Tacita Dean on Syl Floer’s Final Artwork: ‘She Gave Death the Middle Finger’ | Performance art

IIt is very difficult to describe a work by British conceptual artist Sil Floyer because the description weighs it down. Her practices were so precisely crafted that they existed only in the experience between the idea of ​​the work and its comprehension. Ciel handled this equation with ingenuity and perfect balance, but it was a risky and bare-bones operation with little to no place to hide, or no place at all.

Resolving the relationship between the beginning of the idea and its manifestation became increasingly risky for her and many works did not achieve success. Therein lies her courage. That’s why I wanted to add something to her obituary written by Jonathan Watkins last month.

Ceal was exceptional and brave. Her work exposed her to the vicissitudes of existence because that’s what it was made of. Her practices were so ingrained in her life that living with a brain tumor for 23 years took a toll on her, despite her constant defiance and disregard for the time limits set by her diagnosis. The relationship between her brain and her work was so extraordinary that her brain surgeon took an exceptional diagnostic interest in her art. But that same brilliance meant she couldn’t bear to be seen losing control, so she preferred to isolate herself rather than expose any cracks. She continued to incubate ideas but often failed to realize them and over time this began to frustrate and disillusion her.

But in her final month, in the palliative care unit of a hospital dedicated to St. Francis near Berlin Zoo Station, she was freed from that burden and, in the face of death, briefly became the artist she was. Despite the terrible depletion in her body, she was purely and unmistakably Ciel, lively and strangely determined. Many people visited her, encouraging the dormant performative aspect of her practice.

On the wall was a wooden cross. She kept pointing at him and it was clear that he represented death, even though she was still alive and present. Trying to drink a glass of water, she told us that she no longer knew whether she was too old or too young. Then we watched her form an idea: Can we buy her some coloring books? Adding later that she would only need black crayons. I bought her books and crayons, but she stayed the same; The idea was the point.

She became increasingly inaudible during her longer than expected hospital stay. On what would become her last full day, she got up when we arrived, reached the triangular bar above her bed and clung to it, holding on for an unbearably long time. It was clear that it meant life in the same way that the cross on the wall meant death. From time to time, Ciel shook the bar, as if he wanted her beyond his idle abilities. Finally, she let her hand drop and motioned for us to get her a nurse, and in a clearer, louder voice than had been possible for a long time, she answered the doctor’s offer of giving her morphine, “Yes, please.”

As they went to get her, while I was standing by her bed, she raised her hand and gave the middle finger to the cross on the wall. This gesture was clear, bold, and brave: I was her audience and spectator, and she was pointing at death with the middle finger as her witness. She recognized my reaction and was pleased by it (I was both shocked and amazed), and with the slightest of feline smiles on her face, she allowed the nurse to administer her morphine and she never appeared again, as far as I know.