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My Crops Are Dying But My Body Persists<\/em>, video stills, 2020.
Photos : courtesy of the artist<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
Halfway through Bridget Moser\u2019s My Crops Are Dying But My Body Persists (2020), the artist\u2019s hands are seen gingerly applying Band-Aids along a slice of processed white bread. \u201cWe\u2019re living on this meaningless island and I think it\u2019s getting sick,\u201d she speaks flatly in voice-over. \u201cMaybe it\u2019s already very unwell. How do you know if your body is toxic?\u201d It\u2019s too easy to find COVID-19 narratives everywhere these days, but calling Moser\u2019s new video timely still feels like an understatement. Conceived as a single-channel video installation, Moser was to open My Crops at the Remai Modern just as public institutions across Canada began closing their doors in March. Instead, the Remai presented the work online, giving me the opportunity to watch Moser sprawling awkwardly on a dusty-pink couch in matching satin pajamas, a posture not entirely dissimilar from my own during self-isolation.<\/pre>\n\n\n\nA potent blend of prop comedy, absurdist theatre, and late-capitalist anxiety, Moser\u2019s work regularly situates her body amongst processed foods and Amazon-sourced items\u200a\u2014\u200aeach with that particular sheen of something pulled straight from its packaging\u200a\u2014\u200aenacting increasingly uncomfortable vignettes. In My Crops, she tenderly braids strands of cooked spaghetti, to the atmospheric sounds of Enya; she strokes a decorative skull with a latex glove filled with baked beans. Moser often appears to be striving for something larger\u200a\u2014\u200abe it serenity, catharsis, self-actualization, enlightenment\u200a\u2014\u200ayet her goals are routinely thwarted by the conditions of her performance itself. These failures manifest in small, mundane ways but accumulate nonetheless: she reaches forward until her arm drops with a dull thud; a leaning row of uncooked hotdogs tumble one by one in slow, greasy movements. Even in the work\u2019s climax, where Moser performs a pained, visceral striptease down to a flayed muscle suit, the camera lingers beyond the music\u2019s end and the artist is left crouched on the floor, staring blankly into the distance as if she\u2019s unsure of what\u2019s next. \u201cThe antidote to guilt is action,\u201d a computerized voice intones earlier, speaking as Moser\u2019s quasi-spiritual guide. \u201cMy muscles are weak from lack of action,\u201d she replies, almost defensively. \u201cI am a low-grade type of meat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Watching Moser while self-isolating at home takes on a particular resonance. This is in part because she\u2019s uniquely adept at transmitting the often-banal anxieties of having a body\u200a\u2014\u200a\u201cI take showers just to pass the time\u201d\u200a\u2014\u200abut on a deeper level, she embodies many of the tangled desires and complicities that thrive in capitalist life. Amongst her endless array of carefully staged knick-knacks, she declares: \u201cI would like to feel safe, and when I say safe, what I mean is comfortable.\u201d As our current moment continues to wedge apart everything that could have been tenuously, disingenuously understood as \u201cnormal,\u201d Moser\u2019s humour\u200a\u2014\u200aand deft critique\u200a\u2014\u200aundoes the fictions we tell ourselves in order to navigate an uncertain world. As My Crops reveals these narratives to be toxic, it also revels in their deep relatability\u200a\u2014\u200aall the mundane and agonizing ways we find ourselves the butt of the joke. Faced with this introspection, Moser casually deflects once again: \u201cBut enough about me. Let\u2019s talk about you. What do you like about me?\u201d<\/p>\n