Some people write memoirs. Junusz Dukszta commissions portraits. Call me crazy, but I think his method results in a more compelling narrative.
Dukszta, whose portrait collection is now on display at the University of Toronto Art Centre, doesn’t seem particularly fascinating on paper. He immigrated to Toronto from Poland, studied psychiatry at U of T, and was an NDP member of provincial parliament—nothing, in short, that would warrant an exhibit of 70 portraits.
Instead of rows of dour headshots against neutral backgrounds, the exhibit reveals an elaborate study of a life with surprising variations in color, tone, and medium. The gallery’s layout was conducive to the journey, providing a sense of progress in tracing a person’s life. The smaller rooms to the side of the main corridor were instrumental in focusing on certain facets of Dukszta’s life. Perhaps most interesting, Dukszta himself seemed to add a creative element to the works.
There were several thematic threads linking the diverse pieces together. One was the use of pictures within pictures. At times, I found myself playing I spy Janusz—for instance, in a portrait of his brother’s family, Dukszta appears as a marble bust. In “The Temptation of Christ” by Michael Merrill, I finally found Dukszta’s scandalized face reflecting from a pond. In other cases, the artists blatantly referred to another work (whether it be Renaissance era or from Dukszta’s own collection) by including portions of them within the painting.
Religious imagery was rampant in the Dukszta collection. I would venture to guess that the playful reinterpretation of Biblical and classic works of art stemmed from Dukszta’s own imagination, as it appeared throughout. Dukszta bombastically took the place of the Christ in some works, such as Yves Tessier’s “Lamentation,” where a slain Dukszta is mourned by “disciples” represented by friends and family. The most grandiose example is without a doubt Phil Richard’s “Scenes from the Life of the Virgin”: the gilded three-panelled piece dominates the far wall of the gallery with a sexualized revision of iconic paintings featuring the Virgin Mary. Dukszta himself makes an appearance alongside Jesus and Mary in the panel titled “Pieta”.
Not all the portraits were flattering. An entire room was dedicated to what the exhibit labelled “Sardonic Portraits.” “The portraits,” the description elaborates, “are not just reflections of Dukszta’s narcissistic reflection, but instead record the complex negotiation between the artists’ practice and the constraint of the patron’s commission.” If the sculptures are any indication, these negotiations were tense to say the least. The piece “Head of J. Dukszta” by Max Streicher looks like it belongs in an upscale haunted house, as it depicts Dukszta’s severed head on a silver platter. Artist Evan Penny’s retribution was less explicit but equally embittered. His piece, “Broken Head Fragments,” consists of the bronzed shards of the mould he used for another piece Dukszta had commissioned.
The depth of Dukszta is revealed most acutely when he has allowed himself to be depicted as abased (though never derided). A room dedicated to more recent portraits show Dukszta subdued, and even humbled, by illness and old age. The word “portrait” is stretched to encompass not just the outer facade, but also the inner complexities of his character, and the eccentric reaches of his imagination. One such piece is “4 artereograms,” with Toronto General Hospital credited as the artist. Including medical tests in a portrait collection adds vulnerability and openness to Dukszta especially when contrasted to the vivacious bravado of his other portraits.
His dark speculation of the future in earlier works becomes even more insightful when provided with such a contrast. Michael Merrill’s “Janusz in Bedlam” foresees a grim future. It unites all three of the aforementioned themes by showing a naked and defunct Janusz slumped in a cell, furnished with nothing but paintings portraying the Stations of the Cross.
If this were indeed a memoir, its best comparison would be Frey’s A Million Little Pieces—Dukszta’s collection contains laughable exaggerations and fabrications that amplify his own importance. The portraits do not pretend to show the “true” Dukszta; rather, in commissioning them, Dukszta drew upon the talent of various artists and his own connoisseur’s eye to create a larger than life caricature that, all things considered, may be the best representation of himself.
The exhibit as a whole is aptly described by one painting: Duktsza stands in the center wearing a well-tailored suit, relaxed but imposing, as an entourage of artists paint his form. The piece is titled “In His Glory”, and indeed, he is.
Portrait of a Patron: The Dukszta Collection runs at the University of Toronto Art Centre until March 13. Admission is free. For more information, visit utac.utoronto.ca.
