At first sight, Candice Lin’s g/hosti, a new commission from the Whitechapel Gallery, evokes a childlike playfulness. At its centre is a maze of cardboard panels which are painted with animals like dogs, cats, and mice, cavorting in a mythical forest. Its simplistic style and bright, warm colours feel akin to the sort of whimsical mural you might find painted on the wall of a primary school. The more you weave through the circular labyrinth, however, the more you realise you’re immersed in something altogether more sinister and political than first meets the eye.
Along the perimeter of the room, printed on the wall in a tiny font, you’ll find a gory fable, written by Lin. It tells the story of a man who tears tumours out of his body, and introduces us to the animals we meet in the maze, whom he then sends into the forest to collect items to help him live. The fairytale eventually dovetails into Lin’s ruminations on time and language. What could be trite is actually affecting and adds to the sense of storybook innocence that permeates the entire exhibition. I’d recommend doing a lap to read this in full first, as it sets the scene for the rest of the show.
Upon entry to the labyrinth, Lin’s painterly brushstrokes are used to great effect to conjure images of fires burning and what, at first, appears to be animals playing. On closer inspection, you’ll find, however, the animals are often involved in some form of maiming, jumping through flames or playing with a human cadaver. Cut-outs of dismembered limbs and bones are screwed into the walls, and mobiles of spooky, scarecrow-esque characters hang between the panels, to be navigated around as you try to make sense of this increasingly unnerving environment.
It's altogether more sinister and political than first meets the eye
The walls of the maze are punctuated with smartphone screens playing hand-drawn cartoons that depict scenes of violence and oppression. The war in Gaza, the California wildfires, and student protests being met with police brutality are featured, all causes close to the Los Angeles-based artist’s heart. In one clip, the corpse of a man in a vest marked ‘PRESS’ is carried on a stretcher by a crowd, presumably a nod to the tragic death toll of journalists who have lost their lives while reporting on the devastating scenes in Palestine. These animations are the stars of the show. They play simultaneously, meaning their sounds overlay as you wander through, creating an intriguing cacophony of tinny noise that naturally pulls you around the next corner.
g/hosti is a show that could be misconceived if you do not linger long enough to absorb its hidden details. It, quite literally, requires you to read the fine print. The more it unfolds, the more it reveals its intentions: to unsettle the viewer and really make them think, but only after luring them into a false sense of security through its surface-level naiveté and cosy reminders of childhood, a simpler time.
