In Ed Atkins’s World, the Uncanny Is Realer Than the Real

It’s awful having a body. It oozes, leaks, spurts. It is unpredictable, uncontrollable, ails, fails, betrays and embarrasses. It’s not nice to admit, but you know it, and I know it. The artist Ed Atkins definitely knows it.

A major new retrospective of Atkins’s work, running at Tate Britain in London through Aug. 25, features human bodies (or digital versions of them) that are anxious, lost for words, exhausted, emotional, apologetic and falling to pieces, sometimes quite literally.

Atkins — who was born in Oxford, England, in 1982 and is based in Copenhagen — is perhaps best known for his videos that show CGI avatars in strange states of limbo. They utter disjointed but poetic narratives, or try and fail to perform various tasks — as though struggling to be “real.”

An early film at Tate Britain, “Death Mask II: The Scent” (2010), alternates between scenes of digital devices, a human head, shot from behind, with short blonde locks bathed in neon light, and close-ups of a fruit from various angles as sticky liquid pours over its eerie skin, which is pocked and freckled like an aged human’s. Here, it is the editing process, with jump cuts visible to the viewer, that creates an uncanny tension.

In “Hisser” (2015), simultaneously projected on three free-standing walls that increase in size, we enter a more recognizable environment: a teenage bedroom (remember that kitten poster that urged us to “hang in there”?), with moonlight streaming through an open window. A man appears on the bed, tossing and turning, and singing to himself. He flips through a stack of Rorschach blots, masturbates to a postcard of a Walter Sickert painting, browses his computer — and then falls through the floor into a giant sinkhole, only to reappear, walking naked and disoriented, stumbling and mumbling through a bright white nothingness.