Allyson Mitchell Talks Sasquatches

Having already seen Allyson Mitchell say a few choice words at the opening of her Ladies Sasquatch exhibition at the McMaster Museum of Art back in January, I knew her Artist Talk would be an event well worth witnessing - she’s easily one of the most open, droll and downright hilarious artists I’ve heard speak in quite a while. Using much the same tactic that she brings to bear on her massive, maximalist creatures, Allyson has a knack for ‘keeping an eye on the pleasure quotient’ without compromising her conceptual concerns; rather, inclusive pleasure is very much a part of that concept.

Allyson’s insights were driven by many astute questions from University of Texas English Professor Ann Cvetkovich (whom, from where I was sitting, bore a more than uncanny resemblance to Laura Roslin from Battlestar Galactica, may she rest in peace), who wrote one of the essays for the exhibition catalogue that was also being launched that night. The early portion of the discussion was given over to some of the practicalities of making her hulking sasquatches, both in terms of craft and the dynamic of their present installation in the gallery setting.

A variety of practices are referenced in the making of Allyson’s sasquatches, many of them outside the traditional domain of fine art - taxidermy, rug-hooking, dollar-store craft kits and costuming as in the fake Halloween fingernails used to imitate the sasquatches’ claws. Like many artists I know (myself included), she’s an avid collector of stuff, especially the abandoned handicrafts often found in thrift shops (as it happens, she found much of the materials for the Ladies Sasquatch in Hamilton rather than her own Toronto). These kitsch crafts, imbued with so many ‘love-hours’ of labour by some female relation or another to mark a special occasion, possess a contradictory quality in their low status and easy disposability. But as Allyson aptly pointed out, ‘maybe your aunt is a bitch.’

For all that sensitivity to craft, Allyson was quick to point out her own lack of finesse as a maker: her reliance on the hot glue gun, the mangled ‘Frankenstitch’ of her mediocre sewing ability that she manages to disguise beneath the heavy nap of fun-fur. Her views on that particular textile, so indispensable in her practice, were something of a surprise; while acknowledging its unique palette and strength as a simulacrum, Allyson was quick to point out its shadow side as an oil-based synthetic product with attendant health issues, a risk disturbing enough to undercut the simple fun of the final solution.

Expanding from these microscopic views, the conversation also touched upon the particulars of how this installation functions as an environment. The undulating plinth supporting this overwhelming spectacle is as carefully designed as each creature, its shortened fringe skirt with a naughty flash of wooden legs a deliberate flirt to the viewer who is invited to engage with the sasquatches on an intimate level. I was especially gratified by Allyson’s admission that the format of her installation is a sort of anti-panopticon that blocks the security guard’s gaze and allows surreptitious touching when no-one is looking (as long as you’re gentle, of course, and I was). Further to this system that implicates the viewer in the experience of the sasquatches is the lighting that casts shadows on the otherwise blank walls: the viewer’s shadow is blown up to monstrous proportions, those of the sasquatches even more so, as though to imply the ‘bigger, scarier dykes over the hill.’

The indiscriminate inclusion of the viewer in what is, in essence, a spectacle of 1970s lesbian feminism rendered in contemporaneous craft and centerfold poses is the core triumph of Ladies Sasquatch. These issues are addressed in sharper detail in the exhibition catalogue, but what all this fur and macramé adds up to is a feminist methodology that subverts the negative in favour of an inviting positive, bereft of problematic man-hate and misplaced anger. These sasquatches are feral enough to hold a history on their shoulders, are different enough to elicit fear, but given the anecdotes of both school-age boys and Physical Plant workmen coming into the museum to enjoy the company of these not-so-fine ladies, Allyson has clearly succeeded in pushing the tropes of gender and sexuality beyond the norm to something refreshingly new and productive.

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