Review

An artist profile, based on a review of Molly Murphy's if the circus moved on, would we? New works on an old dialogue

DotDotDot ArtSpace
Lawrence, Kansas
January 17 — 31, 2009

Molly Murphy, detail from "if the circus moved on, would we?". Murphy's new work opens Friday, May 1st at b studio in Kansas City, Missouri, along with work by Clare Doveton. Check the Review magazine calendar for more information ("Go See Art.") Image: Luke Bender photo, courtesy of the author

Petulance and scorn, defiance and gall, and the most hurtful stare of disinterest are often on the faces looking back at the viewer from a Molly Murphy painting. Murphy paints primarily in oils, favoring reds, using fine brushes to slash a tendril of hair or feather a patch of sick-looking flesh.

Installation view of untitled works from "if the circus moved on, would we?" by Molly Murphy. Image: Luke Bender photo courtesy of the author

At age 31, Murphy is a deliberate presence, schoolgirl-sexy, Hepburnesque, with a laugh genuine and generous. At the opening of her recent solo exhibition, if the circus moved on, would we? New works on an old dialogue, Murphy moved easily through an across-the-spectrum crowd, her composure seeming surreal; Murphy mostly paints sullen, bruised women — herself usually —  and shows a lot of flesh. (Murphy's father is a judge, her mother an ex-nun.)

"I shall prove that I have in fact a most noble body without deformity or sin, and that man will fall into eternal reproach for all to see," said Saint Birgitta in her Revelations. Evoking that same reproach might easily be construed as the intent behind Murphy's paintings and drawings. A Murphy woman can be a glowering Medusa, a sneering vamp, a Brontë heroine, a bleeding punk, or a corseted man-handled bride. She can be bedeviled by bees, seduced by syringes or menaced by scissors. Murphy's girls don't look happy.

Typically, Murphy surrounds her subjects with a broad variety of cryptic allusions — floating bottles of Sriracha sauce, drugs and insects, pistols, cosmetics, ribbons, and stylized garlands of flowers.

"I'd have a great career as a wallpaper designer," Murphy laughs, talking about her work. With a Murphy painting, you get the sense that her details, if deciphered, compose a deeply personal statement — and that her deciphered statement, however enlightening, might also make you uneasy.

Artist Molly Murphy (left) talks with a gallery visitor at the opening of "if the circus moved on, would we?" Image: courtesy of the author

Murphy maintains the shock value isn't deliberate: "I get a lot of people who immediately say they find (my work) disturbing," she says. (I talked with her before the opening of her January exhibition.) "I'm not sure that's always the intent. I tend to use a lot of darker colors highlighted by red, and that might push people towards the idea of violence." She dismisses conscious use of political or feminist themes in her work: "I tend to paint about women, and I paint about experiences, about the duality of a lot of situations for women. Maybe that's feminism. I don't know."

But there is no questioning the quality of Murphy's self-taught technical skills. Over the years, her faces have taken on a near-Flemish luminosity, a white-sunned, flattened Midwestern glow — and while Murphy's strokes are increasingly confident and meticulous, there is also an according breeze to her rendering. The wry surrealism of the Juxtapoz school, El Greco's fascination with drapery, the meat-ness of Jenny Seville and Francis Bacon, and the extravagant ornamentation of Art Nouveau, notably Alfons Mucha — all are fair references to Murphy's current style.

Though not discernibly an angry soul (in fact, the opposite is true), Murphy's work to date suggests an intense, private turmoil, a dissatisfied and resentful view of her world. "The new series addresses how I've used art to express hurt," Murphy says, "but it also shows the path outside of that, to what might be the new story." Indeed, her circus work glimmers with changes in attitude.

Work from "if the circus moved on, would we?" in progress in the studio. Image: courtesy of the artist

"A lot of this series is about addiction," Murphy says. In the process of breaking away from what she discreetly terms as "a chaotic lifestyle," Murphy credits art as her guide to safety. "A lot of my surviving was through looking at artists and learning about art and by painting myself."

In the overt self-portraits of if the cirus moved on, would we, Murphy's standard straight-on stare now projects more determination than accusation. The overall tone of the work is a fragile peacefulness tinged with exhaustion, an "enough already" mood — for now, all demons ousted.

Murphy's exhibition was made of 18 paintings ranging in size from 5-by-7 to 24-by-36 inches, some in thematic groupings. The centerpiece was a series of black-grounded canvases blotched with electric blue and linked by a paisley-like motif that spilled over the frames and onto the gallery walls, setting the stage for large-scale portraits of Murphy and her soul sister Shannon Godfrey, both swaddled and huddling in a great swathe of blood red drapery. Godfrey sports a Mona Lisa smile — (a smile in a Murphy painting?) — and Murphy looks tired, over-exerted. But their flesh, though still putty-like in substance, has a healthier pinkness, and they seem calmer in attitude than previous Murphy subjects.

Installation view of "if the circus moved on, would we?". Image: Luke Bender photo, courtesy of the author

Happily, Murphy's tried-and-true trademarks were well in evidence: she still can't resist a knowing sneer or two. Her love of detail was manifested in an ornate still life of a tea service with sushi, flowers, and a cow skull, and in a remarkable self-portrait, her blank expression nearly obscured by a blizzard of scarlet leaves and blue hearts, two bunny-eared babies strapped to her back. Her emblematic scissors were back, in shocking pink, though this time they seemed more like allies than assailants, attentively severing tentacles of hair that looked very much like puppet strings.

"I used to paint a lot more about violence," Murphy says. "That tends to be a game that's more attractive for younger artists, to paint something wildly violent — something overt and spread-eagle. At a certain point, you grow out of that and want to take a closer look at the issues."

Opening night at DotDotDot Artspace in Lawrence, Kansas, January 17, 2009. Image: courtesy of the author

For Murphy, that closer look at bigger issues appears to require a looking-away from the chaos of circus life. But there's no fear that the exorcism of her demons will make Murphy a dull girl. Murphy uses painting not just to describe or detach from her personal sea changes, but as a vehicle of self-transformation — wherever she goes, her painting will take her there. Art, the way Murphy employs it, is always vital, never static, never dull. -re-