A blackest black false eyelash is pressed on to pink chewed bubble-gum is pressed onto an old dry tea bag. A three-legged dining table is up-ended, its other leg suspended close by on a hook on a string. Three bluntly cut-off Marigold glove fingers are tied with string similarly suspended, though they each wear a quaint French manicured false finger nail which precariously clings on.
Jo Hassall’s photographs of these her latest sculptural works corral together a stage-managed collection of objects carefully crafted out of the domestic detritus of most women’s everyday lives: matted human hair, pink netting, vacuum dust in broken egg shells. Strangely aesthetically beautiful, retrieved as they are from the dirtiest passageways and receptacles of the home - the plug hole, the bin, the mucky corner – these are the pieces of matter we endlessly pick up, suck up, wipe, remove and dispose of in the circadian rhythm of housework to make shiny, pristine surfaces in the fantasy of home beautiful, peddled by the endlessly recycled features in women’s magazines.
For me these are feminist works: they’re about the rooms, corridors and pathways of the home where traditionally it is women who have stood (at the sink), traipsed past (that dining table) and bent down to tidy up (after everyone else). And yet they’re also about the discarded, somehow sensuous and textural, used-up objects and tools of making the look of feminine glamour: candy-floss back-combed hair is filigree in the light, clogged mascara lashes bleed black in to the bubbly-gum.
There’s something about being caught at the apex of competing sites: going out to do work or the nightclub to ‘do’ femininity yet always landing right back into the rhythms of domesticity. While the elements of these works hang they also float: caught in absurd juxtapositions. Hassall plays with magic – urging us to gaze with fascination - for they lie in infinite space against a matt, inky backcloth like the black velvet with the touch and feel of a conjuror’s cloth.
Do these bizarrely pretty effigies sooth us or amuse our cares away, or do they urge us to ask questions about our relationship as women to the beautiful rubbish we daub, move, buy and flush down the waste pipes….