REVIEW | HAYLEY THEYERS AND MURRAY CAMMICK
There are the requisite icons: a toad, a
witch, a snake, a bird’s wing, a dagger; a
litany of tools with which to bring about
transformation or destruction.
In these otherworldly spaces, the tactile
is important. Perhaps it’s not only that
you begin to look at things in a new
way but that you also touch them
anew. Maybe it’s that you need to do
so as confirmation that reality has truly
turned in on itself. Set against black
backdrops, the figures’ bodily properties
are clear: the toad’s skin is rough and
bumpy; the snake’s a golden down of
scales; the feathery tufts and bones
of a bird’s disembodied wing take off
into flight.
The two most horrific are The Witch
(2018) and The Beast (2018). Each
evokes some Macbethian misdeeds in
preparation — this isn’t photography; it’s
a direct path to the underworld. In the
former image, a close-up shows a partial
face with a curling tongue, as black as
the plague, sticking out. Maybe the king
had her taken out; little does he know
how these types of fables end. Looking
at The Beast, I turned my head upside
down, trying to make sense of the figure,
seeking some reassurance that the
creature is something grounded in this
reality: a cat, maybe, or a horse’s neck.
Bad idea. There is nothing familiar in
what Theyers has conjured: the straw-like
fur and leathery ear must be the pet of
a demon.Children’s roles in fairy tales are critical;
they are the innocents or knowers,
upending the sealed adult world and
able to see the dangers and mysticism
that hide beyond the veneer of the
everyday. In Theyers’ world, they’re
active participants in the narrative,
seemingly siding more with the witch’s
spell-making.
This direct address to both the viewer
and to the fairy-tale lineage occurs in
Knowing Grimm (2018). Two haunting
young people stare confrontationally
outwards — Stephen King–like horror.
All signs seem to be pointing to: you’re
next for the cauldron. Most eerie,
though, is the majestic Milk and Honey
(2018). There’s a painterly, Rembrandt-
like quality. An aproned girl has
captured someone in a golden sack,
reminiscent of an amniotic sac, albeit
one that glitters.
What’s powerful about Milk and Honey,
and, indeed, all the photographs, is its
ability to suggest a larger story beyond
the frame. Drawing on both fairy tales
and Jungian psychology’s collective
unconscious, Theyers provides ample
material for one’s mind to latch on to:
these are popular tropes. However,
the level of craft and attention to
detail means that these are no mere
illustrations to supplement a dusty
book meant to terrify children into good
behaviour. They offer opportunities to
inhabit places of imagination outsideHAYLEY THEYERS, THE BEAST, 2018