Narcissus bent over a pool, so enraptured by his own reflection that he was unable to tear himself away, and died for love of himself. Cindy Sherman stares worriedly out at the world, seeming to wonder whether it, or she, is lovable: her re-imagined selves risk many things, but death by self-adoration isn’t one of them. Now 56, the American artist has a mural containing nine new selves up at Spruth Magers, and even by Sherman standards, these images are weird. In the background, monochrome forest glades and gazebos gambol across the walls. In form they look like etchings, or toile, while in content they are ostensibly a hymn to the pastoral ideal, if one with a ludic kick that Watteau might have admired.
Four huge Cindys hulk in the foregrounds, in colour (except one), taller than the trees, bare of make-up, which is unusual for her, but so oddly dressed it takes a while to notice the facial nudity. One Cindy has curls (she did tweak herself on Photoshop) and a medieval smock. Another sports a tasselled bustier, sparkly red pants and what look like tap shoes. My favourite outfit includes trainers, batons and a concoction that goes shoulders to hips like a swimsuit or leotard but looks more like something a lightbulb should be wearing. It even has tassles.
According to the gallery, these were costumes in her archive that hadn’t been used in earlier work, and the whole concoction has a whiff of the afterthought about it. I’m as appreciative of a playsuit with fake boobs and pubic hair as the next art-lover – I’m just not sure what, apart from a laugh, I’m supposed to get out of it. Sherman has said she is intrigued by things that are hard to look at – even if these aren’t, really – and surely she has won the right to reinvent herself in any bizarre manner she chooses.