Ann-Chandler Tune on Willem Van Weeghel’s Dynamic Structure 201014 (Paris Art Fair)
Heeyoung Sim on Izumi Miyazaki’s Tomato (Paris Art Fair)
Isabella Levy on William Kentridge’s The Execution of Maximilian (Marion Goodman)
Denay Rogers on Anne Le Troter’s Bullet Points (Palais de Tokyo)
Jonathan Hogeback on Mel O’Callaghan’s Dangerous on-the-way (Palais de Tokyo)
Rachael Alafant on Isabelle Cornaro’s Celebration 2013 (Palais de Tokyo)
Three reviews of Abraham Poincheval’s Oeuf (Palais de Tokyo)
- Talha Yousaf
- Sima Shah
- Siddharth Seth
Emma Oberman on Peter Campus’s Three Transitions (Jeu de Paume)
Analysis of Dynamic Structure 201014 (Ann-Chandler Tune)
While wandering through the 2017 Paris Art Fair, one piece of artwork immediately caught my eye: Dynamic Structure 201014 by Willem Van Weeghel, a contemporary artist from Holland. This work was represented by Galerie Franzis Englels, and was clearly the highlight of their booth at the Paris Art Fair. Dynamic Structure 201014 was created in 2015, and consists of 24 different three-dimensional black lines that move independently across a white background. These lines protrude from six different centers, almost like the hands of six clocks. One moment the lines form a star-like shape, the next an unorganized mess of lines, the next a circle with rays, the next a nonsensical display of lines, and the next a formation of geometric squares and rectangles, and on, and on, and on. A short video of the piece is available here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5pYScHARJ4. Because of its length, this video does not show the full extent of the formations created by this mesmerizing work (in fact, although I observed this piece for a significant amount of time, I never saw the pattern of formations “start over,” so I do not know the full extent of its forms and movements), it conveys the character of the dynamic piece very well.
Van Weeghel classifies his work at kinetic art, which could be described as art that creates its effect primarily through movement. Van Weeghal loves creating kinetic art because, as he puts it, he is able to be a designer, a choreographer, a 3D CAD designer, a technical engineer, a welder, and a computer programmer, all in addition to being a kinetic artist (https://desktopmag.com.au/features/kinetic-art-willem-van-weeghel/#.WOuNUVOGNE4). His kinetic work explores the relationship “between chaos and order, between variability and uniformity, between volatility and consistency” (http://www.willemvanweeghel.nl/en). Van Weeghel certainly manages to successfully capture the spirit of these many opposites in Dynamic Structure 201014, which is no easy task. The linear structures move slowly to create neat, clean shapes, and then shift to create a jagged mess, then back to an organized pattern. The viewer almost experiences a sense of anxiety while watching these transitions occur, and observing the lines get slowly closer and closer to a neat, geometric form. It is rare for a single piece of artwork to be able to represent so many opposite forces, but Van Weeghel succeeds through the carefully crafted design of the movement of his work.
Van Weeghel explains that for the moving elements of his work, “the form is generally of less importance than the movement that they make,” which explains why he chooses to classify his artwork specifically as kinetic art (http://www.willemvanweeghel.nl/en). At first, I disagreed with this statement, as I initially believed that the forms created by Dynamic Structure 201014 created the beautiful, mesmerizing effect of this piece. Thinking about why the forms are so beautiful, though, led me to realize that the beauty really does stem from the movement of the piece, not the shapes themselves. The forms created by the moving black lines are aesthetically pleasing and nice to look at, but the element that makes this piece so intriguing is the effect of the movement on the art and on the viewer. Any one of these individual shapes formed by black lines on a white canvas would be pleasant, but it is the movement and transformation from one form to another that allows this work to have such a powerful effect on the viewer.
Dynamic Structure 201014 is certainly a complex work that could be analyzed in many ways, but the most important theme of this work based on my point of view and my experience with it is the idea of time. On the most literal level, the constantly moving lines on the canvas could be compared to the hands of a clock, therefore referencing the actual passage of time. On a more conceptual level, the slow, constant motion of this intriguing piece causes the viewer to be mesmerized and drawn into this work, therefore altering their sense of time. I completely lost track of time while staring at this work, and stood staring for so long that finally the gallerist offered me a pamphlet on Willem van Weeghel and not-so-subtly encouraged me to move along to the next booth to make room for paying customers. The consistency of the speed of the movement (and the consistency of movement itself) in Dynamic Structure 201014 reflects the constant chugging forward of time itself. Because of these effects, the viewer simultaneously is reminded of the constant and continuous passing of time, and of the unpredictability with which we experience time.
I cannot quite pinpoint what exactly drew me to this work. It is not colorful or flashy, the movement is not dramatically noticeable, there is no sound or video component, and although this work is not a traditional drawing or painting, it is not so shockingly avant-garde either. For some reason, this work caught my attention without any of these elements. Perhaps I was first drawn to the intricate complexity that Van Weeghel managed to create from such a relatively simple design. Regardless of why I became interested in Dynamic Structure 201014 in the first place, the illusions of alternating chaos and order, complexity and simplicity, an altered sense of and awareness of time, and the incredible design of the motion and forms made this piece of art fascinating. Given the positive reaction I had to this work, I would like to learn more about and become more familiar with kinetic art. I had not heard of it before experiencing this piece at the Paris Art Fair, but the notion of using motion to influence art is fascinating, and very effective in capturing viewers’ attention. I certainly hope to see more kinetic art from Willem Van Weeghel in the future.
Sources and References
https://desktopmag.com.au/features/kinetic-art-willem-van-weeghel/#.WOuNUVOGNE4
http://franzisengels.nl/English/ARTISTS/willem%20van%20weeghel%20en.html
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5pYScHARJ4
http://www.willemvanweeghel.nl/en
Heeyoung Sim on Izumi Miyazaki’s Tomato
Izumi Miyazaki is a Japanese artist whose work specializes in photosurrealist self-portraiture. Miyazaki is known for her unique brand of cold humor, combining a penchant for bright colors and eccentric props with unexpectedly disconcerting elements: her head placed between two floating slices of sandwich bread, her own face peeking out of her abdomen through the open buttons of her crisp button-down shirt, and bloody ketchup tears dripping down her face as french-fries rain down around her, to name a few examples. She challenges many facets of gender stereotypes and the cultural clichés of modern consumerist culture with her simultaneously bizarre and beautiful portraits, using pointed digital manipulation to provoke conflicting oscillations between the amusing and the unsettling. This piece, titled simply as Tomato, presents a bizarre scene, with Miyazaki’s decapitated head lying forlornly on the floor and a mysterious woman’s foot stepping briskly away from it. In Tomato, Miyazaki’s unique blend of Japanese kawaii and gore provide insight into the insecurities and challenges facing millennial women of today.
The most striking visual element of this piece is the contrast between its dreamy, muted color composition and its gruesome content. The head and the foot are set against a demure backdrop of pastel pink, while the baby blue ankle sock and kitschy little green kitten heel continue the cute, feminine trend. Even Miyazaki’s lips, pursed in a soft, girlish pout, are painted with rosy lipstick. Juxtaposed against these soft colors, the visceral red of the blood and flesh spilling out of Miyazaki’s head highlights the gory insides of every frail human body: try as we might to beautify our surroundings and embellish our bodies, underneath that thin layer of skin lies only a mess of blood, ligaments, and spongey organs.
Further augmenting this eerie interplay between dark and playful is Miyazaki’s head itself. Her jeweled bobby pin is placed artfully by her face, the straight line of her bangs and soft curl of her hair arranged with the greatest care. This seems to represent the wildly unrealistic beauty standards that our commercialized society imposes on the youth – especially young women – and the impossibility of attaining those standards. Little girls are “losing their heads” obsessing over a perfection that simply does not exist, no matter how precisely they may coif their hair or what external accessories they ornament themselves with. The site of the decapitation is clean, almost architectural, begging the question of whether Miyazaki has deliberately severed her own head, or whether it was a consequence of external forces. Did she long to free herself from the emotional confusion and conflicting expectations of being trapped in her own head, of being a millennial woman of color in an impossibly overstimulated world? Against this clean slice, we see an absence of any of the normal anatomy of the human head: the bones, muscles, and fibers that would have rendered this photograph violent rather than surreal. Instead, the inner cavity of her neck is empty, reinforcing the impression of the human body as a vessel or a shell holding the pulsing, messy contents of life within. The contrast between her photographed face against the absurdity of her severed neck also heightens the tension between real and surreal, making viewers question how well we know our own bodies and internal functions, as well as how our internal consciences have situated themselves within the external pressures of everyday life. Miyazaki’s is a baby face, with smooth, luminous cheeks and full, childlike brows, yet her deadened eyes hold a disarming emptiness that reflects the increasing cynicism of the world and the often prematurely shattered joy of youth that results from all of these impossible, contradictory, arbitrary standards.
The surrounding setting of the piece further complicates the perplexing scene. The foot is clearly in motion, leaving the head behind. The flirtatious high heel, the dainty ankle socks, and the sensible black bow securing the shoe to the foot suggest a feminine figure, while its mid-step positioning creates a sense of dynamic motion that makes the scene seem like a freeze-frame of a continuing moment, rather than a static portrait. This of course inspires endless demands for a narrative explanation that we can never know: is Miyazaki abandoning her own head, or is it an unrelated passerby? Is the owner of the foot running away from the head in horror, or demonstrating a nonchalant apathy to its presence? These questions are what draw the viewer further and further in to such a deceptively simple photograph and allow for such wide and varied interpretations of the symbolism of the piece, regardless of its minimalistic style and grisly content. The disembodied foot also combines with the severed head to evoke the image of a modular, mechanical body that echoes the industrial and technological innovations that contribute to the unique experience of today’s millennial youth. With so much overexposure to information and such an inundation of contradictory standards as to how women should look, dress, speak, behave, one cannot help but feel as if the body and the self are merely the sum of its assembled parts, sometimes splitting in opposite directions of each other. The ledge that the foot and the head are placed upon exacerbate this sense of constructed reality. Although it initially seems like a minor detail that barely merits notice, the longer we look at the photograph, the stranger it seems. Adding to the confusion, we notice that the pink backdrop draped over this ledge is patterned, giving it a texture similar to that of a table cloth. Is it a table, a photographer’s backdrop, a shelf that displays the rest of her discombobulated body somewhere further out of our visual reach? The unassuming shadow that throws its edge into relief is clearly very deliberate, considering the ease with which Miyazaki could have edited it away. It seems, then, to convey an exhibitionism that emphasizes the fabricated world in which this scene resides, perhaps pointing to the less visible artificiality of our own overexposed societies.
The star of this piece, however, is the canned tomatoes that ooze from Miyazaki’s open throat. She is candid about her use of this common household condiment. In fact, she has cheekily titled the piece Tomato despite the wildly distracting context within which she has placed the fruit. The vibrant red of their flesh and the thick, viscous consistency of their juices create a cartoonish pool of blood that is nevertheless jarring. Perhaps this is a statement on the superficial, insignificant fears of modern society that we allow to fester within us, ultimately destroying us. Perhaps this is a symbolic gesture towards the careening acceleration of modernization, starting from something as innocuous as canned food and spinning out of our control to catalyze social consequences that we never could have anticipated. After all, Andy Warhol famously immortalized Campbell’s tomato soup as a symbol of the new times. Or perhaps this is simply the mischief of a young artist, reminding the viewers that despite their shock and consternation and contemplation, it’s only tomatoes after all.
Tomato is grotesque and absurd, humorous and wonderfully weird. It is simultaneously bloody enough to appeal to our carnal senses and cute enough to be palatable. This very dichotomous sense of humor, as well as the ability to be both quietly simple and eternally complex, are what make Izumi Miyazaki’s works so unique and what drew me to choose this piece. The clean lines and expert manipulations of color scheme present in this work – indeed all her works – imply a maturity beyond her 21 years, revealing a deep self-awareness of how she wishes to present her work and what she wishes to inspire within her viewer. At the same time, her singular collage-like style of surrealism evokes a childlike playfulness: like the dream or maybe even nightmare of a child with a boundless imagination. This piece is visually captivating, intellectually challenging, and amusing all at once, and that is all I can ask for art to be.
Isabella Levy on William Kentridge’s The Execution of Maximilian
William Kentridge’s piece The Execution of Maximilian (2017) is a contemporization and juxtaposition of two of Manet’s works. It combines a painting from Manet’s earlier period in which he focused more on political scenes, and his later period in which he focused more on still lives particularly, bouquets of flowers. By combining these two Manet pieces into one, Kentridge seems to be commenting on the passage of time. Observing at once, the political activism and idealism associated with youth, and the appreciation of beauty associated with people of a more advanced age. It calls into question Manet’s own character; wondering if Manet himself became jaded, as he grew older, disillusioned, and discouraged by the lack of progress he had seen and influenced.
Kentridge’s piece is also interesting as it uses multiple pieces of cut out paper to create a texture and give a depth to the piece that one would not necessarily find in a flat impressionist era painting such as those of Manet. As if to counteract this difference between the Manet paintings and Kentridge’s piece, Kentridge’s piece is almost entirely black, white, or grey, with the occasional red pencil line, seeming to denote areas where he wanted to add another layer of cut out paper. There appears to be a theme in current contemporary art of playing with dimensions and volume, as evidenced by not only Kentridge’s works, but also Lee Kit’s installation at the Palais de Tokyo. Kit placed blank canvases on the walls on which were also projected videos, giving the projections a depth that they previously lacked. Kit also played with perception of the videos by filtering them through clear, plastic containers. In a similar way, Kentridge plays with our perception of the work by making the vase front and center and relegating the incredibly famous Manet piece L’Exécution de Maximilien to a secondary, more background position. Although L’Exécution de Maximilien, physically occupies less space and is not centered in the work, the title of Kentridge’s piece is the English translation of this painting.
Kentridge’s work seems to put the vase and the picture (L’Exécution de Maximilien) on a coffee table, where the painting appears as if it used to be propped up against the vase, but has since fallen over. This also seems to allude to Manet’s shift in focus over time, as his paintings were initially very political, and then much like the fallen L’Exécution de Maximilien in Kentridge’s piece, Manet pushed that focus aside, to instead engage more with still life paintings of flowers. Manet painted L’Exécution de Maximilien, based on the real-life execution of Maximilian, the emperor of Mexico during Napoleon’s occupation. After Napoleon and his troops succeeded, opponents of the emperor seized control and killed Maximilian. Manet was a fierce supporter of Maximilian and was appalled at his death and ended up painting several versions, which ended up, scattered across the globe. Similar to the fragmented style of Kentridge’s piece, Manet’s various versions of L’Exécution de Maximilien, are also fragmented in various museums across the globe.
Another theme that appears in current contemporary art is the passage of time. Kentridge’s piece brings together two paintings of Manet’s that were painted at very different times in Manet’s life. L’Exécution de Maximilien captures the execution of the emperor of Mexico, a real-life event that Manet was alive for, making L’Exécution de Maximilien a poignant, historical piece that captures a very specific event at a very specific point in time. The second Manet piece, the still life of the flowers, was painted much later on, and although it does not necessarily capture an event of historical significance, it does capture the flowers just after they have bloomed and before they have really begun to wilt. Both Manet pieces capture exact moments in time. Similarly, artists such as Abraham Poincheval, and Marie Lund explore the passage of time in their pieces. Poincheval does so by pushing his body to extremes, in one of his pieces he lived in a rock for a number of days, in his current work, he is sitting on chicken eggs until they hatch. Marie Lund, on the other hand, took curtains from her childhood school, and stretched them out over canvases, observing the aging of the fabric over time, and the fading of color from sun exposure. Kentridge brought together two Manet pieces that represent Manet in different periods of his life and that capture two very different moments in time. This juxtaposition allows the viewer to observe changes in Manet’s focus and perhaps his view of the world. Both Manet pieces do, however, represent life that is no longer, in that the flowers have been cut, and Maximilian has been shot.
My personal interest in this painting, stems from my mother’s love of still life impressionist art. She is an avid consumer of still life flower bouquets and fruit bowls, particularly of French and Dutch painters. Kentridge’s piece felt in many ways like a modern, edgy version of Manet’s still life flower paintings, which I loved. My mother is the picture of grace with her English accent and her pearls, a classic image, something universally accepted, just as still life impressionist art is in a sense classic, and universally accepted. Following that train of thought, if the art we are drawn to is somewhat representative of ourselves, it begs the question of what does Kentridge’s painting represent about me? If my mother is the original Manet still life, I am the modern edgy version. I also like that Kentridge included L’Exécution de Maximilien, as it seems to allude to a youthful period in Manet’s life, which of course my mother also possesses, and is a period of which I am still in the middle. Kentridge’s work The Execution of Maximilian is at once simple and complex, it contains representations of two of Manet’s paintings, one very political, and another very benign. It is beautiful, and imperfect, felicitous, and tragic, full of incongruities, much like humans themselves. For all of these reasons, and many more I think Kentridge’s piece The Execution of Maximilian is very much worth a look.
Denay Rogers on Anne Le Troter’s Bullet Points
Anne Le Troter was born in 1985 in Saint-Etienne and currently resides in Paris. She graduated from the École Supérieure d’Art et Design de Saint-Étienne in 2011 and then from the Geneva school of Art and Design in 2012. Currently, Le Troter has a sound installation in the Palais de Tokyo in Paris called Bullet Points, which is her first solo show in an art center in the Paris region. In this installation, Le Troter manipulates the malleability of the repetitive language used by telephone surveyors in such a way that the language is able to exist on its own. She uses the medium of recorded voice to draw attention to the omnipresence of survey polls and the false impression they to give respondents that the respondent’s opinions matter and will make a difference in the larger political agenda. Her representation of the recordings is thought of as an opera, with at least 20 distinctive voices overlapping one another at various times, and embodies a very codified domain. The purpose of choosing this installation format can be best described by Le Troter herself: “I wanted to allow language to stand out visually. Even if I don’t use the same codes, I’d like to attract the same attention as in the cinema.”[1]
I found the installation to be very cinematic. The speakers from which the voices boom are placed strategically throughout the space, including at the base of the benches, on the walls, and in corners. Being surrounded by the speakers, I truly felt immersed in the voices of the phone surveyors. The space itself is filled with long, bright blue carpet-covered benches accompanied by a few office chairs. This setting, as shown in the picture below, looks innocent and unthreatening, but with the lights dimmed and with the addition of the voices, the space becomes bone-chilling and almost threatening.
Exhibition view of Anne Le Troter, Bulleted List, Palais de Tokyo (03.02-08.05.2017). Photo by Aurélien Mole.
On the floor carpet, one can see prints of different words commonly used as responses to the phone surveyors’ questions, such as “active,” “female,” and “18-24.”
The voice recordings are mutated from their originals, with some of the words drawn out and played at an increasing volume. The voices are synchronous at times and disonant at others, and really highlight Le Troter’s use of the recordings as raw and malleable material. This raw material is used to capture and analyze the role of polling institutes in politics, according to Le Troter. It may be that I am not familiar with French politics or that I am not versed enough in contemporary art, and I do not have a firm grasp on the French language, so as a result I did not experience a connection between the installation and political agendas. The voices sounded rather scary, like something out of a horror film, and seemed to want to evoke an emotional response from the audience rather than to communicate a broader theme.
It was actually because the installation evoked an emotional response from me that I became interested in it. When I first entered the space, it was silent. A few seconds later, a phone survey caller’s voice boomed from the speakers; nothing too out of the ordinary, but still odd. Then the voice became increasingly louder and other voices joined in, and as the voices increased in volume, they became mutated. The voices became deeper, repetitive, and more drawn out. The voices caused chills to run down my spine, and part of me wanted to run away yet part of me was too captivated by the sounds to leave.
The space itself added to the creepiness of the installation. The space was the size of an average cinema room, and no one else was in the space with me. I was completely alone with the surrounding voices. The bright blue carpet covering the floor and the benches would have been inviting, yet the lights in the space were dimmed. The three or so office chairs in the corner seemed out of place, and created a feel of abandonment in the space. I felt alone, scared, and helpless.
I love that this piece is in the form of a sound installation. I have always been deeply fascinated by sound and music, and the manipulation of these mediums of expression. The main reason I enjoy sound and music is that I can engage with these forms of art with my eyes closed, which leaves me to my own imagination. I am able to interact with sound and music pieces while adding my own visuals in my mind. This makes me feel a personal connection to sound and music pieces, since they allow me to channel my own creativity by building off the creativity of the artist. Because sound is materially invisible, the artist must be really innovative in order to evoke certain emotional responses from their audience. If this is done correctly, it can be a very powerful experience, such as my encounter with Bullet Points. This type of experience can trigger memories, thoughts, and ideas from the audience, which not only adds to the art but crafts the art in such a way as to make it personal to the individual receiving it. I have a more difficult time personally connecting to solely visual pieces, such as sculptures and portraits, because they do not speak to me (literally!) in the same way that sound pieces do. I do not feel the same type of full body experience with visual pieces as I do with sound installations such as that of Le Troter. My encounter with Bullet Points has strengthened my interest in contemporary art by showing me that there are works within this genre that I can really connect with and engage with.
[1] Quote taken from description of the installation on the wall at the Palais de Tokyo
Jonathan Hogeback on Mel O’Callaghan’s Dangerous on-the-way
As an artistic medium, film is perhaps one of the most immersive and emotive—at least in my opinion, it’s fairly obvious that a multisensory medium that combines visuals and audio has the power to engulf a viewer in a separate world and introduce them to a more “human,” or more close to authentically real, physical experience (at least compared to other more singular media like painting, photography, sculpture, and digital arts). But film has drawbacks that accompany its unique features. Film form, the direction of mise-en-scène, individual figures, audio levels, cinematography, etc. provide a wide range of possibilities in the capture of one scene or object. A man eating an apple can be captured from any different angle: the shape of the apple emphasized, the man’s teeth focused upon, the crunch of the bite quieted, or the whole act shielded from view. One thing, one event in a film, is heavily influenced by the direction of the camera, creating a different mood, tone, and message depending on that direction. The portrayal of film work also, the type and size of the screen or projection that a film is shown on, largely influences an audience’s immersion and a film’s content and message. This is why it’s difficult to argue over the power film has to draw someone into its pure, sensory power—a large amount of the filmic contemporary art I have personally seen while visiting Paris has focused on concept over form and portrayal, emphasizing what seems to be a “cool” newness, an attempt at utter originality. I’ve seen small screens playing quick clips of children’s films, CCTV cameras and screens that play with the viewer’s conception of themselves as they look introspectively, and screens that bounce images from one to another or create disjointed scenes and perspectives of a single location. All very neat concepts, but I felt they lacked the attention to that immersive potential of film as a medium.
Walking through the Palais de Tokyo and into Mel O’Callaghan’s exhibit Dangerous on-the-way, I was disappointed to see that an accompanied performance, among the space inhabited by sculptures including a charred log and water basin, was not on the schedule for the day. The room—big, white, and nearly empty—seemed to beg for movement. Those still-life sculptures, according to the piece’s statement, were meant to highlight human ritual and personal transformations that repetitive actions bring to an individual. Without the performance, what I assume was an actual act or representation of ritual, this concept fell flat. I felt myself wondering what the point could have been of allowing the piece to be viewed without a continued performance—what’s the workaround for this physical limitation? And that’s when I heard the screaming.
Loud, sometimes guttural and sometimes head-voiced bellows echoed into and through the “sculpture room” of O’Callaghan’s exhibit, from a room to the side that seemed pitch black. Was this the performance? I thought. Do I get to see it after all? I went over to the statement introducing the room, barely reading it for the intrigue of seeing the actual space itself. As I walked in, the darkness was wholly destabilizing. For at least ten seconds I couldn’t see a thing and assumed that I could fall into a pit, or down a flight of stairs, any second. As my eyes gradually grew accustomed to the lighting, I started to imagine a large theatre of seats and a stage, thinking perhaps the screams were coming from actors. By the time I regained my normal eyesight I was shocked to see a nearly empty room, very similar in size to the room before it. Opposite the door, rather than a stage, was perhaps the largest projection outside of an IMAX theater I have ever seen. On the wall was the scene of a cave, men yanking and pulling at ropes while producing those yells, dropping deeper and deeper with eyes of wonder and fear, but also an intense pleasure. I sat down, enraptured by the immersive power of the room itself and of the projection—it was as if watching silent giants passionately doing a job I could never understand.
Not understanding, it seemed, was beneficial in viewing O’Callaghan’s film. For what felt like an eternity I sat and watched, confused at what exactly these men were pulling at, for what reason they could be in this cave. Because of this, I was able to focus on the formal elements of the film more closely—the attention to the face, to sweeping motions of the camera along long, vertical stretches of rock which made not only the film seem large but the room I sat in seem like a submarine diving into these depths. A sequence of wriggling bugs, unidentifiable from a shot far away that were very clear once seen in close-up, seemed to mimic the camera’s same treatment of the cave men: collective, natural action accompanying individual experience. Whatever these cave men were doing, the danger of their circumstances was not stopping them. The mixture of terror and awe in the eyes conveyed that they at least knew of the danger, but appreciated it. A few sequences of the above-ground, what looked to be dense and constricting rainforest, seemed even more troublesome compared to the work of the men underground. No matter the perspective, however, no matter the focus—the close-up, long-shot, or panoramic view—the film seemed to keep its tone and the energy it imbued into the dark, open space in which it was projected. The size of the work and its voluminous portrayal, the fact that one must immerse oneself in the room with a physically jarring experience not dissimilar to those of the cave men, contributed to its absolute power of immersion.
Dangerous on-the-way brushed away the pull toward originality (gimmick) that I feel a lot of contemporary film artwork attempts. The film, and especially O’Callaghan’s path toward it, including even the sculpture room that, without its performance, seemed almost an antithesis to ritual, provided a clearly intentional immersion into what felt like another world and space completely outside the Palais de Tokyo. As I began to feel guilt for my intense focus on just one work in my short time at the museum, I stood up from the single line of benches that sat opposite the projected wall to read the film’s statement once again (and this time actually pay attention). I read that these “cave men,” as I’ve been calling them, the men of the Orang Sungai within Malaysia, were embarking within the film on a ritualistic, bi-annual spelunking into the white cave of Gomantong, searching for rare bird nests and eggs. This mass act is at once ritual and economic, providing a large amount of income for the people and an emotionally transformative experience when the men emerge. It acts, often, as a coming-of-age voyage. Without even this description, the gravity of these facts are conveyed in the film’s portrayal and its content. This film, as a work of art, excels at moving beyond its context and utilizing the medium as an emotive and immersive experience, bringing the viewer well beyond the screen and into the world the camera saw.
Rachael Alafant on Isabelle Cornaro’s Celebration 2013
The work of art I was most drawn to in the course of our field trips was a piece that I was actually assigned to look into at the Palais de Tokyo. Isabelle Cornaro’s Celebration, a silent three-piece video installation, though initially seemingly ‘out there’ and perplexing, inevitably drew me in.
At first, I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking at, and no idea what the piece was making me feel, but I knew I wanted to keep watching it. The first feeling that distinctly invoked me was familiarity; it felt like I had previously lived the experience of observing the art, even though I knew I hadn’t before. In hindsight, I attribute this feeling to my experiences as a child watching the Disney movies that Cornaro features, which include clips from Alice in Wonderland, Fantasia, and Snow White. I remember being a young child and feeling a little uneasy but also intrigued by these cartoons, especially Alice in Wonderland, and watching the installation made me feel a very similar way. Upon reading the description of the art, it became clear to me that Cornaro’s intent was, in part, to make her audience feel the way I did; the feelings of familiarity and uneasiness as a reaction to the way the clips of Disney cartoons are presented should make us realize the power and importance of representation. I agree with the sentiment that we take for granted the way in which we perceive objects, and therefore the notions we hold about the world around us. Celebration explores this idea by making its audience perceive familiar objects in a way that they likely never have before.
Cornaro’s piece also explores the relationships that objects hold with the ambiguous notion of value in art history. I mean, if clips of Disney cartoons I used to watch as a child juxtaposed with a screen of amorphous shapes and colors in a silent installation can make me feel like I might dissociate from reality if I watched it for long enough, those objects are obviously not what I once thought they were. This is, of course, on the assumption that my parents wouldn’t have let me watch those cartoons if that were not the case – Alice in Wonderland is trippy and creepy, but not ‘drug hallucination’-trippy or ‘rated for mature audiences’-creepy.
One of the greater driving forces of my engagement with the work, though, was definitely confusion. Unlike a lot of the other contemporary art pieces we’ve seen, Cornaro’s piece didn’t really require people to interact or participate directly. Her work was in a small, plain room with one entrance and one exit, in between many larger works in the Palais de Tokyo. It almost felt like entering a party that I wasn’t sure I was invited to, in that I wasn’t sure if the work (the party) was supposed to be accessible to the public, or if it was more of a personal project (party) for Cornaro that not everybody was supposed to be granted full access to. Looking back on it, I think everyone is supposed to react in whatever way would be appropriate for them. Especially after learning that a huge component of the work explores perception and representation, it only makes sense that people will make what they will out of what they observe through the lens of their personal experiences.
This work is important to me for reasons beyond it being aesthetically pleasing. It really got me to think about perspective, and the way that objects and experiences change over time. There are experiences I found fascinating in childhood that I find unsettling now, in an art exhibition. Things change in meaning and in value over time as our observations of the world color our experiences. Even our perception of the passage of time alters, with enjoyable times passing quickly and boring times passing slowly and vivid times being remembered more clearly and dull times being forgotten more easily. This extends beyond simple situations, to the way that different people behave around certain places under a given set of circumstances.
Her work reminds me to be as open-minded as possible, because my mind will never be able to accommodate the lives and thoughts of everyone around me. The way to live, understand, and convey the thoughts of others really starts at that: it begins where we attempt to see what an object, idea, or entity represents to someone else who perceives it differently than you do, who sees a different value in the thing as you do, and who feels things you might never be able to comprehend. It’s important—if not necessary—to acknowledge these things as one grows up, forms relationships with the people around them, and becomes a citizen who seeks to better the world. At least that’s what I think.
These are all my thoughts about Cornaro’s work, which I think may extend beyond the relevance of the work that she was trying to get across. Anyway, it made me think a lot about myself, and the way I perceive objects and the world around me. As someone who’s never taken an art or humanities class until college, these past three weeks have definitely made me a more informed human when it comes to art, and especially contemporary art. I’ve learned a lot about the function of works of art like Cornaro’s that at first seem function-less, and look forward to similar experiences moving forward.
Three reviews of Abraham Poincheval’s Oeuf
The Remarkable Oeuf (Talha Yousaf)
Oeuf. Egg. The simple title greets visitors to Abraham Poincheval’s latest exhibit at the Palais de Tokyo. As I walk through the opening to the transparent cubical enclosure, my eyes are drawn to a man draped in a heavy, multi-colored cloak, curly, grayed hair, and a light stubble, sitting on a chair in one corner. They wander to the small table beside the man, atop which a bottle of milk, a mug, a bowl, and a diary all rest. By the covered feet of the man lie three books, titles indistinguishable and covers orange, and two water bottles. In the opposite corner, more milk, jars, and bowls are found, indicating the sparse diet of the box’s inhabitant. Above it hangs a light, it’s bulb enclosed by a silver mesh. The floor of the cube appears to be made of wood, black in color, with four squares etched into them, one of which slightly displaced to indicate a trapdoor. The cube rests on a black platform in the middle of the exhibition space, surrounded by spectators gawking inside the transparent box as they would at an animal in a zoo, phone cameras ready as they capture the man and his unique performance on screen.
As I gaze at the man inside the box, a thin lamp shining light on his hair, a small painting behind him on the white wall captures my attention. Je veux, je vuex couver des oeufs de poule jusqu’a eclosion (‘I want, I want to cover the hen’s eggs until they hatch’), it reads in red against a white background. Above it, a drawing of a hen, a large part of it covered in green, and a single egg beside it. It reminds the viewer of the described objective of this exercise and performance – to raise questions about metamorphosis and gender and to display the potential porosity and transformative capability of such precise expressions. Suddenly, Poincheval’s piercing, gray eyes look into mine, and I feel very self-conscious of my presence outside the box, as if I am an intruder in his home. It makes me question if hatching the eggs was the only exercise Poincheval had in mind when designing Oeuf.
After the solitary confines of his previous exhibits, the transparent box represents a change of pace, allowing Poincheval to observe the world around him as he attempts to hatch the eggs. He appears very calm and collected, with a slight hint of a smile resting on his face. His eyes appear hungry as he attempts to take in the spectators as much as the spectators attempt to take in his exhibit. When his eyes cross mine, I am suddenly transported to the interior of the box – I see myself occupying Poincheval’s chair, wrapped in his cloak, and panicking at the sight of this intelligent, purpose-filled man gazing into my soul. His gaze lingers on, I muster a weak smile; someone else catches his attention, allowing me to return to my comfortable state outside the box.
My short little journey to the interior of the box as I made eye contact with Poincheval shows me that I lack the patience and composure that allows this French artist to repeat this exercise from dawn to dusk for a month, convincing me of the extent of his transformation through his rather unique journey. By the end of the performance, it appears that at least Poincheval’s own metamorphosis is guaranteed, as with his previous exhibits, regardless of the outcome of the eggs.
I think about the transparent glass separating the performer from the spectator and how it changes the lens through which the spectator looks at the performer. Observing all the people around me gawking at Poincheval suggests how separation and anonymity can create a sense of immediate objectification. None of these spectators expect to be recognized by Poincheval, none of them physically accessible to Poincheval, allowing them to strip him down to only a part of the exhibit. No one attempts to greet him or to make conversation with him; everyone is only there to see the man who willingly stepped into a box for a month in an attempt to hatch eggs. This idea is further reinforced when Poincheval suddenly says Bonjour to an onlooker, much to her surprise. I sense her realization of the same idea floating in my head; her cheeks flush and she scurries away from the box without returning the greeting, feeling the same discomfort I experienced at making eye contact with the French artist.
The separating glass then also allows Poincheval to examine his observers, or in his eyes, the performers. This exercise gives him a unique vantage point, as he can overtly yet covertly study human behavior towards perceived objects or things. Like most other pieces of contemporary art, this exhibit seems driven by the participation of the observers, taking us all into its fold, claiming each and every one of us as its own. Poincheval might not have his phone or camera on him, but his eyes seem to record us all. I look again at those knowing eyes, and see clear intent. This was his design.
I have yet to be as intrigued by any piece of contemporary art as Poincheval’s Oeuf. On my own journey as a novice to the world of art, I have struggled with most contemporary pieces due to the lack of immediate mental accessibility, despite physical accessibility, I have encountered. Oeuf, on the other hand, is both easily accessible but also immensely thought-provoking. I started with questions of metamorphosis and gender in relation to his specific experiment concerning eggs, and I ended with additional questions about design, purpose, and objectification. Until the eggs have hatched, Poincheval cannot claim to have demonstrated the true extent of the porosity of gender. He has, however, already demonstrated the beginning of a second metamorphosis, his own, and challenged ideas about human social interaction by placing a piece of glass between himself and the rest of the world. As I walked into his exhibit, I entered with an idea of Poincheval as a pretentious artist who thrived on the attention his unique exhibits attracted. Maybe he does thrive on that attention, but the conviction of the man to understand himself in relation to the rest of the world, to challenge social ideas, and to undergo a physical and mental experience on this journey of transformation cannot be doubted after witnessing Oeuf. I stand in awe of this piece of art, for potentially starting a third metamorphosis: my own.
Sima Shah
Throughout our class and the exhibitions we have seen, we have been consistently been asking ourselves a question: What makes a work of art contemporary? With only a vague categorical definition, we are pushed to define the contemporary for ourselves. In my experience, art that is contemporary makes a statement about today—about the way we live our lives and the way we experience different forms of media. My favorite pieces of contemporary art have made such statements through the subversion of expectations and behaviors we assume in our everyday life. No piece subverted my expectations more than Œuf, by Abraham Poincheval. This piece made me anxious, it made me laugh, and ultimately it challenged my understanding of art and performance.
Œuf is a special exhibition by Abraham Poincheval, currently taking place in the Palais de Tokyo. Simply put, Poincheval is attempting to hatch a few eggs with his own body heat, within the museum. In doing so, he unveils an abundance of questions. Indeed, the perplexing nature of the performance piece is apparent on the faces of his audience. Poincheval’s piece is situated within a large white room, adjacent to the large Pierre, or rock, he lived in prior to this performance. On the back corner, near the entrance, there sits a framed drawing of a hen, with the words: “Je veux, je veux couver des œufs de poule jusqu’à eclosion”, translated as “I want, I want to cover the chicken eggs until they hatch.” The phrase was so delightfully literal and relevant to the piece, and it welcomed me right into the installation.
At the center of the room, there sits a large glass case, containing Poincheval himself. This case is, in a sense, the frame for Poincheval’s art, while also denoting his living space. There is ample room to walk around the entire case and observe Poincheval and his space. During my visit, Poincheval sat upon his eggs in the far back corner of his box. He was wearing a classic Korean blanket covered in large abstract shapes; this blanket was provided by the artist Seulgi Lee for the exhibition. Poincheval’s chair looked rather uncomfortable, with little to call a backrest other than a narrow beam of wood. To his left stood a reading lamp, and at his feet there stood a table of provisions—an Aquapax, a half-eaten apple, and a book. In fact, water, food, and books were the only provisions Poincheval seemed to need. More books sat by his chair, with only one identifiable title: Le problème à trois corps (The Three Body Problem).
As I walked around this glass case to observe these provisions, there was a moment during which I looked up, and Poincheval was watching me. I panicked and left immediately. The moment seemed akin to an old scary movie trope, as if I were in a haunted house and the eyes of a portrait began to follow me. Incredibly self-conscious, I suddenly became aware of my movements, what I was looking at, and how I behaved while I was being watched.
After leaving, however, I realized I was being unfair. Poincheval was watching me just as I had watched him–just two people watching each other–and my overthinking had interrupted my experience of the performance. About half an hour later, I returned with some classmates. Much more comfortable than being alone, I felt safe to wander around. A few friends decided to turn on the Live Feed, to see if they could see me through the camera. I waved and laughed; it was uncanny to see myself on the camera. I sat back down on the far-corner bench, watched Poincheval, and thought.
I am drawn to this piece precisely because I was struck by the way I had reacted; there was an abundance of questions running through my mind during and after this exhibit. Why do I, and most people, I’d wager, feel so self-conscious while being watched? And why did I feel so terrified interacting with Poincheval alone, but not with my classmates by my side? Œuf works to encapsulate and confront two very deep human fears: the fear of being watched, and the fear of being alone. This sounds a bit contradictory—how can one be alone if there are people watching them? Œuf responds to this contradiction by confusing our categories of spectator and object, while physically isolating the two from each other with a glass wall. Considering my moment of fear was a glimpse into what Poincheval is experiencing during the entire exhibit, I was inspired by his tranquility.
Indeed, Poincheval is in the unique position of being watched by many, while remaining utterly alone in his case. He is, of course, quite familiar with the sensation of being alone. His previous performances have required him to sit alone for days—most recently he lived in a large rock for his piece, Pierre. According to the Palais de Tokyo, Poincheval’s motive for the piece was to “escape from human time and experience mineral speed.” This invocation of a different experience of time is repeated in the description for Œuf as well—the Palais de Tokyo describes Poincheval as “experiencing a gestation time.” In fact, I believe there is a correlation between Poincheval’s efforts to isolate himself from the audience during his performances, and his attempts to experience a different sense of time. It seems time works in relative ways when one is alone. Since the experience of time when alone is unhindered by any outside factor, it can be a direct reflection of one’s mental state. Thus, I am inclined to view Poincheval’s experience of time as an exercise in introspection and self-discovery.
Despite my admiration for such an introspective performance, there seem to be many people who seem to view Poincheval’s work a mere stunt or magic trick. Indeed, my categorization of Œuf as a performance brings about some further questions regarding the nature of Poincheval’s work. What I witnessed at the Palais de Tokyo was a slow and careful experience of nurturing and life, encouraging me to think and question. Perhaps that is what differentiated Poincheval’s performance from a so-called “stunt”—its capacity to become an intellectual exercise in which such concepts as observation, time, and performance are subverted.
“45-Year Old Man Sits on Eggs Till They Hatch!” (Siddharth Seth)
Three weeks ago, I was confronted with this headline while scrolling through my Facebook News Feed. Convinced that it was mere clickbait (an alternative fact, perhaps?), I ignored it and continued with my day. And yet there I was, two weeks later, face-to-face with the very same man – Abraham Poincheval – and his installation L’Oeuf. My initial reaction when I saw him in the Palais de Tokyo was similar to my first impression. I was slightly amused, but dismissed it as absurd. That was until I sat down and just watched for a while. I watched not only him, but also the audience who came to view his installation, and found myself inspired. His installation made me realize how easy it is to objectify someone, question perceptions of the passage of time, and understand the importance of space for both the artistic and human experience.
L’Oeuf was located in a room which was enclosed on all four sides, with a gap in one of the walls to enter the installation. All the walls were bare, except for one, which had a picture of a chicken sitting on an egg accompanied by the caption, “Je veux, je veux couver des oeufs de poule jusqu’à eclosion.” (I want to hatch chicken eggs.) As soon as you walk in, you see Poincheval sitting inside a glass box. He is covered by a traditional Korean cloak (made by the artist Seulgi Lee) and surrounded by provisions. There is enough space to walk around the box and view it from multiple angles. Occasionally, Poincheval talks to members of the audience who are courageous enough to try and have a conversation with him. Unfortunately, sound doesn’t travel well through the box and so, people usually communicate through gestures or by writing on pieces of paper. A security camera streams a live video of the space to YouTube, where viewers can watch Poincheval as well as the audience from the comfort of their homes at any point during the day or night.
Poincheval says that through his installation, he wants to imitate Toine, the anti-hero of a famous French short story in which he is immobilised by a heart attack and forced by his wife to hatch eggs for the rest of his life. Through a twenty-one to twenty-six day gestation period, he seeks to experience animal time, and raise questions of metamorphosis and gender. Typically, his works involve a solo expedition, cut off from the rest of the world. This is his first work in which he interacts with the public, albeit through plexi-glass, which doesn’t facilitate conversation.
As I mentioned earlier, I first thought the exhibition was just absurdity for the sake of absurdity. It felt inaccessible, and more like a personal challenge, rather than a work of art. However, upon closer inspection (and introspection), L’Oeuf slowly began to reveal its complexity. It was surprising to see how easily a simple glass box served to de-humanize Poincheval. After observing the exhibition for a while, it began to feel like people were visiting a zoo to see a rare animal or a gallery to see a fascinating sculpture. Most of the members of the audience did not try to interact with Poincheval – they simply walked around and stared. Conversely, it also seemed like Poincheval was deeply interested in the reactions of the audience as well. He looked pensive, as if he was thinking intently about how spectators were responding to his presence.
Perhaps there was a reason that the video-feed camera was not focused solely on Poincheval. The people were intentionally included in the work. They were considered to be a part of the art as a commentary on social interaction. Even though they could see Poincheval, talk to him or even simply wave at him, the glass suddenly changed the dynamic of the relationship between Poincheval and the audience. A transparent sheet between the two made people react as if he was something (note, not someone) to be stared at, that he had lost his humanity, and was now an object for appreciation.
Poincheval’s experiment did not have a set time limit. The duration of the exhibition was estimated to be about twenty one to twenty six days, but ultimately, it rested on when the eggs decided to hatch. It begs the question of how time passes differently when one is enclosed in such a space for such a long period of time, with no control over when that period will end. For Poincheval, whether it is day or night ceases to be relevant. All that matters is the time that it takes for the eggs to hatch. The thought of sitting by oneself doing nothing for three to four weeks makes most people uneasy. But why? Why are we unable to sit by ourselves and simply let time pass? What is it about sitting still for so long that makes us so uncomfortable? Is it the thought of a complete lack of productivity? But why must we be actively doing something for it to be considered productive? What drives the need to even be productive at all?
The way Poincheval used space in his exhibition stood out to me. Although the box was made of glass, the space between him and the audience elicited a feeling of separation between the two. It created a paradox – although he was surrounded by so many people, he was still all alone. The exhibition room was big, the ceilings of the room were high, and the box itself was large, taking up a lot of space visually. However, when I thought about spending three weeks there, it started to feel smaller and smaller. It made me wonder how much space we really need, not only physically, but also for our mental well-being. It helped me to understand how much emotional and mental preparation is required to undertake such a “journey.”
I used to think of performance art as stunts, often showcasing physical or mental endurance. However, after observing L’Oeuf, I realised that although Poincheval’s journey is important, the message he conveys through his journey is equally important. It is a metamorphosis for Poincheval, who undergoes a metaphysical transformation over the course of the exhibition, for the eggs who are given the gift of life, and for the spectator, whose perspective is altered after experiencing Poincheval’s exhibition.
Emma Oberman on Peter Campus’s Three Transitions
Peter Campus, an American born artist, is well known for his video art, which he started experimenting with in the 1970s. At that time, he tended to feature himself in his own art and explore the ways in which he could depict and manipulate his own image. He would often use multiple cameras to superimpose layers of video in his works.
To the present day, Campus continues to work with the medium of video. In particular, he has a fascination with obtaining multiple perspectives of an individual in his works. However, he has shifted his attention from self-portraits to a more outward focus. Now he tends to feature more scenery or landscapes in his video art as well as his photography, and even to include viewers themselves in his art. This was evident in his contemporary works at the Jeu de Paume, which included interactive video installations in which viewers can observe their own reflections at the present moment, layered with another slightly delayed video of what they were doing a few seconds ago.
This art was certainly fun to experience, and I think everyone who encountered it took pleasure in seeing their own reflections on the screen, and in changing the delayed image through their movements. However, it wasn’t something I wanted to stand in front of for too long. It’s a novelty to see oneself as the subject of art, and to be in control of the artwork, but I think people get tired of looking at themselves after a while, and naturally want to turn their focus outward (likely the same experience Campus had when he switched from self-portraiture to the outside world in his art). I ended up feeling more engaged with a Peter Campus video from the 1970s that was also on display at the Jeu de Paume.
The first phase of this video, titled “Three Transitions,” depicts a semi-transparent Campus standing with his back towards the camera, against a yellow background. The material of his jacket begins to rip like paper, with corresponding sound effects, and his fingers slowly emerge from the tear. He bends his head down and peers out through his own jacket, then stands up again. After some more fidgeting and tearing, he climbs completely out of his own jacket, completing the “transformation.” He tapes up the paper, then stands in front of it again, facing away from the camera exactly the way he was at the beginning of the video.
In the second scene, Campus is facing the camera. He begins wiping away at his own face, erasing it. Underneath the skin, he rubs off is another video image of himself. Campus removes his cheeks, forehead, neck, and the bridge of his nose. He then proceeds to match what is left of the top layer of his face with his face in the bottom layer of the video. Once his features are matched up, he stares straight forward, mimicking his pose at the beginning of the scene.
In the final scene, Campus is holding a photograph of himself, which is also a video. The viewer can only see his hand holding the image. He lights a match and sets fire to the photo, which slowly burns. In the burning photo, Campus is looking up and down nervously. The video is accompanied by the sounds of flames eating away at paper. The scene is cut short before the photo finishes burning.
While much of the contemporary art I viewed during this class didn’t really resonate with me on a personal level, before I got some more background details about the artist’s intentions in making the piece, I didn’t feel that I needed the extra information in order to form my own thoughts about the meaning of this video. I thought that this video presented an interesting message about the ways in which people try to transform or recreate themselves. In each phase of the video, Campus depicts himself attempting to deconstruct or even destroy some aspect of his image. However, in the first two “transformations,” he ends up in a position very similar to the one he started out in, despite the changes he makes to his appearance. He ends the first scene with his back to the camera, in the same pose he began with. The only apparent difference is the rip in the paper that he has just climbed through. Likewise, the second scene closes with a close-up of Campus’s face in the same expression as the beginning of the video, although he is unable to match his features up fully with his image underneath.
To me, each scene seemed to be a different deconstruction of Campus, where he is trying to destroy or literally efface parts of himself; however, the fact that he ends in the same position in which he began indicates that self-transformation is not such an easy task. His transformative efforts are not only unproductive, but also scarring in a way. Even though at the end of the first two clips he returns to the same posture, there is something decidedly worse about him. In the first, there is a giant tear running through his image, while in the second, his features look distorted because they are layered over another photograph of his face. This is perhaps a reflection on the ways in which our attempts to transform ourselves can leave little impact on our lives, and even affect us negatively.
In Campus’s last “transformation,” it seems as though he will finally be able to destroy his own living image. However, the video ends before the photograph is completely burned. To me as a viewer, this was unsatisfying because I wanted to see it finish burning. I think this was intentional on Campus’s part, because it helps to show that the self can never be fully destroyed or deconstructed. Not only does Campus fail to destroy his image, but he also remains present as the agent burning the picture. The idea that no matter what people do to transform or deconstruct themselves, the self remains essentially the same underneath it all was something that really resonated with me, and it made me enjoy this art all the more.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ar99AfOJ2o8