Sunday, October 23, 2005
In Magic Kingdom's shadow: Camille Rose Garcia conjures a nightmarish world of fantasy.
By DANIELLA WALSH
Special to the Register


Beware of "The Cherrygirls" and their otherworldly friends. There are legions of them skipping on the back of a lumbering caterpillar or slinking through dark woods populated with fantasy creatures scary enough to provide weeks' worth of nightmares. On the surface they are frolicking creatures that look human except for their huge, hollow eyes and skinny arms that resemble long tentacles. If, occasionally, they do have hands, they are clutching sharp, lethal instruments.

In "Cherrygirls vs. Contamination," 2000, the aforementioned creature carries a group through a forest where birds tweet "help," and a fat pig hungrily lies in wait. The painting containing such a vexing scenario is part of the current exhibition at the Grand Central Art Center in Santa Ana titled "The Saddest Place on Earth: The Art of Camille Rose Garcia."

Organized by Cal State Fullerton gallery director Mike McGee, the show spotlights Garcia's recent work as a tour de force that lifts the metaphorical rocks covering the often unsavory and outright gruesome goings on underneath the glittering world of Orange County and, in particular, the officially touted, wholesome ambience of Disneyland. In Garcia's eyes, the environment surrounding "The Happiest Place on Earth" is an unsavory mess, and the cutesy animals populating the theme park are either victims (Bambi) or sundry villains ready to turn on those who take them at face value.

For example, a rogues gallery depicting clearly dysfunctional kids recalls the faux fright plan of Disney's Haunted Mansion, and the implied reference to homeless, potentially damaged children growing up in Anaheim's seedier motels is hard to miss. ("The Gallery of Sick Children," 2003) Similarly, "Who's Afraid of the Peppermint Man," 2002 creepily references the dark side of Halloween in the form of a four-armed, clownish creation who prowls neighborhoods with his trick-or-treat bucket and an ax. Shadowed by endearing cartoon bunnies, he stops at a Hansel and Gretel-type house while, above, diverse spirits detachedly observe or convey warnings.

Looking at reproductions of Garcia's work, some might wonder where this (born in 1970) Cassandra of doom is coming from. After all, most of us have been marching to a choppy beat of "Don't Worry, Be Happy," never mind wars, disasters, pandemics and pandemonium. It seems that, as long as the economy is ticking and there are places like Disneyland to offer escape, things can't be all that bad - or can they? If you are a punk culture-inspired denizen of inner Anaheim (or just someone who "thinks too much") the answer is, oh yes they can!

Garcia cites William Burroughs, Phillip K. Dick, Henry Darger along with the Clash and the Dead Kennedys and, yes, Walt Disney, as formative influences along with social and political trends and the plethora of disasters that has befallen the world lately.

In storylines that are as convoluted, scary and filled with double-edged morality subtexts as the Brothers Grimm fairy tales that first inspired countless Disney's storyboards, Garcia offers her take on life in the shadow of Cinderella's castle. (Note the "Dream Factory Escape Pod," 2001, in which she deftly turns the castle into a spaceship about to be boarded by characters resembling "Curious George" while, below, an outcast baby deer is vomiting onto the rocks.)

Hers is also a world inhabited by dark-haired, hollow-eyed girl-women in witch-like gowns or baby punk gear. When not alone - such as the bouffant-haired monster who is about to slaughter Bambi with not one but two knives ("High Greed," 2004), or a melancholy princess in "White Swan Deluge," 2005 or a version of Little Red Riding Hood being dragged from an enchanted forest by a harnessed Bambi ("Blue Forest," 2002) - her characters tend to run in groups like the rogue Girl Scouts making up the "Cherrygirl Liberation Army."

Garcia's paintings demand close attention not only because of their powerful narrative but also a technical virtuosity. Layers of acrylic paint, highlighted with glitter, and details rendered so subtly as to put them into danger of being missed, make for compellingly beautiful compositions. Sculptures/assemblages, created from recycled dollhouses and handcrafted felt dolls, are more direct than her paintings but just as powerful ("Bloodsucker Highjack," 2004).

This time, the show also boasts one of the best catalogues CSUF has put out in some time and, while such "low-brow" marketing may raise eyebrows, the mass-manufactured plastic dolls, based on some of Garcia's invented characters, are, arguably, worth the $60 price tag.

Garcia may not exactly look at the bright side of life, but she presents her noir universe in such a seductive manner that, while maneuvering through the chaos passing as Orange County traffic, I felt like shouting: "Yeah, Baby!" Something tells me, I am not alone.

Freelancer Daniella Walsh has written about visual art for the Register since 1994.