A couple of days after he removed my appendix, the surgeon asked me if I wanted to keep it preserved in formaldehyde. I was a bookish and rather effeminate ten-year-old, and the last thing anyone expected was that I'd say yes. I wasn't sure why I wanted it; in fact, when I came home, I stuck the jar in the back of a bookshelf, out of sight. But I knew I needed to keep it.
Two summers later, an accident on my uncle's farm in Pennsylvania cost me the ring and little fingers of my right hand. The doctors tried their best to reattach them, but microsurgery wasn't available back then. When they gave up, I asked to keep the fingers. Everyone was aghast at the idea, but I was insistent, and they decided to humor me. The fingers went in their own jar on the shelf.
While walking on a side-street in Chinatown the next winter, I found an ear in the gutter. There was a tong war going on -- so the tabloids said -- which probably had something to do with it. The ear was rather desiccated when I found it. This was fortunate, since my notions about preservation were primitive then, and would likely have failed on fresher flesh. I have learned quite a lot. I might know more about embalming than the Egyptians now.
Since the ear, I keep a look-out wherever I go, and have obtained many interesting specimens in this way. It's amazing what you can find if you keep your eyes on the ground, especially in New York. Hiking trips have also been productive.
I've made acquisitions closer to home, as well. My father contracted an obscure disease, whose only effect was to cause him to lose all his hair in a very short time. I harvested a good deal of it. A number of teeth -- mine and a couple of other guys' -- came from a barroom brawl in college. Of course, teeth are in plentiful supply on the streets, too. Since I've always been accident-prone, I've been able to collect a lot of blood. Blood is also common on the streets, although there it has usually dried before I find it.
My specimens have two things in common. All are from human beings. All were acquired accidentally, or incidentally to some other goal. Grave-robbing, purchase of medical specimens, deliberately removing a piece (of myself or of someone else) -- none has the desired aesthetic effect.
I use the word 'aesthetic' advisedly. I am (as you might guess) an artist, and I use my collection in my work. Curiously, I did not think to combine my interests until I had been working for years.
When I did begin using the specimens, I was very conservative at first. I would paint an ear or a bone as part of a still life, for example. This was seen by the critics as an affectation. Eventually I realized that I would have to use the actual objects, and not mere images, to attain artistic authenticity.
The first example of my new style was a sculpture, Lovers -- two femurs of dissimilar sizes, bound by barbed wire. It was followed by a painting, a landscape, with a number of broken teeth glued to it. Although the painting seemed to remind critics vaguely of Schnabel, these works established a minor reputation for me.
A string of small successes followed. Then came my big breakthrough with the public: a huge painting inspired by the Hell section of Bosch's famous triptych. Although the painting itself was no stylistic advance for me, the police investigation, the subsequent lawsuits, and the accompanying lurid publicity put me on front pages across the country.
After that, I was 'popular'; but the disturbing nature of my works and materials maintained my critical reputation as well.
Now the critics say that looking at my art is like looking into the face of the void. They seem to mean this as a compliment. I, however, remember what Nietszche said: that if you look into the void, the void also looks into you. This aphorism confounded me, until recently; it pointed out to me the essential problem of my approach. I wrestled for years with what it would mean for my work to look into the viewer. I believe I have found my answer.
I am working on my masterpiece, a 'multimedia' installation called The Void. It will contain all my best specimens, along with the two I will add once I have finished writing this. I know that I said, earlier, that deliberate harvesting did not work. But the purity of my vision, of my sacrifice, insures that it will work this time. I know it will.
Unfortunately, I will not be able to continue my work as a visual artist, but I am serene. I believe this final work will secure my place in history. I do not need to see it happen.
Copyright 1994 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.