The last words of ‘Dream Brother’
Manon Caussade
When I finally managed to find Blender Gallery on that Tuesday it was to face a closed door. At least I had time to carefully examine the gallery’s facade.
‘20 Years of Grace by Merri Cyr’ – I first did not understand the reference to Jeff Buckley’s amazing but not so known first album. How could there be an entire exhibition about the only piece of work of a mysterious American singer? Looking through the glass, I suddenly noticed a little girl, about four years old, chasing an imaginary friend, surrounded by photographs of Buckley which did not seem to disturb her much.
She reminded me of the little girl I was when I found out how important this artist had been in music history. Everyone knows what he or she was doing when the World Trade Centre collapsed. For all rock’n’roll lovers, May 29, 1997 will always have that kind of disastrous meaning. “Body of singer Jeff Buckley found in the Mississippi River this morning”. I could almost hear the presenter’s voice when I saw the gallerist walking towards me. By opening the door, she temporarily freed my mind from those black memories.
Inside, the atmosphere was soft, almost intimate. As I walked around the room, one of Buckley’s airy songs reached my ears in a delightful way, as if he was casually playing the guitar on the upper floor. The white and luminous walls were hung with large sized pictures of the singer, all taken close up. But none of them gave the impression of violating Buckley’s privacy; on the contrary, it felt like he was smiling at a friend and hardly noticed the camera. At the bottom of every picture you could read the same enigmatic name, ‘Merri Cyr’.
When the young photographer first met Buckley in New York, he was totally unknown. But even then, he never tried to play a part. Keeping in mind that photography captures unforgiving reality, such a natural disposition may explain why Buckley did not mind being photographed. According to Cyr, he even enjoyed it.
And that’s precisely why Cyr’s pictures are striking - because they show the genuine man, not the myth created by desperate fans after his death. In that sense, the exhibition meets its supposed goal: evoking intimacy by experiencing intimacy.
Take for instance Cyr’s cliché showing Jeff sitting on a bar stool. In a dark brown light, crossed legs and hands in the pocket, he is peacefully looking down at the camera. No emotion can be read on his face, as if only his body could speak for him. However, by potentially disturbing the static atmosphere, a small detail draws the viewer’s attention: the flower which elegantly escapes from Jeff’s large coat.
For me, it is suddenly obvious: Buckley is the new Rimbaud. He belongs to the Parisian poets of the late 19th century who, for the first time in the history of literature, expressed the inherently depressing condition of the human being. What the exhibition precisely achieves is to embody such a legacy through some instantly evocative photographs.
But there is something else, maybe more difficult to discern. Cyr succeeded in suggesting a tone of Jeff Buckley’s music in her psychedelic, mystic images, which include candles, mirror reflections and the repeated use of a dark and Surreal palette.
Blind movement best describes Buckley’s life – the unforeseen movement of music, of feelings, of natural elements. As I climbed the stairs of the gallery, I could already feel the tragic end of the exhibition - but also of the singer’s life. Asleep in the sand with the ocean washing over, the last words of Dream Brother, became particularly meaningful.
Having a sense of authenticity in an intimate haven, feeling the movement of one’s life by physically experiencing it. With only a room and a half of well-chosen photographs, 20 Years of Grace made me better understand such a mysterious but talented artist.
Merri Cyr, Jeff Buckly, Raunchenberg studio/ Image courtesy of the artist
