Kiki Smith’s art is creepy. It creeps into your soul, nags you with uncomfortable questions: Is that a dead boy? Is he black – or brown? What is that Yoda-like hairy face – human or what? Why is the woman sitting naked on dry branches with wire-like objects jutting out of her eyes? Are those the feet of a dead human being? Is that faeces? Is the artist obsessed with death? Oh! Amidst all this, what is the cat doing, lying on its back?
The uninitiated might be charmed or repulsed by Kiki’s enigmatic art. It represents a strange Delphian dystopia, a world bordering on the occult. It is like a pungent concoction that is fermented in melancholy and served with a dash of artistic exuberance. You can smell it – almost – and hear it like the foreboding call of the clairvoyant.
Her tapestries, lithographs, drawings and sculptures demand your attention – they grab you by the short and curlies. Their surreal realism transforms a casual spectator into a prying voyeur. But as you try to decode her cryptic art, you will find your feet shifting in discomfort. At the same time, you may find yourself drawn to her art in a wistful gaze, lips pursed in bewilderment.
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