David Hoffos: Scenes from the House Dream, Phase Three

Dunlop Art Gallery
12 August 2006 – 29 September 2006

If you have ever walked down a residential street after dark, able to glance into lit rooms through open curtains, you have likely experienced that strange sensation of being a lone, unseen observer, a voyeur. Similar feelings of isolation and omnipotence are evoked by Scenes from the House Dream, Phase Three, David Hoffos’ immersive video installation that presents viewers with the opportunity to glimpse into the artist’s dreams.

Upon entering the installation space, which is completely dark except for light from the projections, the viewer first encounters a young boy and toy boat. Both are projected onto separate black cut-outs so that they occupy a space somewhere between two and three dimensions. The boy is cut-off at the ankles to suggest that he is standing in shallow water; he holds a string attached to the boat (the idea of water is further suggested by the gentle, meditative soundtrack, which features a flute, loon calls, twittering birds and the roar of the
ocean). His expression is sullen and his movements restless, as though he is the one tethered, not the toy.

Opposite the boy are three nocturnal scenes. Projected into a recess between two walls is the central image of the installation, a window in a wood cabin through which a man is visible. He is either writing or drawing, and also seems restless, even agitated. Inside the walls to either side of this image are two miniature models, each visible through a square hole at eye-level. Through the use of mirrors and televisions—both conspicuously placed so that the means of illusion are obvious to the viewer and he or she does not waste time trying to figure it out—the artist has cast small, moving projections into the models (à la Disney’s Haunted Mansion ride, for those readers as familiar with video techniques as I am). One model recreates a roman palace, suggested by circular formations of colossal columns. Five roman figures are projected in a group amid the columns, leisurely interacting with one another. Behind them, a circular pit of red light is just visible to the viewer. The other model presents a man, pacing impatiently next to his car at the edge of a cliff overlooking a lighthouse and the ocean. Both the man and the ripples of water at the shoreline are created through video and mirrors.

With the exception of the Romans, the figures are all trapped. The boy is attached to his boat; the writer/drawer is, formally speaking, constrained within the frame of the window, and also by difficulty expressing himself (hence the frustrated movements); the man by his car is restricted by the cliff and the small fence at its edge—he can go no further. The result is a strong sense of longing. The figures long for release, but it is not necessarily from an external force; in each case, the figure seems as trapped by his own actions as by his circumstances. The boy could let go of the rope, the writer/drawer might walk away from his desk, and nothing is stopping the man from getting back in his car and driving off. The conflict is, therefore, internal.

The viewer witnesses these conflicts from the comfortable obscurity of darkness. No light is cast in his or her direction. This omnipresence is intensified by the above-the-maze perspective afforded by the miniature scale of the two models. I wondered, as I peered into the little worlds, if the characters were representations of the artist, if he had in fact experienced this objective, all-encompassing clarity with regards to his own life. I was immediately reminded of the previous night, when I had wandered through the artists’ stalls at the Regina Folk Festival alone, taking a break from the crowds in front of the stage. I was struck by feelings of unfamiliarity. My surroundings had become vaguely foreign, as though I had just momentarily stepped just outside my own life. So perhaps Hoffos had also become an objective viewer in his own life, glancing into his own home from the street at dusk. And perhaps that objectivity disappears when not alone, which could explain the uniqueness of the multi-figured roman scene, devoid of the longing in the other images. As soon as I returned to my blanket of friends at the festival, my feelings of detachment faded and were, for the moment, forgotten.

Alternatively, the roman scene might require the context of the complete installation to be fully appreciated. The fourth phase will be completed in 2007 and an exhibition of all four phases will follow. For now, however, phase three successfully stands on its own, and is not to be missed.

Angela Beck