Does the act of self-portraiture necessitate one foot in the grave? A quick
dip in the archives would suggest it did: Rembrandt’s very public ageing
process, the residue of experience built up like so many layers of varnish;
Lucian Freud, never merciful in his portrayal of flesh, could have filled a
human abattoir with his grey green bodies; and Chuck Close’s infinity of
detail concentrated in one passing moment or pixelated into abstraction.
Everywhere you turn in the history of art, self-portraiture equals dispersal
and decay. Han Hoogerbrugge’s Neurotica series, an online gallery of
ninety-nine animated, largely interactive self-portraits breaks this
tradition. Not that Hoogerbrugge is unconcerned with mortality, but this
Hamlet would rather play hackey-sac with his memento mori than contemplate
it. (In fact, Ballgame, #52 in the series, has him doing just that.) His
self-portraits take a carnivalesque pleasure in the journey, sliding with
Teflon-like ease through a series of disco props, vaudeville tunes, flying
cigarettes, and multiple selves. The artist has taken a long hard look at
himself, and found re- rather than de-generation.
Begun in 1998, the Neurotica series started life as a static comic strip;
the Internet originally intended as a showcase rather than a medium. But
experimentation with gif animation, and eventually Flash, transformed the
series into a fully interactive ramble through one man’s mental life.
Clearly at odds with macabre tradition, it is difficult to pinpoint what
gives these images their overall sense of optimism, despite their deadpan
humour and more than one effort at self-mutilation. #25, No Pain, No Gain,
for example, shows the artist casually throwing darts at a target on his own
forehead. #81, Jungle is a human-watching safari where Hoogerbrugge is both
hunter and hunted. More in the spirit of self-indulgence is #95, Fumefume,
where the artist shares a slow dance with a giant cigarette.
Undoubtedly, the animation itself is an essential part of the ‘springiness’
of Hoogerbrugge’s images. Everyman is given certain superhero powers when he
is a cartoon. The animation allows for a resilience, a snap-back-into-place
quality which is at odds with traditional self-portraiture’s scrutiny of the
body, so concerned with progression, sag, burden. #96, Summer shows
Hoogerbrugge pulling off a mask of his own face, only to release a swarm of
bees stuck in the layer between one face/mask and another. He is a new man
for each situation, no more scarred by the events of previous portraits than
Clark Kent at the beginning of yet another episode of Superman.
Hoogerbrugge has used the gaming elements implicit in our constant online
clicking to good effect. Yet instead of a ‘shoot ‘em up’ Playstation
aesthetic, he has adopted a fairground playfulness – at worst a casino-hound
compulsion – to control the rules of game. In #61, Drowning, a panting,
struggling Hoogerbrugge can be drowned with a click, only to pop up again in
another section of the water. #87, Vaudeville contains a series of
Hoogerbrugge heads mounted on sticks, passing by as they would at a State
Fair shooting gallery. When you hit (click) one, it opens to reveal a
canopied dancing platform with yet another tiny Hoogerbrugge, swinging like
a wind-up toy.
Hand in hand with the use of animation and gaming structures is the use of
multiple selves. All the best work in the series involves armies of
Hoogerbrugges, moving in waves or being clicked into oblivion – only to
reappear identical and whole. #94, Parade shows a caravan of Hoogerbrugges
in a spacedust desert, endlessly walking off into the horizon.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to describe these works as light, almost
weightless, than optimistic. Hoogerbrugge has somehow constructed
self-portraits with no past, no accumulated experience, no chance of death.
He vanishes and reappears with the click of a button, leaving no permanent
mark. This is a personal history that stands outside of time – the only way
to win a game of hackey-sac with Death.
You can view Han Hoogerbrugge’s work on www.hanhoogerbrugge.com
Elizabeth Bard is a freelance writer and art historian