harder for the
rest of us, and reveal connections that a newspaper report cannot. In Mientras dormíamos Wolffer makes the
connection between her (healthy) body and the bodies of women subject to police
autopsies. In Vigil and The Named and the Unnamed Belmore takes
the responsibility for naming the disappeared; their names are written on her
body, and have become part of her. By shouting their names, she not only breaks
the silence, but sends these names out into the air, creating another ripple
effect. Walking With Our Sisters also
commemorates the disappeared, so that the names will not be forgotten, but
these community ceremonies do more than show that they are not forgotten; it is
the power of the name itself, a refusal to accept the disappearance, and the
isolation this absence seeks to enforce.
This
allows real movement, rather than something that stops in a black hole of
negativity. Perhaps art is a way to confront evil acts without being drawn into
the abyss; perhaps it's a way to go around the outside--not to confront the
bad, but to sketch a path away from it. And as the exhibition moves, more space
becomes Native space, and even if this is temporary a trace of that ripple remains.
Note:
some of the material on Lorena Wolffer appeared in: Deborah Root, "The Body
Engraved: performances and interventions of Lorena Wolffer," C Magazine 105, Spring 2010, pp. 17-26.
Notes
[1]
There
are many parallel universes, Juarez being an example. On a visit there in 2007,
I spoke briefly to a young Oaxacan woman and her brother who had traveled to
there to find work. The girl stared into the distance as her brother told me he
hoped to keep his sister safe. It was like talking to soldiers on their way to
war. Juarez was one of the scariest places I've been in; the violence was thick
in the air, and the city and surrounding desert felt like a vortex of bad
energy. Yet there are many good people working there and, for some, it's a
place to live, like any other.
[2] In a sense "woman" exists at
the border of empire, something Deleuze and Guattari understood when they
talked about devenir femme as a way
of escaping the fixity of power, the molar lines that emanate from the center.
[3] Lara Evans, notartomatic blog, (notartomatic.wordpress.com, 05/08/10). "Rebecca
Belmore: Vigil: The Named and the Unnamed."
[4] Michael Taussig, "Violence
and Resistance in the Americas," The
Nervous System (Routledge: New York, 1992), p 48.