GAYDAR AT THE GALLERY

Awakening Faun (1914)

Keith Haring. David Hockney. Robert Mapplethorpe. I am familiar with the work of many gay artists. Other artists’ sexuality I only discovered by chance. I go to an art museum, see a work I like, Google the painter or sculptor and, every so often, I stumble upon the fact they are (or were) gay. Marsden Hartley. Maurice Sendak. The works speak for themselves but still I feel a sense of pride that the artist is/was “one of us.”

 

Last fall , I discovered another gay artist while wandering through the Ateneum, an art museum in Helsinki. Unlike Hartley who’s best known for his landscapes or Sendak, known for Wild Things, the pieces I saw on exhibit by Magnus Enckell strongly suggested the artist might be gay. Born in Hamina, Finland in 1870 and dying in Stockholm in 1925, some of Enckell’s bright paintings focused on the naked or semi-naked male form when for most of art history so  many artists have been seemingly obsessed with female nudes. 

 

Enckell’s first oil painting on exhibit that made me take notice was Awakening Faun from 1914, the figure being a young, pretty, lean, muscular male in repose, naked except for an orange fabric draped over his privates. The young man looks contemporary, the background a vibrant landscape of forest greens with yellow sun peeking through. Most artists of Enckell’s time would have had a bare breasted woman as the foreground subject matter instead. 

 

Hmm. Gay, perhaps, I deduced.

 

Resurrection (1907)

As I wandered into another exhibit room, I came upon Enckell’s Resurrection (1907), a religious study painting for an altarpiece for Tampere Cathedral. While religious art features considerable nudity, this work, in softer tones than Faun, doesn’t just feature a naked Jesus rising from a burial plot. Instead, there are five men, nude or semi-nude. Enckell seems to take license with the resurrection story and apparently the parishioners and clergy of the church in Tampare, Finland were liberal or oblivious enough to accept Enckell’s interpretation. As a casual museumgoer, I got a clear sense Enckell was pushing things into an intentionally provocative realm. The fact his study painting became a mural work in the church shows he succeeded.

 

Fantasy (1895)

I didn’t Google Enckell until I returned from my trip in Northern Europe. Ateneum held a special exhibit of his work in 2020, describing him as “one of the most significant names of the golden age of Finnish art.” Other works featured in the exhibition included a seated naked boy in 1983’s Boy with Skull, a shirtless young man in 1895’s Fantasy and a nude young man sitting up in bed in 1894’s The Awakening. Aside from the monochromatic Boy with Skull, these works seem to have homoerotic overtones. 

 

According to Wikipedia, citing a text in Finnish, “It is generally believed that Enckell was a homosexual, as seems indicated in some erotic portraits which were quite uninhibited for their time, but his homosexuality has never been officially proven.” Enckell is listed in Who’s Who in Gay and Lesbian History: From Antiquity to World War II where it is noted he had a son though he never married the mother and his “private life has aroused fairly little interest. His love affairs with men have not been denied but they have been considered irrelevant.” As it should be, if history didn’t note personal lives of artists in general. But such is not the case. 

 

The point is, my gaydar was activated as I regarded two of Enckell’s works. It seems affirmed by other paintings viewed online. I don’t actively seek out gay bars or gay activities when I go on vacation but discovering and further exploring the work of Magnus Enckell while visiting a Finnish museum was an unexpected bonus to the trip.

 

GAY ARTIST APOCALYPSE?

I try to look on bright side. Really, I do. But sometimes there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary.

Last Saturday, I ventured out to an artsy community a mere twenty minutes from home. A ferry-less destination. There, that’s a positive. This community was having a weekend-long arts festival, a big bash with multiple locations hosting artists, musicians and several pop-up food stands. I figured I needed a boost in creativity. Get out. Connect. Feel inspired.

I also figured it would be a great people-watching experience. This is the perfect event to drive the gays out. How nice to feel less isolated. If my life were a movie, this would be the time for me to chance upon a date. Maybe we’d be oohing over the same abstract painting of a pack of hyenas enjoying a Serengeti sunset (or perhaps that’s a bed of marigolds in someone’s garden—that’s the beauty of abstract; describe it how you’d like). Perhaps Mr. Eligible and I would catch a glimpse of one another as we each suppress a laugh as a performance artist tries to blow bubbles in sync with the banjo player. You just never know.

Sure, such an encounter is remote, especially in a rural environment, but this seemed to be my best local shot of the past six months. Go. See. Be seen. Wish for a little Meg Ryan/Mindy Kaling karma.

I explored five venues. I purchased pottery. Sadly, a cute guy didn’t vie for the same lovely bowls. I strolled about, gazing at some really awful splatter painting. (Jackson Pollock’s legacy remains intact.) I heard a lame rendition of “Blowin’ in the Wind”. The cuisine was limited to craft beer and perogies. The local lesbian contingent was well represented among artists, altos and amblers. But I was the sole gay representative.

There were a couple of false sightings. I ogled one artist, a talented furniture maker with broad shoulders, a deep tan and salt-and-pepper hair that glimmered. (There’s a fine line between glimmering and greasy; undisputedly, he glimmered—and there was plenty of grease to which to compare. I’m talkin’ about you, Mr. Bob Dylan Wannabe.) And then I saw the occupied ring finger. And the wife. And the two adorable children. Oh, yes. I’d seen the family profiled a few years ago in a local magazine. He was eye candy as much then as now. At least I am consistent.

Then there was a guy shucking heirloom tomato plants. (Is that art? Never mind.) Our eyes met for a moment. I tried to lock looks once more but to no avail. He seemed to stare a little too much to the left. And then I had the sense to gaze over my shoulder. Ah, yes. Silly me. The object of his affection was someone else—a lovely woman with long, flowing purple-streaked hair and a collection of nose rings. I felt only a moment of disappointment. Yes, she seemed a much better fit for the tomato grower. Every such plant I’ve nursed has succumbed to blight.

And so I headed home, with a gurgling stomach, feeling no more socially connected. I felt no vindication in having my isolation affirmed. It’s a good thing I gave it a go. That’s something, right? But, really, how is it possible to have a sizable artsy event with no other gays present? Gays have to be at an artsy event. Bring back my stereotypes! My gosh, as good as it gets, is even more depressing than I’d thought.

This is why I trek onto the ferry again and again. Clearly, this is not where the boys are.