Intimate displacements: The UK corridor of Art Rooms Fair London 2018

‘Intimate displacements’ was originally published within the catalogue of Art Rooms London 2018, January 2018.

You wake up and for a moment suspended in thought you do not know where you are in the world. The components are there – bed, sheets, sunlight streaming through, but their meaning is softly blurred like a smudged scrawl whose meaning you can vaguely decipher. This is not home. But where is home? Where does it begin? Then you wonder if all people have so many strange thoughts about hotel rooms, and whether those thoughts linger beyond the time they check out and return to the real world with its flow of information and people, never allowing us time to reconsider our place in the here and now.

Hotel rooms are sites of transition, in between familiarity and anonymity, intimacy and displacement. As we construct ourselves an ephemeral sense of home, we can paradoxically reconnect with our own bodies and relationship to an environment. We can acknowledge the need to change, experiment and make mistakes, to get lost in between spiritual ,virtual and physical realms. We can craft narratives through lost and found elements to make sense of our place in the world, our own sense of space within a vaster whole.  When you feel displaced or you feel at home, is it within a space or within yourself?  From the onset the artists of the UK corridor questioned their relationship to the hotel room as an ambiguous site of interaction and display, dispossessed of the autobiographical memory of a bedroom yet without the impersonal anonymity of a white gallery wall. To reclaim it both as a space and as a bedroom is to foster a special, intimate relationship with the visitor. Throughout the corridor, wandering from door to door and being invited inside for a short while reveals interrelations and fragments around the relationship to the space – and the relationship to the body.

Jodie Wingham explores notions of voyeurism and intimacy in her work, revolving around the notion of revealing what is usually hidden or left half-revealed in order to entice further. Through the staging of subtle signs of intimacy in her series Untitled (Intimacy) , images entice us like the act of peeking through a keyhole: the focus on a gap in an unbuttoned shirt, a fold of skin as legs cross and a skirt rides up slightly, glimpses of intimacy, embraces, touch, in illustrated buttons scattered across the bedroom, like the forgotten witnesses to an encounter we stumble across by chance but which sparks our desire to discover more. An open-ended narrative unfolds within the space, its intimacy and the images we associate from the experiences and memories we project upon hotels filling in the gaps. Through this careful and voyeuristic act of finding and intimating, our experience of the space is slowed down and made more deliberate, attuning the viewer to the particularities of the bedroom as a site of new discoveries, as a catalyst for new relationships to the body, to the space and to the way we evolve within them. As we peer even closer, another revelation – what appears as a photograph is in fact a screen-print, adding a layer of voyeurism to the encounter – a desire to reach out and touch. Here Jodie’s training as a printmaker, as a recent graduate from the Birmingham School of Art,  allows her to disrupt our expectations surrounding an image, creating a new sculptural and material quality, working from photographs while subverting our encounter of these works through their display.

These images are found, their initial context lost and attributed new, elusive narratives, like an erotic collage waiting for additional pieces to complete it. As Beth Horner explores the relationship between exterior and interior spaces, her depictions of domesticity remain intentionally ambiguous and fragmented in a similar way. Low-quality photographs snapped on her phone and reassembled through collage let her intentionally blur the boundaries between the physical and the virtual, with quick sketches and doodles adding humour and life to images such as Window Cat. Glimpses of kitsch imagery in Blue Man reflect upon the peculiar spatial identity of suburbia, while Static Field devolves into abstraction, any sense of home or place obscured through the obsessive reworking of the image. Her  process combines these digital snapshots with experiments on its surface, from printmaking to the addition of found materials. In collage works such as Red Room these physical surfaces are also “painted” over digitally, disrupting and confusing our physical experience of “real” painting – a medium Beth knows how to master in order to better subvert it, following her recent BA in Fine Art: Painting at Wimbledon College of Arts, University of the Arts London. Playing upon the ambiguities of surface in terms of forms mirrors the disruption of narrative and context in Beth’s work. Through autobiographical images of the everyday enhanced and collaged, finding intimacy is seen as a constant process and the interior we create for ourselves as an ever-shifting state. As surfaces and screens overlay and pixel and pigment interact, so do meanings about what it means to exist within a space and the way in which our experiences can be constructed and deconstructed in between physical and immaterial planes.

There is a sensitivity around drawing attention to the flaws, cracks and ambiguities in our relationship to physical and virtual states which takes centre stage in the work of Katie Hallam. Articulated and created around the notion of the beautiful error, her images are a elaborate exploration of a visual language unique to visual technology. It seems all the more fitting that she started developing her artistic practice by sharing her work directly to Instagram, adding a layer of meaning to these works initially displayed in an immaterial space. The glitches we usually take for granted or as an obstacle to the data we want to access are actively encouraged here, through the deliberate corruption of photographs. Element of play and experimentation define Katie’s work, each glitch and warp of the original surface creating a unique artwork through its haphazard nature. Her series TV addresses the particularity and strange beauty of layers of glitching and image transmission failure created by the television screen – bringing back memories of damaged VHS tapes and an awareness of our shifting relationship to media and technology across a few decades. Various stages of pixilation and corruption allow for an element of the surreal in her series People and Places as figures appear half-submerged in a new digital plane. In the meantime, other aspects of her work play with the effects of layering and pixellating subtle colour planes in order to create a poetic impression of digital brushwork, as in the series Clouds.  Other images push the notion of corruption to its limits, creating abstract patterns which would, paradoxically, almost appear as organic elements observed under a microscope. This is the case in the series Chemigrams, blurring our notions of print and pixel, physical trace and virtual fragmentation, abstracted code and organic mark.

The details of the organic made abstract are a vast component of Maria Macc’s artistic process, uncovering our relationship with the body by chartering its insides through an aesthetic lens. Using science as the basis of her practice as an artist and psychologist, her recent research on historical dissection and interventional surgery through her recently awarded Art and Science MA at Central Saint Martins’ and based on her study of pathology specimens in collaboration with Kings College Anatomy Society, including drawing cadavers and studying taxidermy, could read as dispiriting at first sight. However, this exploration is anything but, taking at heart (literally and figuratively) the notions of transformation, decay and regeneration to celebrate the inner dynamics of the body, sparking our morbid curiosity to encourage us to adopt a new perspective on our bodies and ourselves. The room effectively becomes a fragmented site to inner workings, through an installation using a combination of materials bringing up different medical and personal recollections and associations. Medical documents and sketches, born of her collaborations with medical professionals, remain scattered across the desk, providing a record and framework for Maria’s bodily reimagining. Latex and steel provide a framework for projections and wood panels on which organic and visceral textures are layered and laid bare, displayed dramatically but carefully like a crossing between a stage set and a pathology lab. The senses lead towards fragmented ideas of the body embedded throughout the room, through looking and feeling, experiencing a discomfort replaced by curiosity and a desire to become immersed in the biology we all share.

This exploration of the fluctuating and evolving body, and the way in which it may shape our identities and experiences is at the core of Suzann Kundi’s practice. Her autobiographical approach allows for an intimate immersion within a different kind of bodily experience, one related to fluctuating notions of illness, disability and sexuality. Displacement is a constant in her images and time-based media of the body fragmented, reframed and reinterpreted, becomes the site of conflicting feelings of intimacy and alienation, past challenges and future hopes. In For Personal Use Only, the photo etching personal photographs with medical care objects, with a feeling that one cannot be dissociated for the other, creating a space for narratives which go beyond our assumptions of living with a disability. With an MA in printmaking from the Royal College of Art obtained in 2008, Suzanne’s practice has continuously used the engraving while experimenting with and expanding towards new techniques. Her photography of fragmented and re-imagined parts of the body, are subsequently recreated into etchings and time-based media, while her use of sculptures as well as models in the Monster series defined her interest in provoking conversations around our own body images and perceptions. What is a “monstrous” body – and on whose terms? These interdisciplinary material process allow for a multi-layered visual approach to disability and illness. Their intimate and sensitive tone allow for a shift in perspective, challenging the viewer to emphasize with notions of physical displacement.

Creating an intimate conversation with the body as a site of struggles, complexities and differences extends into portraiture, meant to capture this interiority, frozen in a particular time and place. Victoria Heald’s portraiture is rooted in this notion of dialogue between viewer and sitter, while reclaiming oil painting as a medium which can draw from past traditions in order to be reinterpreted from a new perspective. Ignited at Chelsea Art College while studying for a BA in Fine Art, Victoria’s curiosity in reflective surfaces used in portraiture allowed for her practice to unfold around the ways in which the representation of her subjects could also provoke a direct engagement and immersion of the viewer in her pieces. Her paintings of figures on reflective backgrounds, seemingly devoid of a particular time or place allows the visitor to “reflect”, both literally and figuratively, upon the painting and the new meanings that can be related to it within a new space. After using aluminium as part of her process, the use of gold refers back to both modern and historical uses within art history, from the backgrounds of medieval religious paintings to the stylised and jewel-like portraits by Gustav Klimt. As the light and reflections shifts,  so does her methodology, as she both accepts portrait commissions and actively seeks out sitters whose attitude seems to convey a spirit and idea corresponding to her vision for a work. The flatness of the gold surface contrasts with the intricate and vibrant use of blue in Contemplation II, whose composition and palette construct an image drawing from religious and regal imagery alike, while capturing the sitter’s moment of quiet reflection. The reflected interactions of the viewer intersect with attitudes, gestures and states of mind captured onto the surface, testimonies not only to an artful painterly technique but also the crafting of a relationship between viewer and paintbrush. With a surface that would at first appear smooth and flat, Victoria creates a myriad of subtle experimentations in colour, form and composition, the life found in her representations surrounded by gold making them seem like poised religious icons for a new age and urban space. Her series of pen and ink architectural buildings across London seem to counter this carefully layered suspended animation with a sharp and spontaneous line, creating spaces which contrast with the gold-leafed emptiness of her portraits, as if her sitters had been displaced from these sites to sit in their own realm within spatial definition.

This experimentation with medium and surface to convey an organic and almost tactile notion of transforming bodies reflects Chris Horner’s process. Working hand in hand with the notion of chance and error as he currently studies for an MA in Fine Art at University for the Creative Arts, Farnham his work revolves around the creation of  elements which read as physical imprints of the body in all its vulnerability and intimacy. His Paulin series toys with the boundaries between textile, sculpture and image, creating playful and experimental topologies with a skin-like textural quality. In the context of a bedroom and of the presences and absences that pervade it, the creases of his crumpled structures in Towel Trace or Microcrystalline can become reminiscent of folds of skin, the crinkled crevasses of a discarded towel on a bathroom floor, playing with notions of the organic and the mineral. The body need not appear directly in order to become a constant, pervasive presence. Through these objects, Chris maps our relationship to our bodies and surroundings, the physical and mental imprints we leave behind as time edges on, materializing new forms and possibilities, new rituals for existing, changing and evolving. This obsessive means takes the form of a particular ritualistic approach to handling and deconstructing these textile forms, in a routine-like process which allows for an ever-changing long-term relationship with the material.

This sense of ritual and relationship to the space is contrasted with Alice Cooke’s approach, exploring the way in which a sense of belonging within a space is rooted in gendered differences. In her work, an strong awareness of the feminine body is put forward, as a shell formed by expectations and pressures of the outside world, a process fostering feelings of alienation and estrangement. “Is it that I cannot see myself without seeing myself being seen?” This question by Iris Marion informs her own practice around the conflict between interiority and exterior perceptions as a woman, and led to her series Is it that I cannot see myself? using photography and film, drawing upon her recent BA in Photography at the London College of Communication. What does it mean to take up space within the world? Displacement and disappearance colour her approach to the body, considering the way in which women are made to perform femininity and a defined acceptable presence within the space. How to reclaim and subvert a way of moving and expressing the body within a given space? Alice magnifies these patterns in behaviour and gender expectations through her work mingling performance, photography and film, highlighting the particularity of movement by reclaiming and subverting their meaning. Reclaiming this body within the natural landscape resonates with Alice’s concerns around the idea of returning to natural and autobiographical roots, the often animalistic movement and ritual pagan-like nature of her interventions perhaps reflecting a long-lost freedom. The landscapes represent those of the artist’s birthplace, Cornwall, returning to the roots of a sense of belonging, home and newfound intimacy with a displaced body. In doing so, a subtle and intense dialogue forms between the body and the land, both elements of the other’s presence, blurring boundaries and creating new spiritual and non-human connections. The mind transcends a physical shell in order to converse with the landscape in order to find itself rooted within the world again.

This notion of performance exploring the expectations of the feminine body also express through these animalistic, improvised movements its potential as a site of resistance. In EJ Major’s work, this sense of performance related to identity becomes intertwined with her process as a photographer and visual artist,  using both digital and analogue tools to manipulate photographs and construct a new image challenging notions of authenticity and historical “accuracy”. Image and language become means through which to create new stories and question why these stories are still asking to be rewritten and re-enacted. As a photography BA student and in possession of an MFA in Art Practice from Goldsmiths, her studies first began in the realm of social sciences. The intersection between this socially aware approach and her visual experimentation becomes all the more apparent in the series Shoulder to Shoulder, with the notion of reclaiming historical narratives in order to reinterpret them in a new space and social context. Its exploration of the Suffragette Movement leads to the reimagining and reframing of the slashing of the Rockeby Venus in the National Gallery through the set Venus Vanitas/Seriously Damaged by Attack/Self-Portrait with Slasher Mary while the Contact Sheet series re-interprets the Suffragette movement through the documentation of a Climate Change protest and chaining to the gates of Parliament dressed as a Suffragette prisoner. The archiving and presentation of the process intentionally blurs any feeling of authenticity or defined temporality, forcing us to make a double-take and question the images we are being given. This subverted history of feminist protest adds an additional layer of meaning to her series ‘love is…’. The phrase is a prompt whose blanks demand to be filled in, and were – by the strangers it was sent to via a postcard. Serving as a caption for each individual frame of the film Last Tango in Paris on her cards, a particular relationship is forged between the iconic film and participants’ response, either creating a disconnect or a meaningful moment, either displacing meaning or creating an intimate moment and vaster conversation between image and language.

As this exploration of femininity is laid bare in ways which parallel Alice’s work, her deep, physical engagement with the landscape also leads into the elements at the core of Charlotte Barlas’ work. In this instance however, her own spiritual immersion within the natural environment leads to a physical translation and reinterpretation of its effect through sculpture, a practice she refined during a BA in Fine Art at Leeds College of Art. Her use of material reflects a desire to remain both mentally and physically related to the earth she has derived energy and creativity from, with the use of stones and rocks combined with steel and copper. The contrast of this refined material with original mineral “brute” matter is at times left as a means of formal contrast between original states and their transformations, and in other works softened by letting steel and copper weather facing the elements, their oxidation and rust, usually seen as negative serving as a reminder of their earthly, non-industrialized origins. As translations of a shifting, transforming landscapes, the sculptures are anything but static: unfolding through the space, their shape shifts according to the viewers’ movement and perceptions, mirroring Charlotte’s own encounters of the natural world. This notion of carving out a space and engaging with a particular relationship with the viewer circling around it creates a strong interactive element, here heightened by the new context in which the works can be found. Usually exhibited outside, Charlotte wished to engage directly with the notion of bringing her interpretation of the natural and untamed landscape within a small and controlled environment. The result creates a dialogue performed in movements and shifts in perspective between sculpture and viewer around intimacy and motion.

This sculptural element related to an exploration of organic environments  finds itself in the work of Lam Ly under a variety of forms. Expanding from sculpture into other materials has only expanded and enriched her ideas around space, materiality and absence. After a break in her art practice following graduation in 1995 from a Fine Art degree from Newcastle University, and at her return to art in 2010, foam started Lam’s sculptural exploration around the representation of the sea, deconstructing and abstracting her relationship to its forms and manifestations across sculpture and drawing alike. In The Diver this takes the form of lines converging towards a figure immerse in water. The continuation of her exploration of drawing has led to formal exploration around geometric compositions, ways of situating ourselves within a space, to be immersed and eventually lost within it. Ultimately, the representation of the sea is fragmented and reinterpreted in the notion of the void – blurring boundaries between the feeling of absence and distanciation in the physical body and the in-between, ambiguous nature of a body of water. The relationship Lam shares with the sea and its expression in her work  has been expanded in her interactive sculptural work. Within the room, she invites visitors to participate in constructing, deconstructing and re-assembling blocks forming abstract structures, allowing them to form their own relationships with the sculpture, the space and the visitors they encounter. Attempts to reclaim a body and space can be to translate its experience into experiments with form, both material and digital. But ultimately, attempts to engage with the environment and the body relate with the need to connect with one another, throughout a hotel corridor space usually reserved for distant acknowledgement and familiar strangers rubbing shoulders but rarely taking the time to engage with one another.

Building a physical relationship with the sea draws a subtle relation between Joy Trpkovic’s practice in dialogue with that of Charlotte Barlas and Lam Ly. The sensitive translation of the sea’s organic elements into her ceramic works allows for an approach to craft which is nonconventional and playful, both drawing upon her education in fine art at Goldsmiths’ and Sussex University, and her ten years of experience focusing upon ceramics. Rather than base herself on a specific ceramic crafting tradition built around consistency and stability, she allows herself to experiment with the notions of error and chance, from the first formation of her creatures into clay to their final firing. A process of high fired porcelain creates risk and a challenge for every work which ultimately leads to an impression of lightness and translucency in her ultimate products. Each crease and crinkle becomes a unique trait due to unpredictable effects in the firing, very much like the glitches Katie is adamant upon celebrating or the inconsistent creases and folds Chris Horner creates in his textile works. Furthermore, this bending of craft’s rules is taken further by formal contrasts between the delicacy of porcelain and the roughness of black stoneware in many of her works. This fragile balance in terms of form and the fragile ecosystem based around crafting, timing and climate allowing for the creation of her works reflects her own concerns around the fragility of marine ecosystems.  The hybrid-like nature of the creatures which marine ecosystems inspire her is also a testimony to what we may so easily lose.

In the same way, Rafael Atencia’s ceramic work around texture and surface experiments with the challenges of the craft in order to stretch his limits, reinterpreting the decorative tradition of layering techniques and texture glazes to achieve his own personal visions. With a degree in Ceramic Design from Central Saint Martins’, his approach is collage-like, borrowing from various traditions and firing techniques in order to create a piece of craftsmanship which is both experimental and a sincere tribute to the traditions of craftspeople before him. Taking shoals of fish as his elegant subject matter, his aim is also to explore the fragility of ecosystems but from a different, rarely-explored viewpoint – that of the slow disappearance of local legacies, via the disappearance of the fisherman industry, within the South of Spain he originates from. This notion of absence and slow eroding of legacies is further explore alongside his series of fish, with vessels imitating the “tornos” found washed upon southern Spanish beaches, abandoned and left to slowly become incorporated into the landscape. Rafael’s work allows the natural ecosystems of the ocean and the traditional techniques of his homeland to cohabitate as a commentary on the way in which the industrialization of the industry rather than remain on a human scale is what is driving the depletion of marine resources as well as the creation of an environmental imbalance. Red becomes a colour linked to alarm, contrasting with the elegance and fluidity of his sculptures and stoneware and the cold tones usually associated with marine life in order to raise awareness on their waning existence. 

From room to room, these relational strands can be rooted into a specific intimacy and interiority often steeped in autobiography, unfolding from the insides of the human body (medically, erotically, painfully). They can map our links to the natural environment, drawing up tense and complex dialogues between nature’s impact on our inner balance and the way we disrupt fragile ecologies with our presence. They can unfurl into the act of looking and re-enacting, performing the body within a space like a ritualistic attempt to reconnect with a lost feeling of belonging, rooted in gender and sexuality.  The trace of the body expressed into material create new presences at the intersection of the organic and the artificial.

You wake up and you don’t know who you are. Perhaps it is home, perhaps another displacement.  Perhaps you never find out. Perhaps what matters is not how to seek out this perfect connection, but the experiments, tension, ambiguity and curiosity along the way.

Welcome home  and have a safe journey.

 

 

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Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain

You could almost miss it – a small house-like structure, whitish-grey under a pale January sun, like a shy guest in Tate Britain’s front yard. Rachel Whiteread’s Chicken Shed (2017) is one of the many outdoor structures which the British sculptor has chosen to cast from the inside out – recording its absence rather than its presence, making it a ghost of its former self. She calls these works from this recent series “shy sculptures” – usually located in remote landscapes that are far less accessible than a museum in Pimlico – an endearing term that gives them a personality and life while also establishing their relationship witin a space. There is a paradox in showing a “shy” sculpture in the gardens of Tate Britain, as an opening note to a major retrospective of Rachel Whiteread’s works. Yet, in many ways that is precisely the point – showing the way in which a shy idea, a shy presence (or absence) can create a quiet murmur in our head, calmly question and make us reassess our relationship to objects, their presence and the way they relate to our own memories.

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Rachel Whiteread, Untitled (Yellow Torso), 1991, Private collection (c) Rachel Whiteread

Curated by Ann Gallagher, Linsey Young, Helen Delaney and Hattie Spires, the retrospective exhibition is a testimony to the power of a single idea to be broken down and turned up on its head…or in this case, inside out. Starting with early domestic experiments in the late 80s, the artist’s fascination with the nature of the plaster cast is established from the very beginning is established ; so is her obsession with casting not the presence of an object but filling in its negative spaces. Her takeover of domestic objects and those she finds in junk shops or on the streets soon expands to take over a variety of materials such as resin and rubber. The power of such a simple but perfected experimentation is shown with series such as the Torsos series. Aluminium, wax, concrete or rubber poured into a “torso-like” structure are laid bare in their cast final form. It feels very weird to say that you spent twenty minutes in front of the casts of the insides of water bottles or enemas (yes, enemas) but…somehow it works. There is something immediately attracting and satisfying about the way these structures play off each other with their change in colour and texture while retaining the same basic shape, one that Whiteread has described as resembling “headless, limbless babies”. In any other body of work (pun intended), that would be ideal nightmare fuel, yet Whiteread makes it work and throughout the display manages to create this visual tension between the material used, the industrial processes of filling and destroying and the organic elements it reminds us of. An obsession with the material to convey the body but also its immateriality, its absence, its ghost.

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Rachel Whiteread, Stairs, 1995, Private collection (c) Rachel Whiteread 

Whiteread’s works on paper provide a rare insight in the way in which these sculptures take shape, showing her dissection of the structures whose presence we take for granted : houses, staircases. As a response to these small sketches, two monumental results : Untitled (Room 101) (2003) and Untitled (Stairs) (2001), both white, hollowed out fragments of two fragments of literature and history. The first is the cast of a room of BBC’s Broadcasting House in which Orwell was said to have found inspiration for the Room 101 in 1984. The second is a cast of the stairs of an East London warehouse repurposed into an old synagogue in which she moved her studio. One immortalises the legacy of a room on modern literature, the other the life of a building reflecting the life of London itself, made of repurposing and transformation. The monumental is contrasted with the minimal – in the case of a small selection of composition presented on neat shelves, small still life composition cast from mundane objects like loo rolls. Here shape counts as much as colour coordination, a rare splash of colours together in a room of plaster whites and green and pinkish resins. In a display that at first sight looks so polished and neat, ghosts and remnants of memories abound and surround the objects. The cast boxes in a corner may seem like another formal experiment ; yet they indicate a childhood spent moving around, box to box. The power of everyday objects to convey memory and make us reflect upon the spaces we live in – and how we live within them – is never drowned out by the monumental sculptures around. Among these is an arresting fragment of the process behind the public commission of the Holocaust Memorial in Vienna (2000) – a cast of books in a library, a library that cannot be opened or perused, walled into silence and commemoration.

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Rachel Whiteread, Untitled (Stairs), 2001, Tate (c) Rachel Whiteread, Photo (c) Tate (John Humphrys)

While the plan indicates a loose chronological narrative which can be experienced counter-clockwise, the immense room breaks down any notion of chronology and fragmentation in its very format. Its layout without walls or partitions means visitors are left to wander around, either free to follow a loose sense of chronological order around the room, abandon it halfway through or ignore it entirely, creating erratic patterns that lose the obsession with a timeline or “progression.” The curators and designers of the exhibition may have anticipated the way in which Whiteread’s works creates latent ripple effects that often produce their first effect after you have wandered away ; you feel compelled to return, look closer, look again. You also probably want to bite into some of the resin. I’m sorry, but we were probably all thinking it, especially with sculptures as mouth-watering and beautifully executed as Hive (2007-8) below. One of the highlights of the exhibition was actually to see it work on so many levels, with many children within the space taking full advantage of this experience of sculpture conveying so many different sensory impressions and recollections. Touching with the eyes is a passé expression, but it works here, for a series of works which feels so sensuous and tactile at times. For a popular and crowded exhibition which did actively welcome such a free pattern of wandering around, it never felt claustrophobic – proof that the response to the increasing popularity of museums is not to limit entry or hike up fees, as some have unconvincingly argued lately, but to adapt your exhibition design accordingly. As people took the time to sit on the vast bench at the centre of the room, rest and talk amongst themselves within the vast negative spaces between works engaging with that very idea, and as the space became visibly more accessible to people with pushchairs or wheelchairs, the experience felt a lot more restful than it usually does, without the sensation of being shepherded through a succession of corridor-like rooms on to the next decade, and the next, and the next.

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Rachel Whiteread, Untitled (Hive), 2007-8, private collection (c) Rachel Whiteread

Furthermore, this could not be more fitting for a body of work which many have often qualified as repetitive, but which, in the artist’s books, is intentionally embracing this by responding to an issue whose variations and possibilities are endless. The white room does literally respond to the idea of an impersonal white cube, but in this case it beautifully fits the very spirit around which Whiteread’s work finds its sources of inspiration : an immaculate shell encompassing upside-down casts, fascinating and unearthly in their pristine nature. Yet in some ways this could be seen as an issue : too white, too clean and too polished in contrast with the artist’s process and her sources of inspiration rooted in a very real, dirty, organic world. The elements of this inspiration and process can be found outside the ticketed entry to the exhibition space, in an interesting corridor display that displays a collection of eccentric found objects. It feels odds to have such a strict seperation of these in contrast with the finished work inside  and it would have been interesting to compromise with a few more sculptures on display in this freely accessible corridor with, in exchange, a few more found objects inside. However, the format of an exhibition spreading beyond its ticketed  room is interesting and shows a willingness to acknowledge not only different ways of experiencing an exhibition within a museum space, but also a conscious effort to have new, free alternatives for visitors outside of shifting collection display for people who understandly find the price of exhibition admission too steep.

This is the same corridor which displays a series of her public commissions – also questioning whether or not the cast bookshelves within the main room could have been shown here in some shape or form. While her works such as Monument for Trafalgar Square (2001) or the Holocaust Memorial are documented through photographs, perhaps one of her more famous projects, House (1993) benefits from its own film to replace the work itself destroyed back in 1994, a step by step exploration documented by the artist herself of the casting of an entire Victorian-style house within an East London park. It is fascinating in its uncovering of the « messiness » of her process in contrast with the pure, finished results. The vacant home she takes over for the project also shows something of the violence in stripping down and hollowing out not only a historically relevant piece of housing but perhaps one that could have still been lived in. An arresting moment in the documentary shows Whiteread filming a set of clothing drying on a hanging line near the boarded up house just before it is to be emptied and expressing concern because the house is “meant to be unoccupied.” The owner of the clothing is not found nor is the incident mentioned again ; a ghost and a visible absence within a documentary about making a house a shell of its former, lived-in self. The finished result is arresting, disturbing : seeing the process of upturning an object full of context has almost more impact after marvelling at the neatness of the translucent shells within the room.

Documentary of Rachel Whiteread’s House (1993) (Online version via Artangel)

Wandering outside of the corridor, the Duveen Gallery is invaded by two displays facing off on one another. There is Whiteread’s installation Untitled (100 spaces), translucent, gelatin-like resin casts of the underside of chairs, glistening as they are walked around (okay, my first serious art critic thought was actually “Gummy bears”, and I stand by that). Facing it, another fascinating sidenote to the exhibition : a selection of sculptures from the Tate collection selected by Whiteread in collaboration with curators. These are fascinating in their lack of an obvious narrative linking back directly to Whiteread’s work, instead allowing for a look at sculpture’s play with monumentality, texture and perception, playing with what we think we expect from sculpture and what it makes us discover instead through experimentation and risk-taking. This is a great idea, one that allows to link back a temporary exhibition to a wide-ranging experience of both the collection, British sculpture and contemporary sculpture as a whole.  Modern British sculpture such as Barbara Hepworth rubs shoulders with Sarah Lucas and Rebecca Warren, a casual fragment of sculptural art history seen through the eyes of one of its contemporary pioneers.

The exhibition is strong through its fluidity, perfectly reflecting the way in which Whiteread’s work has articulated itself through a single, shy but persistent notion : inner lives, presences and absences. She shows a vision of the world in which we should question why we preserve things, how and why – and does so in a way which always feels deeply intimate yet casual, like a quiet but engaging conversation. Shyness sounds underrated. Rachel Whiteread’s expression of the quiet but magnetic power of objects over the past few decades shows that it is anything but.

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Rachel Whiteread, Chicken Shed (2017), the artist and Galleria Lorcan O’ Neill (c) Rachel Whiteread, photo (c) Tate 

 

Rachel Whiteread, Tate Britain, 12th September-21st January

 

 

WE DREAM UNDER THE SAME SKY, at Palais de Tokyo

The refugee crisis seen through the lens of contemporary art has been a recurring source of debate in the past year. What can the art world could do to raise awareness around refugees’ travelling and living conditions? How can artistic engagement change our society’s relationship with migration? Where do we draw the line between awareness and emotional exploitation, education and pathos? Olafur Eliasson’s ‘Green Light’ participatory installation working with refugees at the Venice Biennale attracted both praise and doubts about the efficiency of such a manoeuver, at risk of instrumentalizing a crisis in spite of good intentions. Similarly, Ai Weiwei’s political artistic initiatives made headlines and provoked debate about the limits of art’s activist efficiency. These works revolving around visual impact and participation contrast with focused documentary work, such as Daniela Ortiz’s recent exhibition ABC of Racist Europe   at Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art. In a series of interviews with refugees and grassroots activists she explores the nature of migratory control systems and European states’ hypocrisy in waving a public “Refugees Welcome!” flag while secretly organising deportations.

Artistic reactions and involvement are therefore wide-ranging and diverse in nature. However, while there are no right or wrong ways of educating and raising awareness or support, there is a recurring sentiment artistic and charity organisations do not neccessarily have a shared network allowing for productive exchanges around the subject. This is why initiatives such as WE DREAM UNDER THE SAME SKY are essential, providing a framework for collaboration between two systems sharing the same ideals with different tools at their disposal. The charity auction, precededed by an exhibition till the 21st at the Palais de Tokyo, will be organized by Christie’s at the Gallery Azzedine Alaïa. Its proceeds will benefit five NGOs working directly with refugees and migrants to advocate for their integration and rights. The initiative is led by Julie Boukobza, Chantal Crousel, Blanche de Lestrange, Niklas Svennung and Marine van Schoonbeek, in direct collaboration with the NGOs La Cimade, Migreurop, Centre Primo Levi, Thot and Anafé. Charity auctions benefiting refugees in Paris and throughout France have thankfully already existed – involving contemporary art but also photographs taken by refugees themselves, as well as the locks from the Pont des Arts. However this is first of its kind in Europe to involve an internationally recognised selection of contemporary artists with strong museum and gallery representation. 

The exhibition at the Palais de Tokyo showing the donated works of 26 contemporary artists should not be mistaken with an exhibition specifically about or illustrating the refugee crisis. While many of the works do reflect some of the artists’ concerns with political and migratory themes, others do not neccessarily draw an immediate comparison, nor are they required to. This is not a show in which the refugee crisis become the direct, quite literal subject of works so much as part of an underlying, broader theme. As Chantal Crousel indicated in her speech during the exhibition’s opening, the aim is to show how refugees’ situations reflected concerns artists harbour about identity in a context of displacement and doubt. In this particular context, this approach gives space for many of the works to reflect broader aesthetics and feelings around the theme of migration, identity and society.

24 HD Rirkrit Tiravanija
Rirkrit Tiravanija untitled 2017 (we dream under the same sky, new york times, january 26, 2017) 2017 Peinture à la main sur papier journal / Handpaint on news paper 228,6 x 185,4 cm / 89.7 x 72.8 in. Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Chantal Crousel, Paris

Rirkrit Tiravanija, untitled (we dream under the same sky, new york times, january 26, 2017) (2017) is a new work created for the exhibition which immediately responds to migration and xenophobia by directly painting his statement on the pages of the New York Times announcing Donald Trump’s devastating “Immigration Ban”. A comparison can be drawn with Wade Guyton’s work Untitled (2016), using screencaptures from the same newspaper to challenge the way in which migration is being represented by the media. Oscar Tuazon’s Reading bench 5 (wild ways/services for nomads) (2016) is a bench through which the pages of the magazine Vonulife by an Oregon collective in the 1970s can be read. Standing for VOLuntary Non vULnerable, the collective advocated freedom and nomadism in a refusal to interact with state structures. Its presence in the exhibition allows for the work to take on new meanings around nomadism, freedom and identity.

18C HD Anri Sala 3
Anri Sala Le jour de gloire 2017 Encre sur papier minéral, triptyque / Ink on stone paper, three parts Chacun : 40 x 29,7 cm / Each: 15 3/4 x 11 6/8 in. Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Chantal Crousel, Paris

A beautiful and sensitive triptych by Anri Sala explores his work practice working directly with refugees in relation to his exploration of sound. Le jour de gloire (2017) is the result of a three-day workshop with refugees in which each of them produced images, drawings and objects related to their experiences. The tonality and rythm of Le jour de gloire corresponds to the layout of the apples in the triptych while presumably challenging the integrity of French republican values facing the welcoming of refugees in terms of our hymn and, implicitely, the motto liberté, égalité, fraternité. This subtle approach relying on several layers of interpretation and viewing also applies to Adel Abdessemed’s Chicos (2015) for whom migration and violence are recurring themes. His use of porcelain to represent two smiling children refers to kitsch decoration and imagery, subverted here to refer to the plight of child soldiers and the loss of innocence.

11 HD Mona Hatoum
Mona Hatoum Afghan (red and orange) 2008 Laine / Wool
 107 x 180 cm / 42 1/8 x 70 7/8 in. Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Chantal Crousel, Paris © photo : Florian Kleinefenn

Abraham Cruzvillegas’ new work specifically conceived for the sale, Self Constructed Upside Down Shelter (2017) associates his interest in the dynamics of craft and reclaimed materials with the theme of migration, with a copper-plated, reversed world map on which all borders have been erased. The world map reclaimed and reinterpreted outside of a Eurocentric or American world view is a common theme in Mona Hatoum’s work, while letting domectic and socio-political issues confront and collide as part her practice. Her work Afghan (red and orange) (2008) reprises this subject. The eroded shape of a world map on the traditional carpet reveals a view of the world based on the Projection of Peters,  rendering each country to scale and thus allowing for a more realistic representation of the African and Asian continents. Danh Vō ‘s work Promised Land (2017), created for the sale, relates to the themes of migration and cultural identity present in his work. His gilding of the lettering on a piece of cardboard seems to poke fun at the expectations and ideals we can ascribe to objects and the countries they are associated with. Its light-hearted but intimate message reflects Vō’s practice, which often resonates with his experiences as a Vietnamese-born Danish artist.

The abstract and multifaceted nature of the works does not soften the project into a feel-good, do-good initiative without any hard facts on migratory policy in sight. On the contrary, an integral part of the exhibition and week-long initiative leading up to the sale on the 27th is to raise awareness around each of the beneficiaries’ works by letting them have centre-stage. Every evening, free and open conferences take place in the exhibition space during which each NGO has room to launch conversations and debates about their activities and the condition of refugees in France. The fact that this is happening in Paris is all the more important. The refugee crisis here is not an abstract concern but a tangible and shameful reality in which individuals in seek of asylum or a better life are denied basic human rights and living conditions. Xenophobia and racism have not died down since Le Pen made it to the second round of the presidential elections. “No room for homeless people, but at the same time centers for migrants continue to open,” declared journalist Jean-Pierre Pernaut earlier this month, on privatised and most widely watched French television channel TF1. This is only one example of the way in which the refugee crisis is either scapegoated or normalized. This was notably the case for a recent French maths textbook using the increasing arrival of refugees to teach children about percentages. (The manual has since been withdrawn to be reprinted).

Thus, the involvement of five NGOs with five different priorities is all the more essential, raising awareness about what needs to be done on so many levels and educating exhibition-goers about many unhealthy assumptions we may have internalized (such as picturing refugees as more worthy of being welcomed than migrants coming for economical purposes). Migreurop are a network of activists conducting research on the EU’s exclusion policies, raising awareness around detention and deporatation as well as the closure of borders. The Centre Primo Levi focuses upon refugees suffering from trauma related to torture and political violence, while Thot is a school for migrants and refugees, teaching French and facilitating their inclusion into society. While Anafé concentrates on human rights at borders and “waiting zones” with dire living conditions, La Cimade deals with asylum and integration rights. The focus on different needs for refugees and migrants alike is all the more important to give the visitor increased awareness of what needs to be acheived, beyond a blanket “refugees welcome!” statement. It is genuinely rare to leave an exhibition with so much activist information at your disposal. At the door as I arrived, peaceful protesters were holding placards with a familiar name – that of Cédric Herrou, condemned for his help towards refugees as a concerned French citizen. While grassroots activism and individual involvement are admittedly not a part of WE DREAM’s activist representation, it is difficult to leave the space without considering our individual responsability towards the people we welcome into our countries.

Art and activism must form more networks and initiatives to work together, to balance ideals with calls to action in spaces geared towards information and debate. This exhibition and its charity sale is important for a number of reasons, beyond the financial support and social awareness it will raise. It shows what can happen when artistic and charity networks merge to bring their individual expertise to the table for a dynamic and solidarous exchange. It would be sadly optimistic to think we’ll need less of these initiatives in the future. Nevertheless, these projects bring hope that the art world will know how to anticipate, mobilise and organise with increasing skill, passion and commitment to relieve further suffering and injustice.

WE DREAM UNDER THE SAME SKY, at Palais de Tokyo till the 21st of September, charity benefit sale at Galerie Azzedine Alaïa on the 27th September

Golem at Musée d’art et d’histoire du judaïsme in Paris

If (as the Greek affirmed in the Cratylus)
the name is archetype of the thing
in the letters of “rose” is the rose
and all the Nile in the word “Nile”.

 And, made of consonants and vowels,
there’ll be a terrible Name, which
guards in precise letters and syllables
the ciphered essence of God and the Omnipotence.

The verses in Spanish recited in a low rumbling voice by Luis Borges himself invade the darkened space, a cryptic and lyrical introduction to our exhibition’s main protagonist as a video of Jakob Gautel’s performance Matière Première (1999) sees the slow modelling, perfecting and . The Golem is the iconic creature of Jewish lore, a mass of man-shaped clay which comes to live when the word EMET (truth) is carved into its forehead, and returning to a pile of dust and dirt as soon as a letter is removed to form MET (death). From the onset, however, it is obvious that this will not simply be a historical account of a legend, but rather an exploration of the ways in which its presence has trickled down into art, science-fiction, cinema and even video games. Beyond the fantasy of the creature coming to life, there are deeper-seated meanings. The Golem represents the tension between being animated and being truly “alive” as a person. Furthermore, like Frankenstein and his monster, a vast part of the Golem’s myth lies in relation to its maker. The most famous protagonist of the Golem legend is Rabbi Löw, the 16th century Maharal of Prague, who created the Golem of Prague to defend the Jewish ghetto from antisemitic pogroms. Beyond the myth and its power as a symbol of resistance, the tension between creator and creature, maker and object, have fed into the collective artistic conscience up until now.

Thirsting to know what God knows,
Judah Loew arranged permutations
of letters and complex variations
and finally pronounced the Name: the Key,

the Door, the Echo, the Guest and the Palace,
over a doll which with clumsy hands
he carved, to teach it the secrets
of the Letters, of Time and of Space.

1. Wegener.jpg
Paul Wegener, Le Golem, comme il vint au monde, 1920.
Deutsche Kinemathek, Berlin © succession Paul Wegener

This is a peculiar exhibition which escapes any attempt to categorise by object, preferring a loose thematic which starts at the basics of the legends then unfurls into questions of personhood, resistance and artificial intelligence. Rather than being relegated to a special room, a sideline to the historical content, contemporary art is present from the very beginning. It is deeply rooted into the space of the exhibition with the work of Lionel Sabatté, Smile in Dust (2016) which uses the dust picked up in the museum itself to create a composite portrait of the Golem, highlighting the fragility of a creature born from dust and the poignant image of a figure born from a collective Jewish heritage and imagination. This is because the Golem has never been a fixed historical and legendary figure: his significance is as malleable as the clay he is made of. The expressive and dramatic films of the 1920s and 1930s reveal the Golem as a political figure but also a subjective one. It is inevitable to misread the Golem from Wegnerer’s Der Golem (1915) as anything but a figure of resistance against a dangerously growing antisemetic sentiment. The same case can be made in no subtle terms by Julien Duvivier’s Golem in 1936. However, Jean Kerchbon’s 1967 film chooses to portray the Golem as just another facet of the main protagonist, away from political concerns into the psychological. Both films use experimental camera work to convey the statue coming to life – shaky camerawork and plunging shots channeling a tense and erratic state of mind.  This feeling runs throughout the exhibition: the Golem is the reflection of what we create and what we fear to become.

8. Kiefer.jpg
Anselm Kiefer
Rabi Low : Der Golem, 1988-2012
95 × 95 × 58 cm
Anselm Kiefer, courtesy galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, Paris-Salzbourg

The figure becomes a signifier for Jewish resistance in visual culture as well as an interrogation on existence and agency. Navigating throughout the exhibition, Joann Sfar’s comic on the Golem rubs shoulders with a Minecraft-style animation in which the creature comes to life to wreak pixellated havoc. Further away, Niki de St-Phalle’s golem is a strange but benevolent monster which children can use as a slide in a garden in Jerusalem. Anselm Kiefer’s interpretation, meanwhile, in Rabi Löw: Der Golem (1988-2012) is more abstract and solemn, the Golem trapped in its original form to which its creator’s name is attached. It is as if representation itself has become too much: the very idea and notion of the creature which would emerge from a mound of matter becomes enough. Kiefer’s particular work around German memory and pain, combines with his interest in kabbala lore, takes on the mythos of the Golem with purposes that are clearly understood yet never explicitely stated. In the space, its presence feels commemorative, like a space of prayer, a feeling heightened by the work by Christian Boltanski next to it. In Le Golem (1988) the creature is reduced to a silhouette, a play of light and shadow.  The main criticism of the exhibition could be that it had so many complex strands to play with that some may have become tangled along the way. The way in which the Golem was a part of comic-book pop culture alongside the Incredible Hulk feels slightly dissonant; so do the video-game interventions which feel more like a fleeting argument that a powerful statement. Far more interesting is the notion of what it means to animate an idea and to toy with this concept, playing God until it is taken too far.  Jan Svankmajer’s Darkness Light Darkness (1989) is a dark and funny take on a clay body defining and constructing itself into existence in a process that is both grostesque and engrossing.

The final part of the exhibition is compelling in and of itself and was perhaps what I was really looking for in the contemporary, pop-cultural references: the current feeling of unease we have when we face our own sentient but non-human creations. The iconic robot from Metropolis looms over the visitors as the Golem’s legacy updated into artificial intelligence is unravelled beautifully, from Hiroshi Ishiguro’s uncanny twin android to Lars Lundsröm’s series Real Humans about a society in which robots have developed emotions and a thirst for agency.  Fritz Lang’s Metropolis robot, Maria, towers gracefully over the proceedings as the golem of the new age. Our anxieties and fascination around robots and artificial intelligence shows that what the Golem represents has never disappeared. In fact, the Golem feels more powerfully conveyed through silicone and metal than clay. The exhibition does not attempt to attribute any moral or immoral commentary on artificial intelligence. Instead, it does exactly what the Golem does in the first place as an enduring piece of Jewish mythology trickled into the mainstream. It raises a mirror to the fears and hopes we have about creating animate beings, the anxiety and fantasy of looking up to powerful beings who could also destroy us if they spin out of control.

10. Metropolis
Walter Schulze- Mittendorff
Copie, réalisée par Moulages du Louvre en 1994, de Maria, le robot du film Metropolis
(1926) de Fritz Lang
Résine peinte, 190 × 74 × 59 cm
Paris, Cinémathèque française

 

The Japanese House at Barbican Centre

A chaotic queue of people leaving their luggage at the cloakroom and half blocking the doors to the exhibition entrance created a strange contrast with the calm and minimalistic atmosphere I found there when I made it past the doors. As a display text unfurled on the right, a white staircase awaited ahead, underneath which I noticed a neat little kitchen, as though I was about to intrude on someone’s breakfast. It takes a few moments to adjust to the clever and artfully executed premise of The Japanese House: an exhibition and an installation rolled in one, both explaining the particularities of Japanese postwar architecture and showing it through an impressive to-scale reconstruction. Ambitious, sleek and beautiful, the exhibition is as flawless in design as it is dense in terms of information, providing an insight into the newfound creativity of architecture as an extension of Japanese art, traditions and ways of life.

Indeed, the display works best when objects and models give us an insight into the tension and harmony between tradition and innovation, continuity and change exemplified by the post-war years. Kiyoshi Seike’s furniture and design is compelling in its use of the codes of Japanese craft interconnecting seamlessly with modernist minimalism. Less is more, but is no less complex and multi-layered in its approach to Japanese history and international contemporary trends. However, another aspect of Japanese architecture and design is revealed, revolving around a messier, more organic approach to the home. Concrete may be associated closely to urban spaces but in Junzo Yoshimura’s Mountain Lodge A the concrete foundations raising the wooden lodge up to counter the risks of humidity and create a continuity with the forest floor. The lodge was for Yoshimura’s own personal use to fulfill his wish of living “like a bird atop a tree”. Further along, a surprising but welcome fashion element adds itself to the mix, as we encounter Kosuke Tsumura’s Final Home unisex coat, a transparent plastic trenchcoat covered in pockets which are padded with cloth and newspaper for insulation. The designer describes cloth as a protective element, creating a “mobile house” for the urban wanderer (surprisingly, issues relating to homelessness are not taken into account.). A particularly insightful room gives the usually dry experience of viewing architectural models a new twist, in a spectacular display showing experiments in house forms as a form of playfulness, experimentation and spirituality. Yuusuke Karasawa’s s-house, for instance (below), attempts to absorb and emulate references from the computer and cybernetics in order to incorporate them into a housing design. The result is a small, delicate and thoughtful masterpiece, presented like a jewel-like relic in dramatic lighting in a dark, immersive environment. The house appears as the site for not only an established way of living, but as part of a wider network of proposals for new, utopian lifestyles.

3. The Japanese House, Architecture and Life after 1945, Installation, Miles Willis, Getty Images (1)

The main talking point of the show, however, is not its content but rather its design. The Barbican Centre acheived the impressive feat of reconstructing the rooms from the Moriyama House designed by architect Ryue Nishizaw on a 1:1 scale. The meticulous care taken in recreating the house’s atmosphere extends to every tiny detail, every book or trinket placed with delicat, minimalistic care. Walking through these rooms at the centre of the display is oddly soothing and satisfying. The exhibition’s greatest acheivement is the way in which it seamlessly managed to navigate between this experience of the Moriyama House and the information on display about post-war Japanese architecture. Circling around the space makes the visitor alternate between reading the text and viewing the displays and models, and looking down into the garden with glimpses into some of the rooms, as the lighting subtly changes from dawn to dusk. This allows the notions to distill quietly and reach their full potential when you walk throughout the space.

6. The Japanese House, Architecture and Life after 1945, Installation, Miles Willis, Getty Images (32)

The installation is impressive, smart and unapologetically Instagrammable…not that there is anything wrong with that. I was happily snapping away with other people and was already reimagining my quaintly minimalistic lifestyle, complete with a nonchalant pile of Jean Cocteau poetry books next to a potted plant, beneath a Nouvelle Vague poster. It almost tempted me to pick up Marie Kondo’s The Magic of Tidying, before I realised I would never commit to keeping only the items which “sparked joy” and would instead commit to keeping countless quantities of years-old museum tickets and used-up pens as I do now. The immersive act of living and walking through the house is strange in its familiarity and remoteless, like a space half lived-in but somewhat unattainable.

The exhibition has pulled off a second ambitious installation with the presence of Terunobu Fujimori’s teahouse, custom-made for the purposes of the space. It is a strange liminal space in the display, navigating between its function as a ritual space for tea and as a dream-like bubble made for dreaming and silence. The sensitivity and sincerity of the space is palpable in the behind the scenes snippets Barbican Centre have provided on their blog.  People must queue, remove their shoes at the entrance (only six people at a time). A boy is staying there and playing on his phone, as people come and go. I feel as thought he has probably accidentally grasped the concept of passing time and contemplation inherent to the Tea House better than most other visitors have. The paradox of a queue of people waiting five minutes for one minute of serenity in a small designer teahouse is not lost on me (flashbacks from the overclogged cloakroom return). Perhaps this is the main issue. It is difficult to appreciate these spaces as a user rather than a fleeting visitor. I do not feel as though they could be lived in or experienced as anything other than a exhibit without a single object left out of place. Ironically, it felt as though the aesthetic of the exhibition left no room to consider its potential or intended inhabitants. There is more “architecture” than “life” in the display as a whole.

12. The Japanese House, Architecture and Life after 1945, Barbican Art Gallery, photo by Ben Tynegate

Furthermore, while this unique and ambitious installation and design made much to recreate the experience and aesthetic of “the Japanese House”, it became difficult to grasp its deeper meaning and emotional reach. It even ran the risk of vehiculating stereotypes about Japanese culture based on an incomplete stories and a few fleeting assumptions, whereas the house itself was quite one-of-a-kind. The Moriyama House was a special commission for a hermit-like owner, so the house is quite a unique reflection of his contemplative and seculuded life. Yet, there is no information at hand in the exhibition itself to explain the kind of conversations and changes that may have taken place between the architect and the homeowner. It does have the advantage, however, of making an architecture exhibition feel more accessible and less dry: seeing children play and enjoy the garden and changing lights while their parents read the information is the best argument for the installation alone.

The exhibition’s main argument is that there is not a “single” Japanese House however the access to information about other housing types is not explored sufficiently in-depth for this to become the main point to carry away from the display.  Kosuke Tsumura’s coat and Junzo Yoshimura organic lodge are in fact good examples: they both spark curiosity in their singularity but there is too much to cover for a focus on the slightly stranger examples of architecture, design and its cultural impact on visual culture. The best way to navigate the exhibition is to cater it to your intersts, jot down as many names as possible and construct a strong basis for further research. This said, the full extent of architecture’s impact on film is excellent, with two separately screenings showing live-action and animation sequences respectively (viewing Miyazaki film extracts in a zen-like artificial garden was just as serene an experience as the tea house – if not more so). Great length are taken to explain the social and political symbols behind architecture in terms of openings, enclosures, entrapments and shifts in the structures and their use on screen.

With a fascinating range of design and architecture, the exhibition shines through its flawless design and aesthetic but experiences issues when it comes to condensing its selection, which could have provided more information with more focused examples. As the architectural stars of the exhibition express all too clearly after all: less is more.

The Japanese House: Architecture and Life after 1945, at the Barbican Centre until the 25th of June.
Between 14 and 25? Check out the free Young Barbican membership for exhibition discounts. I essentially signed up in five minutes on my phone and got in for five pounds. 

Credits for all images: The Japanese House: Architecture and Life after 1945, Installation View, Barbican Art Gallery, London, 23 March – 25 June 2017, Photo by Miles Willis / Getty Images

BLU’s street art animation

Street art mocks permanence and stillness. Even though there may be a documented trace of a graffiti on a wall, nothing can predict the length of time it shall stay up, whether it will stand its ground for years or barely a night. It could stand the test of time or end up covered in countless other layers of street art or censoring paint. However, the power lies in its creation and its interaction with a space that remains unclaimed and untamed, without artistic boundaries. Perhaps, then, it made sense that street art would meet animation within Blu’s work.

Blu is an anonymous Italian artist, who has been doing street art for years, working with white housepaint and black outlines to convey monstrous, changing figures with social and political sharpness, adapting to the architectural space and political mood of the city to his murals, always created within a space for free. Even though Blu has been noticed by museums and galleries alike, collaboration has not always been successful: he was invited by the Museum of Contemporary Art in San Francisco to paint a mural for their “Art in the Street” exhibition which was promptly covered up the next day. Most recently, his animosity towards street art within the museum took a distinctly radical turn. Upon learning in March about the exhibition Banksy: Street Art & Co in Palazzo Pepoli, within his home town of Bologna, in which his street art featured amongst many others that had been removed from the street without their artist’s consent, he painted over 20 years’ worth of his street art within the city. The gesture was a defiant sign of protest against the commodification and hoarding of art that ought to remain within the public realm. He has also painted over his own work to resist an area’s gentrification because of it.

Resisting stagnation and fears of destruction, sometimes conducting it willingly in order to move forward, it perhaps made sense that Blu would look towards animation. The animated mural he worked on in Buenos Aires, MUTO, took him a year to complete, for seven minutes of film.

It is a disturbing and dynamic metamorphosis in constant evolution, which maps the walls of a run-down part of the city, spreading into rubble and derelict buildings. Just as one painting replaces another to create movement on the walls, the effects of this creation are left visible, through the white paint residue of erased artwork and the time-lapse of the sky, moving cars and passers-by. The effect is not “clean” or seamless, on the contrary letting us peer through all the cracks, breaking the illusion. In another animated mural, BIG BANG BIG BOOM, the painters themselves are left as part of the final effect. This only adds to the effect when the paintings interact with actual objects; here, Blu also plays with stop-motion animation on city objects and detritus of the everyday, as well as some passers-by turned actors.

Animation has no rules – except, perhaps, the constraint of expressing a succession of images in sequence. The original animations  were made on Ancient Egyptian murals so that charioteers riding past at full speed could see different images following each other at such a rate that persistance of vision would blend them into a movement. In the same way, Blu’s EVOLUTION OF MAN , while not a video in itself, would probably create an animated effect at a faster speed – or would slow the process of animation and change down into a thoughtful, contemplative walk alongside the walls of an anonymous street to follow the stories of an anonymous artist.

Blu’s animated stories have only one space in which their display reflects their true spirit: the street. Attempting to preserve a fragment of the story warps its driving creative force, the power it draws from the ephemeral, the city and its fleeting encounters.

Jake Fried

Defining where animation ends and where it begins starts with the trickiness in defining what is “animated” and what is not. Is the “illusion” of movement all it takes? Or are there more subtle rules at play? Or is there simply a way to make everything animate itself depending on how you see it? Time-lapses of paintings have a fascinating animated quality as the drawing’s process makes it comes to life, layered over time. In the same way, adding and subtracting becomes movement.

This idea of process and change is at the heart of Jake Fried’s work. His animation is defined by his beginnings as a painter seeking a way to record a painstaking process in constructing his works, before realizing that the evolution itself was the artwork. He uses ink and white correction liquid among other materials to let his work animate itself through constant, breathless changes, never suggesting movement but letting the collage of patterns and fantasies create it anyway in our mind.

The excruciating detail is barely admired before it is already lost into layering, adding and taking away as the accumulation of details creates the animation rather than any distinct element. His work is face-paced and feverish, playing with chaos and melancholy as well as paradoxes and surrealism. Dürer and Escher come to mind in terms of greyscale and precise layering, accompanied by a certain sense of claustrophobia. Even Jacques Villeglé’s work, creating new meanings and narratives by lacerating advertising posters, seems to resonate with this work.  A new kind of engraving or collage that is paradoxically both immobile and in motion emerges in Fried’s work, one white-out line at a time.

Jacques-Villeglé-Les-Présidentielles-1981-1
Jacques Villeglé, Les Présidentielles, 1981
cycle
M.C Escher, Cycle, 1939
Melencolia I (B. 74; M., HOLL. 75)*engraving  *24 x 18.8 cm *1514
Dürer, Melencolia I, 1514