Patrick Hamilton/Group Show
Paço das Artes São Paulo
It is an often told story that the Nazis confiscated gold during their pursuit of Jews in 1930s Germany and later detoured all the wealth they could amass to South America, hiding the valuable metal in the parts of tractors and even in submarines en route to countries like Chile.
The tractors were manufactured by Heinrich Lanz AG and submarines had the U-Boot label.
Patrick Hamilton, Chilean artist with a solo show now on at Paço das Artes, in São Paulo, believes in this, or pretends to think this is true in order to mock it in his installations and drawings. He creates several tractor parts, pistons and the like, coated in gold, as if they were solid precious metal while at the same time denouncing their superficial layer of shine, a fake ready-made that at first glance may impress the eyes and soon after cause deep deception.
The artist seems to have this take on history, especially in the context of his native Chile, where truth does not always mean certainty and may come wrapped in legends and fairy tales, gruesome or not. He also makes a replica of a submarine, to its precise details, all in gold, or gold plated finish, to illustrate with exaggerated doses of irony what becomes a decorative memento. He reduces historic pain and plight to a household mantel piece, shedding light on injustices of the past swept under the rug or condensed in useless trophies.
He goes a step further and withdraws the swastika from the Nazi flag, transforming it into a bland pattern that he prints along the walls. They become innocent, almost neutral wallpaper, but remain a strange reminder of something missing. A video projected at the end of a long dark corridor shows a submarine, maybe loaded with gold, sinking under water, a line that divides sea and sky at the point the projection touches the floor, bringing the experience of immersion as close as possible to the viewer.
In Hamilton’s representation, Chile could thus be extended to represent the diffuse reality and loose bonds that tie the nations of Latin America together, a construct or concept more abstract than real that appears with resounding force in the work of other artists present in a group show alongside Hamilton’s exhibition.
Colombian artist Alberto Baraya films a river being shot at with guns, driving bullets into an otherwise placid current. His is a reflection on disruptions often violent that seem to go unnoticed in contexts already engulfed in turmoil. The same strategy of hiding beneath the surface appears in the work of Jota Castro, from Peru, and Alexander Apóstol, from Venezuela.
Castro disguises a belligerent discourse in an aria performed by an opera singer. She speaks of mafia types, drug lords and barons of corruption in a sparkling baroque setting, mirror and rococo frames and furniture all around. Violent speech becomes meaningless song for tamed ears. The same happens in Apóstol’s piece, in which transvestites from Caracas face the camera and declare to be artists like Jesús Soto, Armando Reverón and other staple names in Latin-American culture.
Teresa Margolles mixes gender relations with a metaphor for a subdued culture or stultified economic potential in the region. A naked man is drenched in cold water, curled up and helpless while maintaining the pose of a strong, masculine deity. Or better yet, the image of a wilted flower instead of a vigorous stallion.
