Racheal Crowther at Chisenhale Gallery
Sometimes an artwork, or indeed an exhibition, has so much to say, it's hard to know exactly where to start in trying to unpack it all. Racheal Crowther's solo exhibition, Liquid Trust, at Mile End's Chisenhale Gallery, comes at a time of ever turbulent geopolitical and international tension, but the artist distils this into something that feels more quotidian and perhaps insidious: the management of behaviours in public and private settings.
By way of introduction, it can be said that something the exhibition does in its complexities is illuminate the various ways contemporary art operates. There is no doubt that specific art audiences travel to come to the Chisenhale Gallery's shows, as I did, due to its strong art-world reputation. However, in Crowther's grappling of military, health, and state service aesthetics, the old world of art is brought to its knees, in favour of activating a different kind of emotive or sensory experience in its audiences. No pretty pictures here, and no purporting to be functioning in a way that is apolitical. To be sure, the political nature of the work is not entirely explicit, but it is there in a considered way. Different factions of contemporary art's function and perception are thus incidentally brought to light: intellectualism; historicism and often historiographies; the political; the art market; social media capital, and the accessible. These are not always mutually exclusive, and the way that cultural capital dances between them also varies. For example, art media and even so-called art 'influencers' will not cover community-led art exhibitions, or shows where the primary audience is local communities. They will not travel to attend them, and they will not be commissioned for coverage unless there is a topical social movement that they can be shoe-horned onto. Once these categories and priorities are rendered visible, it is certainly difficult to un-see them.
The first impression of Crowther's show is immediately made deliciously complex by the distinctly un-pleasing sight of the mobile unit, snappily titled NSN 5411-99-219-4744. I would say that it is situated in the middle of the space, but in truth it is installed further towards the back of the room, so that the viewer can really feel it almost glaring at them the moment they step through the door. Its utilitarian nature allows it to be anthropomorphised: do the walls of the unit have eyes? The grey elephant in the pink room is made visible. Its placement is a small but incredibly smart addition, as you need to inch towards the looming piece in order to see it properly. The awe associated with historically revered art has been usurped by the sensation of apprehension; many of us have seen images of detention centres and incarceration settings, and if not that, the structure is vaguely reminiscent of wartime stations and even vaccination pods used during the height of the pandemic.
Alongside the starkness of the reconstructed mobile health unit is a backdrop of Baker Miller pink, a particular shade that has, in recent history, been used in incarceration settings, following empirical evidence that it produces a calming (or disarming) effect. This research was undertaken by the John Carroll University in Ohio in 1987, using a sample of seven men and thirty-nine women students. Given the gendered associations of pink, this is quite a confusing proportion, with findings that students placed in the Baker Miller pink-walled room experienced considerably lower anxiety levels than those placed in the red room. This isn't a statement about gender essentialism, but when the USA prison population currently comprises 93.5% men, according to the Federal Bureau of Prisons, it is certainly convoluted to apply these findings to prison and other carceral environments.
Back in the gallery, it must be said that the palette is satisfying and somehow comforting, but understanding why the artist has used it in this space taints the experience. This is the correct feeling to have; this is not a kitsch or Cute show, instead highlighting some of the systems and intricacies that can go unnoticed in concealed environments, where obedience is demanded.
The mobile health unit itself is fully immersive; the viewer walks across the wide open space in the gallery, almost like a tight cloud of pink, into the structure, which is a fit-for-purpose health unit in a grey-beige hue which screams utility (in sharp contrast with the Baker Miller tone). The artist is interested in the dynamics between care and control, and subsequent environments that are strategically designed to regulate behaviour. There can be no doubt that the pathways inside the build, as well as the exhibition design more widely, indicate that one should be on one's best behaviour. Total internal and external control.
A strict walkway navigates the viewer through a distinct route through the structure, quite literally forging a path of how to feel and behave. Paying close attention to the details, we can see elements that bear uncertain status between artwork and service function, such as a poster on 'Emergency Resuscitation Treatment', a BT landline, a flow chart demonstrating what to do with a 'most likely contaminated' body, and triage questions pinned to the wall including asking an individual if they are "feeling the effects of a CBR agent". Unsexy? Profoundly, but observe your body language when you walk through the exhibition, and notice how easy it is to fall into a tentative, uneasy gait; feeling guilty about peering through the various glass walls, uncertain of whether you have permission to look at everything in so much detail.
Part of the appeal of Liquid Trust is its multi-sensory environment; against the Baker Miller pink and austere interiors of the health unit, something else hangs in the air. The seemingly disproportionate space between the entrance of the gallery space and the structural centrepiece holds an olfactory element. The scent is not altogether distracting in the space, which is a blessed relief given the claustophobic nature of the installation, but resembles the smell of powdered milk, which can be described as somewhere between acrid and sweet. As a processed material key to sustenance for military personnel, this is another way that maternal feeding throughout history has been transformed. The artist has highlighted the processing and re-contextualising of care towards the intersecting worlds of profit and violence.
The scent of powdered milk is fused with an olfactory distribution of hexadecanal, a molecule that is believed "to trigger neurological and behavioural responses". This is also apparently a chemical that is emitted from all human bodies, but particularly newborn babies. Sniff the newborn baby, drink the ultra-processed milk, and submit to your superiors.
A huge amount of research has gone into this show, and it has been rewarding to follow Crowther's work from a review I wrote in October 2023 when she was exhibiting at 243 Luz in Margate, via her degree show at Royal Academy Schools the following year, to this huge project at Chisenhale. While the work might fit under the aforementioned categories of intellectualism, political, and strong social media capital, there is a second layer of this rewarding feeling in being able to delve into the artist's research, mindset, and inspiration. Chisenhale Gallery have provided an in-depth artist interview to support this understanding and rationale, both essential in allowing the show to be as accessible as possible. There is an audacity in producing artwork which explores military pharmacology, biological impulses, and the shaping of behaviours in the public and private sector, and I am so glad that Crowther is sharing knowledge about this insidious form of management that most of us would otherwise not be privy to. There is a quietly exciting effect emanating from this exhibition, and for it to be activated, your body needs to be in the room.
