Written by Zinzi Buchanan
Neuk Collective present ‘Neuk Perspectives’, an exhibition at WASP Patriothall Gallery, Edinburgh, that showcases the diverse talents of neurodivergent artists from across Scotland, ranging from emerging artists displaying their work for the first time to established professionals.
The work of 41 artists drawn from the bigger pool of the Neuk Collective are on display at WASP studios. The exhibition guide tells us that it is a “constellation of perspectives” and a “beautiful snapshot” letting us know that the pool is wider than the one curated here.
On entering the gallery I was taken by the range of colours, mediums, shapes and sizes – and that’s just the visual sense! Painting, sculpture, prints, photography, video, sound, ceramics are on display; an abundance of pink, bright colours close together, a shimmering black and lots of white wall and floor space in between.
Iona Zawinski’s slowly turning sculpture drew my attention. The aptly named A safe place hangs from the ceiling, a large bulb shape with a narrow slit opening into a tiny bedroom-like world. Warmly lit and housing a fluffy inhabitant, it gives a visceral experience of being held, suspended above the world and its sometimes-suffocating gravity.
A few metres away on the floor is Lorraine Hamilton’s sculptural installation composed of a large, rusted metal disc bedded into twinkling black gravel. The rust is swirling in different colours, like motor oil does when it meets water – something that doesn’t sit right. The title Umwelt: Rust suggests that this piece is about perspective with the word Umwelt meaning the world as perceived by a particular organism. The rust’s complex patterns form an earth-like shape in it’s entirety. It reminds me of the expanse of the universe, putting my singular human body to flake size. Each flake of rusty earth is unique and beautiful. There’s also a sadness to this work. Simultaneously and unavoidably, it evokes a too-hot earth, charred by the same forces that burn out our bodies.
Mounted on the wall are three beheaded baby doll sculptures with genital-like shapes on their bellies, by M Devenny’s titled Not For You. The painted words under one “I am not my genitals” and another “not for you” set a boundary. To me they speak of the violation of consent in the assignation of gender and the gender-based violence that ensues throughout life. Each baby-doll has wings and appear to be flying, like re-incarnated monsters that have come back to speak from the openings on their bodies. It is not surprising to see explicit work about gendered violence in an exhibition by neurodivergent artists where the oppressive assimilation of so-called normality is an overlapping lived experience.
The themes of safety and comfort run through many of the art works whether through creating a feeling of sanctuary that’s hard to find, or exposing the violence on bodies or the planet. The curation of the exhibition is also sensitive to the theme of comfort, employing many tools to give visitors sensory agency. There were noise-cancelling headphones, sunglasses and stim toys on a table close to the entrance. I’ve noticed these becoming more commonplace at events, but something I hadn’t seen before was a system of traffic light coloured lanyards. These display one’s availability to be talked to from “please give me space” to “I’m happy to chat” and made me think about how the social expectations of an exhibition space can be as much a barrier as lighting, sound or stairs.
The quiet space made it possible to come and go from the stimulation of the exhibition. I took half an hour in the soft cradle of one of Kate Young’s Blobs in the quiet room, headphones on, so that I could re-juice my battery for more of the artworks.
Sensory agency is again given to visitors by inviting an opening of the tactile sense with multiple art works clearly displaying that the “artist invites you to interact.” My first encounter with this was Sensory Book: Undyed Shades of Scotland by Gaelle Chassery. The book is made of wool left in its natural tones ordered by colour and crocheted in a range of patterns. Each leaf of the woollen book is unique and if you pay close attention to your fingertips as they turn the pages, each page has a different touch-story to tell.
Video works run on two screens, each screen with a different selection and both looping alternately with subtitles. One hosts a poem written and read by Tom Bird facing the camera, surrounded by trees. It is a visceral ode to a deer and to all those who have been violated out of their sensitivity. Bird speaks to the camera and to us, with a range of emotions that grip the surviving human heart: rage, empathy and love. The camera pans to the sky, catching the tops of tall pine trees. It is a cinematic breath.
Many of the video works have images of nature and sounds of breath and the opposite wall hosts art works containing seaside scenes, including Alasdair Watson’s photo of train tracks running into the sea. Lyoag could represent a dead end or a failed adventure, but equally it could be an opportunity to float after the pain of trying to stay in line.
The photograph got me asking bigger questions about life, direction and expectations. What if staying on track is no longer an enforced requirement? What would a sea of divergent possibility be?
Disability-led events make spaces better for everyone, not just people made disabled by the systems we live in. The neurodivergent artists who curated the space made it accessible for a neurodivergent public, which meant for me that I could make it there and have an experience despite being in burnout. I didn’t have to stay vertical, or act ‘normal’ and I got to be with a sea of wonderful art works. The gravity of this is worth writing about.