At first glance, this looks like Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man to me. Obviously it is a very distant association, but the position of the white arms against the stark background immediately draw the eyes to them. Upon closer inspection, there is more going on that just the positioning of the arms. This almost ethereal being, has branches sticking out of them, floating above a field, footless. Taking another step back, it looks like this being has a worshipper. This worshipper’s anatomy is far less developed, but there is a depth to their character, nonetheless. Belkis Ayón dressed them in a top crossed on the back, a supportive fashion. Their arms are outstretched, welcoming.
I’ve since done some research on Ayón and her background. She was a member of the Abakuá society of Cuba, a secret community formed after it traveled from Nigeria. The only female figure in the belief system of the Abakuá is Sikán, who was sacrificed as a result of her knowledge. In her interviews Ayón has suggested that in her works, she often plays both roles: the God and the Believer.
In her piece “To Make You Love Me Forever” Ayón’s two figures are polar opposites from each other. While the floating figure has a white body and a black head, the worshipper has a grey body with a white head. While the hands of the floater are pitch black, those of the believer remain alike to the complexion of the body. I find it peculiar that she chose to blacken the hands and head of the possible Sikán. White is often associated with enlightenment, and enlightenment finds itself in one’s brain. I’d consider a God more enlightened than her believer. Having said all this, I also appreciate the constant contrast in the figure; the black head allows for sharp enough contrast to truly make the eyes piercing.
Belkis Ayón produced this piece in a society swayed patriarchal, being a member of a secret community where the only female presence was killed after sharing her prophetic experience. This piece may not communicate much about racism in a North American context, simply because the Americanized version of racism is so vastly different from how racism has manifested on islands and in South America. Yet is still speaks volumes about sex. Ayón practices the non-didactic approach which Coco Fusco urges can be more fruitful than standard, academic discussion.
Art allows the viewer to move in time, space, and interpretation. It also allows the viewer to place the artist within the medium they have produced. Sure Ayón produced her works on card board layered with paper, but she also created a medium much deeper than the two dimensional figures portrayed. Her imagery of fish, Gods, and wheat encapsulate life. All the motifs integral to life on an island, they are what survival in its most basic form is: nourishment and hope. Her work is almost forceful, I can place her above and below, I can place myself in well, and with either of our bodies in this piece, I am prepared to accept the notion of Ayón above, a feminized God, unheard of in the Abrahamic religions that dominate post-colonial American lands. And like the standard canon of God, Ayón has the agency to do right by those looking to her.
Belkis Ayón corners her audience with her art, her unobscured rambling of didactic approaches, but without her history and her context, it can slip between the cracks.
