The Act of Believing: The Extraordinary Dimensions of Stefania Galegati

“Another person—this time; but a figure of quite as unmistakable horror and evil: a woman in black, pale and dreadful—with such an air also,
and such a face! …”
“Came how—from where?”
“From where they come from! She just appeared and stood there … there are depths, depths! The more I go over it the more I see in it, and the
more I see in it the more I fear. I don’t know what I don’t see, what I don’t fear.”
… “You mean you’re afraid of seeing her again?”
“Oh no; that’s nothing—now! … It’s of not seeing her … it’s proof of—God knows what! For the woman’s a horror of horrors.”

Henry James, The Turn of the Screw


Henry James’ protagonist’s impassioned response to seeing a ghost in the halls of the remote country estate where she is charged with caring
for her employer’s niece and nephew contains all the excitement, fear, attraction, and skepticism engendered by delving into the unknown.
Her vacillation between having faith in visual evidence and doubting an experience that is not culturally sanctioned is apparent in her
emotive description of the event, and yet her doubts are eventually trumped by her simple desire to believe—a desire so profound that, in the
end, her fears actually lie in the possibility of not again seeing this apparition that originally shocked her so. This desire to believe is
at the heart of philosophical debates that inform everything from religion to scientific innovation to political policy and drives much human
behavior, sculpting our sense of individuality as well as our shared ideology.
Efforts to explain the unexplainable, parse fact from fiction, acknowledge and transcend the (arguably self-imposed) limitations to our
perceptions have existed for thousands of years through such captivating and enduring narrative structures as the myth, the fable, the ghost
story, and the science fiction tale. Describing her work as an “antidote to habit,” Italian artist Stefania Galegati examines the role of
these cultural practices, taking as her subject everything from the haunted house to the dwarf to the fourth dimension and, in the process,
underscoring the relationship between belief and perception with a formal and artistic precision that is as beguiling as the stories within.
From 2001–2003, Galegati created a series of enchanting oil on canvas paintings of historical mansions, located primarily in Italy, that are
said to be inhabited by ghosts. Painted on large canvases in a realistic, near photographic, style but with a soft, earthy palette that adds
a sense of mystery to the sites, the impressive architectural structures dominate the spaces. Yet if one looks closely, an apparition
inevitably haunts the image, just as witnesses who recounted their experiences directly to Galegati or put them down on the printed page for
posterity claim it has haunted the grounds portrayed. A little girl in a window, an old man hiding in the shadows, a monk in white robes, a
child sitting on the lawn, an armored knight ready for combat—these ghostly characters are trapped in a space outside of the everyday, in a
dimension visibly inconsistent and physically insubstantial where time has slowed to nearly a complete stop. Galegati’s visual ghost stories
are not saturated with the dark hues or disturbing imagery of the Gothic or the Medieval, nor are they replete with forms symbolic of
psychological states of mind in allegiance with surrealism. There is no nod to Hieronymus Bosch, Francisco Goya, or Max Ernst. In fact,
Galegati has acknowledged William Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress as an inspiration for the way it rewards a measured reading. Likewise, her
haunted mansions encourage prolonged contemplation and careful observation so that, at some point, the ghost reveal itself and then seems to
almost disappear and come into focus once again. Not knowing exactly what you are looking for, Galegati’s images seem to suggest, will often
reveal surprising dimensions to the reality you thought you knew.
In the beginning of Galegati’s digital video, Absolute Horizon of the Event (2001), a man (played by Italian actor Ivano Marescotti) walks
along a dilapidated, graffiti-covered urban pathway and suddenly bumps into an invisible object. Knocked to the ground, the man is initially
stunned, yet intrigued, and he begins to feel his way around what appears to be a large architectural structure. Eventually discovering a
doorway, he determinedly pries it open and suddenly disappears into a fourth dimension. Galegati then upends any predictable storyline
associated with journeys into unknown spatial dimensions (typically replete with action, danger, and existential angst) when her main
character is simply ejected back onto the street where he brushes himself off and continues along as if nothing extraordinary has happened.
This collapse of a clear-cut distinction between what is real and what is fantasy is inherent to all of Galegati’s work which suggests that
much of life is not so much understood by empirical knowledge as it is wedded to image and perception. Our highly developed and mechanized
powers of observation aside, Galegati continuously points to occurrences in which simply believing can account for a whole range of new
experiences. Drawn to historical accounts of experiences that fall outside of everyday convention, Galegati’s intention is not to simply
recount these tales so much as ask us to consider the very act of believing in that which we cannot explain—to contemplate our shared impulse
to have faith in those things that slip through the cracks of the ordinary—be it in the realm of religion, science, the supernatural, or art.
The role of time is paramount in Galegati’s work and even her still images carry the suggestion of motion. A series of early photographs,
entitled Rewind (1998–2002), depict sculptural installations in which everyday objects—newspapers, plastic bags, tree branches—are suspended
in a swirl of activity, momentarily frozen in time. These captured moments bursting with the eventuality of motion reside in a space of
beautiful, yet defeatist, precariousness, for our glimpse at these ostensibly discarded objects incredibly caught in poetic motion also
contains the realization of their own demise, pointing out the inevitable entropy that time lavishes upon the physical. Galegati has expressed
her attraction to moments when “… reality if so intense, it collapses in on itself.” These are moments of incredible energy when various
factors come together to stimulate our senses and heighten our awareness, a good metaphor for the ideal experience of viewing a work of art.
The kind of mythic force gathered in Galegati’s moments of suspended action is embodied in particular characters explored in her later works.
At the opening reception for the group exhibition “So Far Away So Close” in the small town of Aosta, Italy, Galegati hired actor Orfeo Orlando,
who is a dwarf, to perform. Attempting to hide himself from the public in corners and under stairwells, the dwarf’s position as an outsider
and obvious efforts to shield himself from the confused and alarmed gaze of those around him escalated throughout the performance until he
became utterly out of control, screaming and running around the exhibition’s galleries. The performance was inspired by a local legend about
a community of dwarfs believed to live in a remote part of the Alps who were considered primitive for eschewing conventional socialization in
favor of maintaining their close ties to nature. Perceived by the audience as a combination of “wild man,” distraught child, and animal, the
dwarf embodied instinctual, fraught, and contradictory human emotions—fear and fascination, attraction and repulsion—and encapsulated those
deeply repressed parts of ourselves that are often hidden from view. In this performance as well as the ghost paintings, Galegati makes an
important distinction between a type of cathartic fear instigated and perpetuated through specific forms of cultural narrative (often oral or
performative tradition) that encourages an awareness and understanding of shared humanist qualities and forms of fear used by individuals
against the collective in such historical low points as the rise of totalitarian regimes, recent terrorist events and the surrounding “war on
terror,” which thrive on the use of fear as a tool of control.
Galegati’s interest in the dwarf as a mythic figure extends to a fascination with cultural examples of our tendency to ascribe a seemingly
disproportionate amount of meaning to things that are diminutive, or even invisible. In a series of large untitled Lambda prints from 2001, a
dwarf has left his not-so-subtle imprint upon a domestic setting. Although we never see the actual dwarf, the silhouette of his small figure
has left a void within various pieces of furniture in which he presumably attempted to take refuge. Photographed using a close, almost
cramped, perspective, the images push the viewer into a corner or position him in direct confrontation with a dresser or bed frame, for
example, each object permanently altered by the dwarf’s child-like form. These compelling images become visual evidence of the immense impact
this small, misunderstood figure has wrought upon this household.
Galegati encapsulates this phenomenon in an untitled sculpture from 2000 of a terracotta Samurai warrior who carries a piece of radioactive
potassium in his belly. This miniature figurine, approximately eight inches high, is displayed in a covered vitrine accompanied by a Geiger
meter that continuously beeps a warning of the presence of the radioactive materials. Although abolished in the nineteenth century, the
Samurai were a legendary military class who for centuries enjoyed great social status in Japan and continue to symbolize an admirable
commitment to an ethical code demanding loyalty, self-discipline, and mutual respect. The coupling of the small Samurai figure embodying
immense cultural currency with a natural substance commonly understood to be dangerous to the human body suggests a kind of warning about
the relationship between fear and power. In politics and science, complex meanings can be overly condensed (as evidenced by the recent trend
of reducing nuanced and complicated social agendas into marketable sound bites) and superficial understandings can lead to prescribing
exaggerated attributes to objects or events. In Galegati’s work, the Samurai’s radioactivity is made abundantly clear by the meter’s auditory
reminder, but the actual level of risk to one’s health is considerably less than numerous activities people engage in on a regular basis.
Here again, the psychologically charged responses Galegati encourages in her imagery and objects can be applied to a consideration of the role
of art in society. Her Samurai, her dwarf, and her haunted mansions all ask profound questions about perception and visibility and suggest
that the experience of viewing art can inspire a similar sense of awe and wonderment coupled with ambivalence and consternation, encouraging
the truly deep engagement provoked by all things mysterious. Galegati’s work adamantly defies complacency or passive consumption; rather it
encourages the type of curiosity and commitment to ideas that inspire discovery, invention, and riking.
Time plays a slightly different role in Galegati’s 2002 35mm film Walk in Paradise (starring Franca Maresa and Leo Pantaleo).
The narrative simultaneously traverses a large expanse of time and seems to collapse the very years that bookmark the film’s two primary
events, which revolve around two wartime Resistance fighters who are reunited after more than fifty years. While watching television, an
elderly woman, Edda, sees an interview of Garibaldi, with whom she fought against fascism during the Second World War. Formerly lovers, she
sets out on a journey to find him, rather effortlessly locating him in a small Italian village. As if no time has passed at all, they find
one another and return to his home, where they dance and make love. Historical incidents are thus presented tangentially through the film’s
characters and narrative is understood to be interpretative, portrayed through the lens of subjectivity. Except for Garibaldi’s television
interview, Galegati’s film includes no dialogue, underscoring the narrative potential found within a whole range of visual expression. Edda
and Garibaldi’s silent meeting serves as a reminder of the fluidity of time wherein fifty years can pass by as if a fleeting moment.
The process of the journey is also central to Galegati’s practice, and Edda’s quest in search of Garibaldi is just one example of some kind
of journey figuring prominently in the work. The journey symbolizes an interstitial space between events when time necessarily slows and
waiting becomes intrinsic to the process. The journey, for Galegati, allows her to give time a shape, and to reflect upon the idea of the gap (
or what she has described as “dead-zones”) where our path across a threshold is somehow stalled or thwarted. In a fascinating multiphoto piece
from 2003, a group of approximately thirty people walk along a country road toward a large, brick, dilapidated building. They then configure
themselves into small groups as if awaiting an event. In the final image, the figures end up in a large pile, stacked upon one another with
arms and legs protruding in all directions. The work’s narrative is intentionally ambiguous yet the evidently sequential moments captured
function almost like film stills. What is presented here is an abstracted story, a part of the whole, open to each viewer’s interpretation,
but one in which a group of individuals have come together for a common cause. With almost trance-like expressions, the characters are clearly
driven by a shared goal and their individuality is usurped by their collective identity, ending with an absurd and provocative moment in which
their bodies are literally brought together into an indecipherable whole.
In Galegati’s most recent work, there is a sense that physical, even invisible, and psychological boundaries can be traversed. Magic and
trickery may be an illusion, but certainly today illusion, image, and simulation can be as real as that which we can hold in our hands.
Grappling with the unknown, the supernatural, or those things that defy understanding has always been the purview of science, religion, and
literature. Galegati’s art work allows her to be the benevolent trickster—to create an illusion based in shared cultural narratives for us to
enter, to confront, and even traverse, suspending our disbelief and adding to our experiences of the world. Galegati’s extraordinary work
makes you believe in ghosts.

Anne Ellegood