This past summer, a striking installation captured the attention of art enthusiasts at Galerie Georges-Philippe & Nathalie Vallois in Paris. A naked figure, suspended from the wall, arms spread like a crucifix, evoked a visceral reaction from onlookers. Some couldn’t help but wince, while a nearby couple turned their heads away in discomfort. Yet, they too appeared as if they were lifeless sculptures, adding to the eerie atmosphere of the scene. This thought-provoking work was part of “Grace,” a captivating exhibition by the American sculptor John DeAndrea, who, at 81, has spent nearly six decades creating human doppelgängers in his studio located near the Rocky Mountains.
DeAndrea’s intricate process involves several meticulous steps: he begins by placing live models into silicone rubber molds, which are subsequently cured and built up with layers of plaster. This negative mold is then filled with fortified plaster, allowed to cure, and perfected before being recast in bronze. The final touches include the careful application of layers of opaque and transparent oil paints to achieve an astonishingly lifelike appearance, complete with realistic skin tones and detailed eyes, culminating in hair that adds to the authenticity of his creations.
Art critics have coined various terms to describe the essence of DeAndrea’s work, including hyperrealism. However, DeAndrea himself has stated that he does not identify as an artist. A more fitting descriptor might stem from the ideas of Sigmund Freud. In response to a 1906 essay by German psychiatrist Ernst Jentsch, who explored the unsettling feeling that arises when one questions whether an apparently animate being is truly alive or whether a lifeless object might possess some semblance of life, Freud elaborated on the concept of the uncanny. This phenomenon represents the intersection of art and life, where their boundaries blur in a manner that is both confusing and discomforting.
Exploring the Cycle of Uncanny Art
So why do artists continuously gravitate toward the theme of the uncanny? Freud suggested that the uncanny resides within “that class of the frightening which leads back to what is known of old and long familiar.” The hyperreal art movement often reflects modern uncertainties: What exactly is that thing? How can it evoke both familiarity and alienation simultaneously? This aesthetic frequently emerges during tumultuous periods in history. Freud first articulated the idea of the uncanny in 1919, shortly after World War I, which left a profound scar on Europe with millions of lives lost and cities in ruins. DeAndrea, who describes his work as “not dark” in intent, began experimenting with casting techniques in the mid-1960s, aiming to accurately represent the human form, perhaps more influenced by the self-absorbed ethos of the Me Generation than by the Vietnam War. In contrast, his contemporary, Duane Hanson, often infused his hyperrealist sculptures with overt political commentary. Hanson’s notable 1969 piece, “Vietnam Scene,” starkly depicts dead and wounded U.S. soldiers, while he is perhaps best remembered for his fiberglass-and-polyester-resin representations of Florida tourists.
Each decade seems to yield hyperrealist sculptures reflective of its social climate. Today, we find ourselves in an era marked by a declining trust in reality—rife with former presidents’ election fraud assertions and the rise of deepfakes and artificial intelligence. The uncanny valley, once a trope of horror films—from Ridley Scott’s “Alien” (1979) to John Carpenter’s “The Thing” (1982) and the disturbingly human robot in “M3gan” (2023)—has evolved into a daily concern, with tech moguls like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos proposing humanoid robots to address labor shortages in the U.S. Hyperrealist art feels particularly relevant and, at times, chilling in this context, with technological advancements rendering the style more lifelike than ever.
Heightened Realities and Disturbing Absurdities
Over the years, hyperrealism has integrated elements of exaggeration, intensifying the shock of the uncanny. A prime example is Australian artist Ron Mueck’s colossal child sculpture, “Boy” (1999), displayed at the ARoS museum in Aarhus, Denmark. Standing nearly 15 feet tall, the child’s details are rendered with meticulous precision, even in a crouched, almost fetal position, heightening the viewer’s sense of wonder and discomfort.
Italian artist Maurizio Cattelan has been a significant contributor to the hyperrealist tradition for over two decades. His works often blend humor and discomfort, as seen in “La Nona Ora” (1999), which portrays Pope John Paul II in papal garb, writhing in agony after being struck by a meteor. The pope retains a peculiar dignity, clutching a crucifix staff as if it could provide solace in this bizarre situation. In a similarly provocative vein, Cattelan’s “Him” (2001) features a disturbingly lifelike sculpture of Adolf Hitler, kneeling in prayer as an altar boy would, the juxtaposition of innocence and evil rendering the artwork all the more effective and grotesque. “It is a fake until proven otherwise,” Cattelan remarked about these installations.
Many hyperrealist works draw upon long-standing traditions of mimesis, including anatomical wax models based on real corpses, a practice that dates back to the 18th century. However, recent technological advancements have both simplified the processes of hyperrealism and added layers of complexity. Patricia Piccinini, an Australian visual artist, has spent over twenty years crafting anthropomorphic chimeras from silicone, fiberglass, leather, and human hair: from a grotesque porcine creature nursing its young in “The Young Family” (2002) to a bearlike man resembling a hairless Bigfoot in “The Carrier” (2012). Recently, she experienced a disconcerting moment when she discovered images of artworks online that bore her name but were not her creations. They were the product of an AI art generator that mimicked her style through random machine learning. “What I saw looked like it had been made by someone who had only been told about my work by someone who didn’t understand it,” she lamented.
This development is troubling for any artist, yet it also underscores the increasing significance of human-engineered hyperrealism in a world grappling with machine-generated art. In 2011, Austrian sculptor Erwin Wurm modified a red Mercedes-Benz MB100D van, curving its rear half up a wall. When it was installed four years later outside the Center for Art and Media in Karlsruhe, Germany, a traffic warden even issued it a parking ticket. Wurm posits that we live in an age where our brains are constantly deciphering visual stimuli. “Is it nature or is it copying nature?” he questions. “You think it’s nature, but then you realize, ‘Wait a moment, it’s not. It’s something else.’”
Through his series of “One Minute Sculptures,” initiated in 1988, Wurm has pushed the boundaries of hyperrealism to its limits, transforming actual people into absurd and improbable sculptures. He directs participants to enact seemingly impossible scenes, such as office supplies protruding from unusual orifices or a forehead supporting a precarious tower of oranges, posing for mere 60 seconds for his camera.
“Reality is totally insane; we have to compete with it,” Wurm asserts. Ultimately, this is why such art is of paramount importance: it jolts us from our everyday perspectives, prompting us to reevaluate what we might be overlooking in our lives. “I see the world going in a strange direction,” Wurm reflected, “and I’m scared for the future.”