Rainwoman (I Am Called a Plant)

'Rainwoman (I Am Called A Plant) (1999)' is a short film by Pipilotti Rist that depicts her laying on the ground in the rain as slightly altered lyrics to a song appear on screen. There isn't much to it and it's only a minute in length, but it isn't an unpleasant experience. Rist's bright pink hair contrasts both the earthy tones of her environment and the simplicity of her naked body, standing out as an element of synthetic self-expression amidst an otherwise entirely natural scenario. The piece seems to be gesturing towards the bond between people and the Earth we live on, with Rist's nude form and near fetal positioning cementing the fact that she's as vulnerable as the day she was born. As the rain comes down on her bare skin, a high-pitched song about loneliness plays and its words are imprinted on the intimate imagery it accompanies. The lyrics aren't accurately represented, though, deviating from the song at key points. There's a clash between what we see and what we hear, which is discordant and vaguely confusing. It gives the short a somewhat melancholic undertone, a sense that Rist is all alone in the world. Yet, there's also a sense of connection that comes from the tactile bond created between her and the ground and the rain and the sky. Grass touches her skin as droplets gather on it and puddles of mud form beneath it, gentle tendrils almost anchoring her to the Earth. She doesn't move as the camera glides across her form as if she's somehow both its subject and simply another part of the environment. It doesn't feel like a voyeuristic POV shot, either. Instead, the camera acts as an impartial observer, putting the audience at a distance no matter how close they get (close enough to see her underarm and pubic hair, which further bolters the general naturalism of her presentation).

When the camera pulls out to reveal her full form, we see that she isn't in a forest or somewhere untouched by humanity; she seems to be laying on a road of some kind, flanked by a sea of concrete with a deceptive strip of grass running through it. It's an oddly eerie final image, as it calls all previous notions of natural harmony into question. Where exactly is Rist? Why is she laying on the cold, hard ground? Why is she naked? The vulnerability that initially seemed harmonious now seems somewhat scary, and it's unclear if Rist is even alive. After all, she's sprawled out on the unforgiving ground as the cool rain lashes her skin; why else would you remain in that position? What's interesting about the final shot is that it's the same image we've seen so many times before. Rist literally doesn't move a muscle the entire time. The only difference is we now see her in full, rather than in a series of elegant close-ups, and this new perspective gives it a whole new meaning. At the same time, there's nothing to suggest the initial interpretation is incorrect. Rist could be laid there because she feels a connection to the Earth. The title implies that she's a plant, sprouting from the ground like a flower (or, more pessimistically, a weed), which further suggests the short is commenting on the link between people and the planet. The affair exists in a limbo between its two main interpretations, simultaneously peaceful and hostile. Has Rist laid down to feel a stronger relationship with nature, or perhaps even flowered from the earth herself, or has she been abandoned on the side of the road, left to rot on the unforgiving concrete? It's impossible to know for sure. It's interesting how nakedness in and of itself mimics this uncertainty. It can be both liberating and restricting, empowering and dangerous. It's both the most natural state in which to exist and the most unnatural (especially when outside). Exposure can unshackle just as easily as it can chain, unfetter as swiftly as it can jeopardise. It's as universal as it is personal. Lack of clothing is just one part of this piece, but it's perhaps the most striking (other than Rist's bright pink hair) because it enhances the vulnerability at its core tenfold.

It's remarkable how interesting Rist is able to make a minute-long movie in which so little happens. Even though it isn't exactly engrossing, it's surprisingly enigmatic and intriguing. Its simplicity belies the depth that can be found if you're willing to look for it. It isn't as bold or distinct as Rist's earlier 'Mother Floor (1996)', but it's still an unexpectedly fascinating short film that feels like it's actually saying something despite its deceptive subtlety.