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painted white on the gallery floor just as it is seenfrom the air as the surf hits its coasts. White is amythical color in the work of Ernesto Pujol: "TheCuba I inherited was a white island", filled withplantations, mulattoes and nannies. His are Cubanfamily memories of a society sheltered "within theimpenetrably white cloister of their manors", theartist has commented. That Creole class, from theivory tower of their whiteness, "is my root". Inthe exhibition, that whiteness reappears bearingthe expressive weight of innocence and fragility.

Ernesto Pujol's one-person exhibition wasneither zealous nor passionate, but reflective.Above all else, it was a promise and, I hope, asymptom of a new historical moment. It wasmoving because of its very human discourseregarding memory, innocence and time. It wasfilled with a profound sense of personal meaning,as the four clocks were the age Pujol was whenhe left Cuba, and the thirty-seven shirts heemployed in his installations are his current age.Numbers seem to invite other possible readingsin the works, as in the three rows of threes inwhich the small rocking chairs are placed, the threehour difference between each of the clocks, thethree doors of each armoire, and the three shirtsthey bear. One could meditate on the proliferationof odd numbers, incomplete numbers due to theabsence of that which creates unity.

But the repetition of threes in someone likePujol, who experienced a conservative RomanCatholic upbringing, could also have hinted atother meanings. The number three, frequentlyrepeated in the works, is, within the multiculturalreality of Cuba, symbolic of Eleggua, the orishaprotector of children and the spirit of the road.However, the exhibition also has combinations offours. Four is the mystical number for the HolyTrinity and Mary, the inclusion of woman withindivine society; and Pujol dedicated the exhibitionto those Cuban women who, "within foreignsocieties, tried to pass on their cultural heritagethrough their domestic narratives", as well as toAna Mendieta, "for daring to reach for a placewithin the history of contemporary Cuban art...".The artist has stated that he too would like to findthis place. Although it is not for me to award itto him, but for time and history, it will surelyhappen, not just because of his daring, which isalready noteworthy, but because of the strengthand clarity of his work.

1 This exhibition marked the first time in 12 years, since AnaMendieta exhibited at the National Museum, that a Cuban visualartist living in the United States formally exhibited in Havana.

Rita DonaghJaki Irvine

Given the juxtapositions of canvas and newsprint,photographs and paint, fine pencil work andwashes of colour that characterise much of RitaDonagh's work, Pattern, 1994, is most immediatelystriking for its obtuse simplicity. Here, onto thesmooth white ground of a modestly sized squarecanvas, another slightly smaller grey-black squarehas been finely sprayed. This is in turn overlaidby a series of thin broken lines which track acrossits subtly modulating surface to produce acruciform of sorts that radiates out towards itscorners. In view of the works which surround it,many of which make explicit reference to the pasttwenty-five years of violence in Northern Ireland(by way of photographs culled from newspapers,political maps of Ireland, north and south, finelyworked drawings of H-Blocks, etc), Pattern appearsas something of an anomaly. Indeed, its dullincongruity seems to stem not only from itseschewal of the range of painterly hues andtechniques that abound in many of the other pieceson display here, but also from the degree ofabstraction it embraces, an abstraction which atfirst sight belies little or no knowledge of thoseissues which have fuelled the majority of Donagh'sother works over the past two decades. It was thissuperficial sense of a misfit that gave me pause forthought here, to wonder what place this paintingoccupies in this context, what knowledge orimagining it might bespeak.

Most obviously Pattern functions as an academicexercise in modernist painterly rhetoric, withquestions of flatness, surface, texture, the statusof the painting as object, etc, flexing about itssurface. Its close proximity to the large canvasSlade, 1992, further encourages this understanding.Here the artist has painted herself quite self-consciously as such — paintbrush and palette inhand she stands beside a large geometric paintingthat features receding squares — the figurativeartist with her abstract artwork... However, thedesign of this 'abstract painting' has much incommon with that of a counterpane which cropsup in many of her other works. For example,Counterpane study — patchwork, 1988, andComposition 1, 1992, to mention but two of these,were both based on the design of this quilt. From

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this perspective the broken lines on the surface ofPattern have much in common with those of asewing pattern. Small wonder then that Patternseems to border on the decorative. On one levelat least it actively lends itself to this conception ofit, the point of which, as in the readyacknowledgement of the source of inspiration forthe other finely worked studies, being presumablya blurring of the boundaries between high art/craft,figuration/abstraction — by now familiar focalpoints after over two and a half decades of feministtheory and practice.

The inclusion in the accompanying catalogue ofa reproduction of a well known self-portrait byLaura Knight from 1913 at a life drawing classfurther reinforces this matrix of questions as beingparticularly gendered, just in case there was anydoubt. With this doubling, a kind of identificationis clearly implied between Donagh and Knight, anidentification based on a gendered discomfort ofthe artist within an art institution. But a thirdimage is also repeated alongside these images inthe catalogue and hangs elsewhere in thisexhibition. It features a newspaper photograph ofa Muslim woman, her face all but completelycovered by a black cloth draped over her headwhich she holds in place as she sits alone on theground, surrounded by rubble. With thisinclusion, the facility with which one person mightidentify with another stands out starkly, at leastto my eyes, as being extraordinarily problematic.For it seems to me that if this chain of identificationis to extend to this figure, it can only be done soon the basis of gender and the status of victim. Butmore, if it is to carry through on that level, it isclearly at the expense of a myriad of differencesthat, having been displaced, makes room for aneasy sense of affirmation in the place of adisavowed ignorance. Again this is a familiarproblem of tension between the political necessityto identify enough as a body of people in orderto act on the one hand, against an often reductiveidentity imagined in the process.

There is however the possibility that the imageof this figure is to Donagh as the naked femalemodel of the life drawing class is to Knight; thatdespite possibilities of identification, both arefigured as a kind of refused option, a refusal ofcourse which bespeaks a privileged freedom ofchoice in the first place, as both model and thedraped woman function differently as moreextreme, objectified images of woman as victimthan either Donagh or Knight pretend to.

But this difficulty of representing people asvictims of oppression/violence returns in many of

Donagh's other works, as too does the attendantproblem of aesthetics, most clearly in thosepaintings relating to the political situation inNorthern Ireland. Here there are two or three mainfocal points, to which the artist returns repeatedly,one of these being the H-Block, of which, forexample, she carefully draws the external layoutfrom overhead, extending lines of perspectiveaccording to the laws of classical Renaissance,carefully enumerating these lines in colouredpencil where they intersect with the edges of thepaper, as in Cell Block, 1984. In Long Meadow, 1982,'H's are overlaid on a scumbled grey-black ground.She returns to this figure in many other worksbesides, treating the 'H' in a variety of differentways, combining cartographic, photographic andpainterly devices.

In Compound, 1985, for example, 'H's of deeppurple and lilac tones are overlaid on a map-likedrawing of Lough Neagh, while in anotherpainting these same elements are repeated withthe addition of a similar formation of 'H's, this timeexecuted higher up the canvas in deep red, againstan orange/brown sky/sunset to create theimpression of a squadron of World War II bomberstaking off, presumably to avenge thoseincarcerated below. This painting is probably oneof the most obviously polemical, with what Iunderstand as a bald assertion of the Britishgovernment being responsible for fuelling muchof the violence of the past twenty five years of theTroubles itself, with the repressive measures itenforced. While one may agree or disagree withthis sentiment, what disturbs me here aselsewhere, is precisely the enunciation of suchissues almost entirely in terms of sentiment, to thepoint of seeming overwhelmingly melodramatic attimes. This would perhaps not be so troublingwere it not treated as something transparent,unproblematic in and of itself.

Considering that the question of representationin and of itself, and with respect to concepts ofhistory in general and that of colonial and post-colonial countries in particular, has been the siteof such fierce contestation over the past two/threedecades, I find myself nothing short of surprisedat what I perceive as the absence of a criticaldistance between the artist and her mode ofarticulation. For all the obvious drawing togetherof the political and the aesthetic in the merging ofcartographic imaging with that of traditionalpainterly concerns vis-a-vis landscape painting, therepetition of the figure of the H-block comes to restfor me here at the level of painterly motif/theme.And this seems to be due to what strikes me finally

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Counterpane, 1987-88, oil on canvas, 152 x 152 cm.

as the reiteration of a series of simple rhetoricalassertions of belief, in favour of a sustainedinterrogation of the myriad complexities of thesituation, one which does not exclude the differentplaces of artist and viewer in the production ofmeaning. In the face of this, then, the option seemsto be either to agree with the sentiment expressedor reject it, but the possibility of engagement inother, and by my lights perhaps more productive,terms does not readily suggest itself.

The same difficulty recurs for me when I cometo those canvases which incorporate photographsculled from newspapers. For example in Bystander,1977, a small photograph of young boys jumpingdown off a graffiti covered wall and runningthrough a rubble filled street is dwarfed by thelarge canvas it has been stuck onto. Darting acrossthe surface of both canvas and photo, dashes ofpaint are overlaid on washes of dark grey, blackand white, bringing to mind rain/shrapnel. A blackpainted form lies in one corner of the painting,

functioning as a kind of linking device betweenexpanse of canvas and image, having clearly beendrawn from some photographic source, it bringsto mind the folds of the Muslim woman's clothes.It also brings to mind the small collage, Aftermath,1975. The latter consists of a photograph of peoplelying dead on the pavement, covered withblankets, Donagh's response to which was toextend the lines of perspective of the pavement onwhich they lie, adding another dark form in theforeground, which consists primarily of a study offolds of cloth/newspaper. Elsewhere Donaghrepeats this fallen figure, in for example Bandsman,1988, executed in a series of small pencil lines,suggestive of a blown-up newspaper image. WithCounterpane, 1992, this figure then becomes thebarely discernible form that acts as a support forthe counterpane of the title, rendered in fine linesand delicate hues, to the point where I begin towonder if there isn't something obscene in theimage of someone lying dead acting as the

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thematic support for the study of this quilt.My eagerness to attribute the wit of the parodic

to this piece fails me when I wander over to thesmall work Belfast Boy, 1973. Here the image of aboy/young man taken by an unknownphotographer, has been torn from anewspaper/magazine by Donagh and stuck ontoa small canvas either edge of which is painted blackand white respectively. The boy is crouching downon another rubble filled street, looking away fromthe unseen camera for reasons beyond our view.Given the title, it is reasonable to assume hisactions have something to do with the violence ofcircumstances in which he is or could be caughtup. Despite this, the absence of furtherinformation, like the imaging of the woman on theground and the children of Bystander render theseimages as somehow iconic/timeless, the particularhistorical circumstances elided. This particularwork has been hung at knee height so that bendingdown to get a better view of it, one is placed inthe position of imitating the gesture of the figurein the photograph. Maybe this was meant toimplicate the viewer, the repetition of this gesturebeing something one might have in common.Perhaps from the perspective of another personstanding behind the one crouching in front of thework, the figure in the photo and the viewerperform some kind of doubling. But I experiencemy distance from this imaged figure, in time andspace and motivation, as insurmountable, to thepoint where my gesture, produced by a desire tosatisfy my curiosity, strikes me as a mockery of thevulnerability of that other one. This is not to saythis has nothing to do with me, but the questionis exactly how should it have something to do withme? I'm not sure that it's all that useful to holdonto iconic images of unknown victims, still lessto identify with such images at the expense ofexamining the set of circumstances that lead totheir being posited as such in the first place. Maybeone could argue that this empathy is the first steptowards politicised action. Maybe. Returning to thebroken lines of Pattern and the by now inescapablereference to political maps, I am drawn to thinkingabout the thin line Benjamin drew betweenpoliticising aesthetics and aestheticising politics.

Rita Donagh, Paintings and Drawings' was at theCornerhouse, Manchester, October-November1994; Camden Arts Centre, London, February-March 1995; and the Irish Museum of Modern Art,Dublin, April-June 1995.

Witnesses of ExistenceJay Murphy

In his entry for November 5, 1992, in Sarajevo: AWar Journal1 journalist Zlatko Dizdarevic recordsan exchange of 'video letters' between a group ofconcerned Parisian intellectuals and theirembattled Bosnian counterparts. With his tongueonly slightly dislodged from his cheek, Dizdarevicnotes "The discussion was actually moving andsincere. Costa Gavras said that he would like hisnew film to premiere in Sarajevo. Others said itwould be nice if our ravaged city could become theofficial headquarters of certain renownedEuropean cultural institutions". From Paris camephrases like 'cultural exchange' and 'thehumanization of mankind'. What Dizdareviccouldn't help observing was that "All the peoplearound the table were drinking tea in pretty chinacups poured from an even prettier rustic teapot".But the spectacle, he continues, "All kiddingaside... was well put together, and it showedgenuine feeling and understanding".

The Bosnian response to their erstwhilecolleagues, after they received the tape somemonths after it was made, could only be blunterand coarser. Dizdarevic relates that "Ljubovic toldthe story of his 'Bosnian rooms'. The furniture thatonce was in those rooms is now being sold at aflea market in Belgrade. The salesmen are peoplewho 'visited' these rooms in Grbavica, whereLjubovid managed to escape from them 'insneakers and no socks', which he had no time tofind. Others told similar stories..." At theconclusion, Dizdarevic writes,

Marko VeSovic addressed a few words... from where hesat, in a broken van before the demolished TV building,speaking in a cracked voice. He thanked Costa Gavrasfor the generous gesture to premiere his movie inSarajevo, for which there definitely would be anaudience, but pointed out that he would also have to sendalong a movie theater in which to show it. He said thatit was good to think in such a cultured way about culturalmatters over here, but that even just thinking here wasdifficult now — not to mention thinking about culture— when chetnik dynamite is blowing Muslim and Croatplaces of worship sky-high. "How can we think aboutculture when at Ahmatovici, only kilometers fromSarajevo, the chetniks ushered fifty people into a bus andthen blew it to bits?" I'm sure Marko had more to say,