The Ovarian Fist

Mendieta’s Silhouette

Ana Mendieta became one with the earth in her lifetime, a feat that I can only hope to experience. She lay down in the bare arms of the dirt and created her angel-like molding; she crouched down in the mud and clawed to build up a form that she could recognize as herself. She worked, diligently, to reconstruct a version of herself that she could identify and then analyze, perhaps one she could look back to with pride. She could revisit these versions of herself over time, see how they cultivated with the earth and evolved, how they grew and stretched—roots and branches spreading wildly fertile. She planted herself like a shrine in the soils of Mexico, carving herself into rock walls and leaving her muddied frame floating in the river. Like those of an ancient time she constructed a familiar silhouette, hoping for a transcendental acquiescence.

It’s not surprising that one would compare the natural works of the Silueta series to archaic images of the past; it is, in fact, a connection that is often made in regards to Mendieta’s work. The simple human form, the use of organic materials such as mud, stones, and animal blood, the prayer-like pose of arms raised to the sky–all are certainly reminiscent of the simple sculptures and paintings that date back to ancient Mesopotamia and art from the Paleolithic period. The supreme beauty of Mendieta’s work, however, is that it offers itself to be interpreted in such a wide variety of ways. The Silueta series (as well as other similar projects of Mendieta’s) can most certainly house a number of diverse and ubiquitous meanings; common themes include a connection to nature, a sense of spirituality, an homage to the female body, and the undeniable presence of death.

Surely, I would say, that one most always feels that choking sensation of death when they view pieces of the Silueta series; at a fleeting glance nearly all of Mendieta’s work has that certain shadow over it, that foreboding sense of something that we’ve all come to know but have yet to experience. Many of the pieces resemble dug graves, bloody murder scenes, even crucifixions. When one observes the animalistic one can’t help but feel the pervading awareness that death isn’t far behind, just as a wild animal is aware of every deep shadow and cracking twig in proximity.

Though Mendieta’s trademark earthworks do often seem to embrace motifs of death (a figure in the ground, a body in the river, a bloodied form pitted in the sand) her Silueta series can attest to life as well. One can perceive both of these two definitive opposites in each silhouette piece, depending upon whether or not one chooses to analyze the metaphorical “light” or “dark” of the piece.

The example shown above is a popular image in regards to the Silueta series, one of a few favorites that are often used as a kind of synopsis of Mendieta’s whole span of work. Of course, one can quite easily identify the elements of the piece that would evoke thoughts of death; the figure seems to have been dug as a shallow grave and is covered in what appears to be copious amounts of blood. The pose of the form can easily be interpreted as one who has fallen—but it could also be the posture of one who is rising. Blood may usually be associated with death and injury, but let us not forget the manner in which we first entered this world. And while we ourselves may not come from the ground, it is an indisputably vast resource of life and there are countless living things that do. In this manner, this piece that was once crooning a death song is now testifying to life and fertility.

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Indeed, one cannot even consider death without first considering life. Just as with light and shadow, life and death are dependent on each other for existence. Life must inevitably end in death and death could not occur without life. Because of this intertwining cycle that is never-ending, both life and death begin to blur into one innate being, one solitary form of existence. Life and death, you see, are just two sides of the same monster.

Was this Mendieta’s intention when she formed her earthworks? As she crouched in the mud and began to see that human silhouette coming to life beneath her hands, was she considering all the possible interpretations of her pieces? Probably not. I would say, though, that when one creates a valuable work of art it has the ability to surpass the artist’s intentions. When one creates something so beautifully profound then that work can have the ability to grow on its own, maybe not physically but certainly in the minds of others. As it absorbs new meanings like water it can expand and extend outward, comparable to a body of branches or an intrinsic root system.

Mendieta’s pieces are alive; it isn’t a rowdy, ecstatic life but a quiet, modest life like that found in nature. As one stands in a forest one might be aware of the fact that they sit alone, of the stillness around them, but they are also aware of a sort rhythm in the air, subtle like that of a chest gently rising and falling—breathing. Many of Mendieta’s pieces do breathe, and those that don’t seem to have at least had their day. One may even get the sense that these natural creations understand the relativity of life and death themselves, perhaps through a kind of personal experience. Indeed, any piece in the Silueta series can make the statement, “Someone has died here”, but they also have the ability to say, “I lived here”.

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I want to leave my mark like that. I want to lay me down in the dirt and expect myself to grow and evolve, to cultivate, to germinate, to expand. I want to expect myself to organically develop over time so that I may come back to a form that I can recognize, yet admire. Can I leave myself behind so that I might evolve into something worth respecting? Can I leave a piece of my organic form to the soil so that I may germinate, mold, develop into something significant, something remarkable?

Ana Mendieta managed this somehow. She held the key. She lay the blueprints down of her own emotional self, of her own body, to stitch them into a time that they could exist when she ceased to live on. She sutured her soul into an instance where it could lie permanently in wait for the future, where it could grow and become unruly with nature like hair or fingernails. There her body, mind, and soul might conform to the constraints of time, but not those of society. There, Ana Mendieta managed to prepare herself for anything; she managed to provide herself (whether she was aware of it or not) with a way that she could deal with both life and death while still addressing the rest of us. Though these pieces do not reflect my own personal silhouette, their form does bear just enough resemblance, just enough familiarity to me that a kind of comfort is extended in my direction. The rest of us can still extract some consolation from these pieces because those simple, roughly human forms are so damn predictable that we can’t help but feel we are a part of the analogy. Through this common shadow we all become links on the chain, and we are all awarded a little taste of that sense of oneness.

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More from the Silueta Series: