Swimming in symbolism, Hoey’s work speaks to the transience of human life, the passages of time, and the cruel nature of chance
In a spartan room of cold concrete, a series of human heads – rendered in grey porcelain – are set across the floor. Each one is orbited by a kind of pendulum, their weighted bobs swinging back and forth, whistling past the sculptures’ fragile surfaces. Soon enough they strike their chosen targets, some earlier than others. When they do, the effigies crumble; delicate pieces litter the ground, from a chin to a collapsed brow, or the now-dislocated contours of a human cheek.
This unsettling installation, preserved in the shape of a tense video work, was an early experiment by Dutch-Irish visual artist Phelim Hoey, and a constituent part of his ongoing project, La Machine. Swimming in symbolism, it speaks directly to the transience of human life, to dual frailties of mind and body, to the passages of time, and to the cruel nature of chance. In these ways, it’s an illuminating window into the questions that define much of Hoey’s practice – questions that emerge largely from the artist’s own personal circumstances.
Just a few weeks into the first year of his photography course at Utrecht School of the Arts in the Netherlands, Hoey began to experience problems with his vision. “I wasn’t worried at all,” he recalls, “at that time I felt pretty immortal”. Despite the assurances of a doctor – that it was likely an infection stemming from an earlier cold – further symptoms followed, affecting Hoey’s balance and coordination. Some six months later, on 14 March 2011, after a succession of escalating consultations with neurologists, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) – a disease of the brain and spinal cord that disrupts the nervous symptom’s ability to transmit signals.