Lewis's Rape series does not -- as we might expect -- graphically illustrate the violence and brutality of her own experience. The photographs are small, rather delicate close-ups of her face and body, made prior to her rape in an exploration of "secret and private thoughts"; they are accompanied by a meticulously hand-lettered narrative in pale gray ink and mounted on fragile rag paper. The piece has a gentle preciousness which seems, at first glance, curiously inadequate for its subject.
Visually, the assault is merely implied: blurred motions, tentative touchings of her own body, expressions that might indicate pain or anguish, and a single image in which she appears streaked with blood. By means of the narrative, Lewis expresses her fear for the safety of her children; her relief when the beating stopped, which made the rape seem almost gentle; her sorrow for the kinds of lives which led the rapists to take by force what, in other circumstances, they might have been given; and a remarkable clarity about the social forces motivating her attackers. She examines her own state of mind for clues as to what might have rendered her vulnerable, and as an independent woman, she rejects the pressures exerted on her to get herself a protector -- a husband, a gun or dog, and a proper sense of fear.
The Rape series is an expression of what Lewis describes as "appropriate anger." She stood up to the rapists by "giving them nothing to smash their anger against," by resisting the role of victim assigned by either rapists or discomfited friends, by refusing to assume a posture of fear. She broke the taboo against publicizing her ordeal in an effort both to purge the experience and to render it useful by destroying the silence and denial society uses to isolate women who, having suffered rape, must then suffer stigmatization. "There are no innocent bystanders," Lewis writes; "The social aggressor is a shadow of ourselves."
Kaida's more traditional portraits, in Daughters, explore the dynamics of a natural evolution of sexual identity and the social imprinting of sexual roles by parents, siblings, peers, the media, fantasy and play. The images convey tension and ambivalence as mothers cope with the realization that their children are separate, sexually conscious beings. In Beth and Kate, mother and daughter pose with violin bows crossed like swords: the child is cool and unnervingly self-possessed; the mother is reserved and a little nervous. The mother of three girls, in Ballerinas, seems expansive and proud as she displays her small brood; the girls are, in turn, preening, stiff and awkward, and very shy.
If relationships between mothers and daughters are layered with ambivalence, encounters between siblings are direct and highly charged with rivalry. In Annie and Lisa, Age 17 and 15, Annie is flirtatious and confident; Lisa is still an awkward child. An image made two years later shows Lisa metamorphosed into a pouting, curvy vixen, and Annie seems angular, weary, and sullen. In images such as these, one girl manages to upstage the other without fail. The mechanics of the Playboy pose are apparently learned early and well: a coltish Juliet, Age 16, obediently drops her overalls bib for the photographer and the audience, exposing full breasts barely contained in a sheer brassiere; though she knows the movements, there is nothing sensual in her performance. Kate and Barbie Doll, Age 10, displays a child who out-vamps her stylized toy. There is something disturbing about the familiarity of these media-generated seductive poses, something frightening about the apparent ease and skill with which children parody packaged gestures of sexiness devoid of authentic sexual exploration or expression. Are these the only options we have to offer the child who is ready to try on an adult role?
With her "fairy-tale" portraits, Kaida enters the realm of psychological and spiritual journeys on the way to becoming woman. These are stunning, surreal images touching upon archetypal female aspirations and fears. Although the poses and gestures are theatrical, the images manage to convey real sensuality. Mona, photographed among a tangle of weeds at night, displays her small, swimsuited form without artifice or shame. In Nightmare, a small blond girl is menaced by pigeons that flock around her head to reach a cup she holds. In Avencia, the subject stands absolutely still inside the circle of a large Hula-Hoop, almost daring someone to enter its spell. In Eve, an image which could have succumbed to clichŽ, but does not, a grim child holds an apple in her tiny hand. Her expression is dead serious, almost threatening. In these portraits, Eros is clearly a powerful life force, even in children, and not a product to be merchandised or a possession to be sold or stolen.
This is a courageous and effective exhibition curated by Chris Johnson and Theresa Weedy. Its intention is sufficiently political to offend some viewers and enlighten more. As the gallery's opening exhibition of 19984, it augers well for the coming year.
