by Abbey Hopkins

Walking through Lara Favaretto’s exhibition at the rennie collection, one must confront the urge to touch her works. Ranging from revolving carwash brushes to stand-alone confetti cubes, most of the works in the exhibition exude tactile tension. It is specifically because one must not touch the artworks that a tension builds.

From young children to retirees who come for tours, everyone remarks on their desire to touch the art. When talking about art, it is rare that our sense of touch is so enticed by objects. Touch is enticed by wonder; this wonder in Favaretto’s work is provoked by a curiosity of how things work and interact with the forces around them. Take, for example, Village of the Damned (2010). Made of blocks of gray paper confetti, with no adhesive or interior form holding the cubes together, this work greets viewers in the first room of the exhibition. Visitors are in disbelief that the seemingly solid, large cubes in front of them are constructed solely from paper shapes, unlike most confetti, which is often scattered about, erupting in joy or lying post-celebration upon the ground. This opposition to confetti’s ‘natural’ form causes the desire to touch. The fragility of the confetti makes us want to grab them to confirm their materiality. If seeing cannot lead to believing, touch must be the final frontier of proof.

Sometimes, without provocation from visible forces, the cubes will shed a cluster of confetti onto the floor. This living moment tempts us, again, to touch. If gravity can touch, why can’t we? Like the old saying, “take only pictures, leave only footprints applies to the preservation of the art object, however, Favaretto is not one for preservation. Her art has a lifespan that is meant to live out. The confetti beg of viewers to take a handful and throw, acting on cultural expectations of the medium. Outbursts of joy, celebration, and happiness are in conflict to the stoic presence of the cubes. Village of the Damned indeed; damned to a life of stagnancy and physical isolation from our warm, wondering hands.

Coppie Semplici/Simple Couples (2009) is another piece that elicits child-like wonder. A room full of car wash brushes paired off into couples whirl intermittently, dancing together to create a dynamic space to walk through. Their colours are bright and inviting; they ask the viewer to run their hands through the bristles. This taboo desire to touch, paired with the joyous tonality of the brushes, is like a flirty whisper from a person you shouldn’t be talking with: you can feel their breeze. They are allowed to interact with your space, however, you are not allowed to invade theirs. They dance up against their partner, taunting viewers with their interaction.

Just imagine being sandwiched between them: Amamiya and Sasayama from Multiple Personality Detective Psycho; Bobby and Laura from Twin Peaks; Harold and Maude; Kelly and Griff from The Naked Kiss; Maria and Felix; Shirley and Cyril from High Hopes; Stephanie and Sabrina from Deceptions. These brush couples have been given names to pay homage to the aforementioned provocative on-screen couples, the difference here being that you can penetrate the metaphorical barrier of the “fourth wall” between the audience and stage. When watching couples interact on film, you, as the viewer, are not able to physically be in their space. In the gallery, you can enter this space, which adds to the tension between touching and seeing.

In Tutti Giu per Terra (2004), this fourth wall exists physically as a glass panel that excludes the viewer from the party within: one tonne of colourful confetti blown about by four industrial stage fans, making a suspensed of celebration in the air while a masterpiece landscape is formulated below. The work resembles a giant snow globe into which we transport ourselves. Viewers smile and remark how much fun it would be to climb into the confetti and roll around in it, throw it up in the air or simply fall back onto the soft piles of paper. They ask if anyone can go in the room as though there is a hierarchical privilege of confetti room access as if there is an ‘in’. Some get close and press their faces to the glass, straining to see all four corners of the room as if there may be something special to discover. When was the last time you felt this much curiosity for a room? Maybe it was the last time you played in a ball pit or in the leaves during fall. Either way, childhood nostalgia is evoked in the viewer whose fingers itch to touch the artwork. We want to be a part of the artwork; we want to touch it. While there would be no real harm to the confetti landscapes if we were to play in the room, the act of touching would be detrimental to the other pieces.

Favaretto’s 225 (2014), and Lost and Found (1998) are the Pandora’s box of this exhibition. Lost and Found is a sealed suitcase whose original contents are unknown. The suitcase is moved around the space after closing and it appears each morning as though it was forgotten in the gallery. It would be simple to pop the lock off the suitcase and rummage through the contents – this would serve our curiosity about who originally owned the suitcase. However, once the lock is off the artwork is no longer valid. The revelation of the mystery would prove to be the death of the artwork.

225 entices touch more so than Lost and Found. A found painting is wrapped with fuchsia acrylic wool, allowing the image underneath to suggest itself to the viewer. As you walk past the seemingly solid canvas, the secret underneath teases as to what is concealed by the delicately wound fuschia wool. The temptation to pull the strings back is hindered by the fact that the artwork will unravel. The childish impulse to peek is tempered by our adult rationality, knowing we would be responsible for the artwork’s demise.

“Please don’t touch the artwork”: a phrase encountered in almost all art institutions. In Favaretto’s show, this phrase will keep you on your toes, creating a playful tension between what you want to do and what is expected of you. Touch is considered the most intimate of the senses and is often ignored when contemplating art. Favaretto situates the visitor in a space where one must be conscious of the desire to touch, and of what implications touch has in the gallery setting. Please, touch only with your eyes and take plenty of photos. After all, the saying still goes “seeing is believing”.