Geoffrey Farmer at Barbican

Save a number of failed attempts by friends to enlighten me on Geoffrey Farmer’s style (‘You know, he’s the guy who splices stuff’, ‘Oh what, the birds and body parts guy?’) I arrive at the Barbican’s Curve gallery reasonably in the dark as to what to expect. I’m glad I did. The resulting entrance into the semi-lit space was, to coin the parlance of the youth of today, awesome.

The sight of Farmer’s army of intricate, strangely beautiful puppets of fabric and collaged images, each casting their own collection of equally captivating shadows, is one not easily forgotten. Not least because of my innate fear of puppets but also due to the slightly eerie soundtrack which accompanies them. Inexplicably far-off plinks, plonks, jingles and rustles make up the constant, disconcerting backing track of ‘everyday sounds’.

The only details which unify the 365 puppets, one created for each day of the year, are their fabric bodies and the simple, uniform plinths on which they’re hung. Beyond that, each disjointed pair of eyes, legs, arms and buttocks is unique, enforcing a necessity to study each one from every possible vantage point, examining the text on the reverse of pieces, taken from books and magazines we recognise the recurring themes of nature, art and popular culture.

This closer inspection brings a better idea of what the puppets, and their creator, represent. Peace signs, revolutionary banners and an arm stretched out in protest. Despite their compelling beauty, these puppets characterise both the frailty and the malevolence of humanity. A realisation which dawns as the procession marches its way around The Curve into near-darkness.

The movement of the viewer along the exhibit appears mirrored within the installation. Admittedly, a rather overzealous air con is sometimes to blame for genuine, albeit almost imperceptible, flutters but more often it is the groupings: pairs, straight lines, singletons, and the differences in height, colour and features which bring with it a powerful sense of mobility.

The Dadaist comparisons are inevitable, although here we see the disjointed collage stylings in 3D which feels like an up to date nod to what has been an obvious inspiration. A salute to the photographed image and its changing but ever-significant role in society.

At times the seemingly endless task of turning your attention to each piece seems somewhat daunting and then, as if sensing your impending apathy, a jaunty wink you feel is so hidden it must have been afforded only to you, is sent your way and study resumes.

Geoffrey Farmer: The Surgeon and the Photographer is part of the Barbican’s Dancing around Duchamp season.

Geoffrey Farmer is open until Sunday 28 July at:

Barbican Centre
Silk Street
City of London
EC2Y 8DS

Photo: Jane Hobson. Courtesy of Barbican Art Gallery