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Durango.- Después de un par de semanas de planeación de la exposición con Mariana, a manera de ritual, decido caminar un par de metros de la glorieta de la Cibeles hasta llegar a la cortina del local en el que fue el primer Gaga. Está lloviendo y hay fila para entrar al Contramar. Como no tengo nada que hacer ahí, me retiro.
Uno no es ninguno talló Claire Fontaine en la puerta de madera del baño del Laboratorio Arte Alameda. Junto con los demás artistas participantes en la exposición colectiva Otra de vaqueros -curada por Perros Negros y Toasting Agency en 2007 en ese museo, participando de ese rito universal en los baños públicos. Esta frase también aparece en la obra de este mismo colectivo conformado por Fluvia Carnevale y James Thornhill, que formó parte de la exposición inaugural de la galería Gaga en la Ciudad de México el 4 de enero de 2008 en la calle Durango.
Adriana Lara, artista que junto con Fernando Mesta y Agustina Ferreyra conformaron el colectivo de curaduría y gestión Perros Negros, crea el logo de la galería… esta espiral hipnótica que como una especie de trompo se encuentra en el piso sin moverse. La puerta o el espiral parecen entradas o umbrales a un universo particular, en el que Gaga nos permite transitar por medio del programa que consolida reuniendo a un grupo de artistas de distintas generaciones y latitudes cuya práctica artística comparte narrativas que en ese momento no eran recurrentes en el contexto mexicano. Este aparentemente heterogéneo grupo de artistas reacomodan símbolos, deconstruyen categorías totalizantes y exploran un mundo saturado de códigos, para evidenciar contradicciones en nuestra realidad social pero no desde la denuncia sino desde el juego o la ironía. Con infinita sensibilidad apelan a esa sensación de desasociación del modus operandi del mundo contemporáneo.
Amsterdam.- (Yo vivía en Guadalajara) Coincidía que estaba en Ciudad de México y decidí visitar a mi amiga Luisa en su trabajo. Me muestra una serie de piezas de Sam Pulitzer realizadas en serigrafía y fondos realizados con pintura electrostática. Gaga en aquel momento ya tenía una larga historia, pero esta ya no me tocó a mí vivirla. Estas piezas de Pulitzer me parecen impecables a nivel formal y es hasta que realizamos esta curaduría que me entero que Marce es la responsable de supervisar dicha producción. Ahora que revisamos la muestra “War Pickles” y nos muestran la escultura de acrílico que presenta un dibujo de Rick Owens en calidad de quimera, entiendo la forma en que Pulitzer trabaja con las imágenes, el internet y herramientas análogas como el dibujo y la escultura para crear cyborgs.
Jay Chung y Q Takeki Maeda actúan el video de la canción She’s Gone de Hall & Oates de los años setenta, rescatando una obra de video performance en una era pre-MTV. Como en el resto de obra, buscan apropiarse de las estructuras dominantes del arte para evidenciar lo que se excluye.
Pintar en México (y pintura a secas).- Mientras que allá afuera se discute la pertinencia de tal o cual medio para la creación artística, Kaplun, Aviña y Gurrola, pintan diligentemente en sus respectivas temporalidades, sin prestarle mucha atención al relajo argumentativo que se repite eternamente tanto en espacios de educación artística, como en los encuentros sociales en los que se discute el marco de lo que se considera el Zeitgeist de un momento dado. A pesar de pertenecer a generaciones distintas, la obra de estos artistas encuentra un punto común en acercarse a la pintura desde una sensibilidad que cabalga con anteojeras, sin dejarse distraer por el entorno, caminando hacia un rumbo propio. Gurrola toma a un Guston que se fue de México, pintando a la manera mexicana, antes de erigirse la “cortina de nopal” y lo regresa a nuestro país después de una ruptura de la misma, cuando este se encuentra pintando el limbo que existe entre la abstracción y la figuración: la caricatura. Si pensamos en la influencia de Posada sobre los muralistas mexicanos, este bucle cobra sentido, a pesar de la estigmatización de dicho medio. Gurrola samplea a ese Guston que abandonó el expresionismo abstracto y no se alinea al minimalismo, y de la misma forma que el artista canadiense, él no se alinea a la pintura neomexicanista. Por otro lado, Kaplun y Aviña estudian en la ENPEG “La Esmeralda” al final de una “época dorada” de neo conceptualismo tardío en México, en un momento en el cual la pintura se encuentra más bien marginalizada. A pesar de que después de la crisis inmobiliaria del 2008 de Estados Unidos, los mercados internacionales retoman este medio por su viabilidad comercial, en México el desinterés por la pintura en múltiples circuitos artísticos se extendió hasta finales de la década del 2010. Los artistas como Marco Aviña y Karla Kaplun que pasaron sus años formativos en esta época, obtuvieron herramientas para ser pintores que piensan más allá de los márgenes del bastidor, sin por esto descuidar el oficio que demanda la pintura de estudio. En este contexto, en el año 2012, la artista Adriana Lara realiza la muestra “La pintura (lasser) moderna” en la cual juega con las ideas de la moda como indumentaria e industria y la moda como las tendencias estilísticas dentro del mercado del arte. La pertinencia o protagonismo de dicho medio no está en tela de juicio dentro del programa de Gaga, pues este como muchos otros, es un medio más para la enunciación dentro de los cuerpos de obra de los diferentes artistas de la galería. En el caso de Peter Fischli la pintura del simio que termina en posesión de su tío en su infancia (con el anhelo de que este alcance en algún momento el éxito profesional), posee dos dimensiones, la del ejercicio plástico del artista como niño y la del readymade, reencontrado por el artista como adulto.
A su vez, Ricardo Nicolayevsky, Guillermo Santamarina y en un mismo sentido Juan José Gurrola, se salen de los cánones con energía que extraen y revuelven desde un lugar distinto al del artista que explica su obra desde las escuelas artísticas.
Vestir.- O no necesariamente vestir. Por ejemplo, recuerdo ver por vez primera los Nike Air Streak Spectrum Plus en colaboración con Supreme que el dúo ASMA utilizó como soporte para describir una estampa naturalista con el reconocible tono neo-romántico que distingue al dúo artístico. Los objetos cotidianos son recurrentes soportes en la obra de la dupla ecuatoriana-mexicana, pues las escenas que presentan nos recuerdan aquellas escenas de la pintura decimonónica en la que el artista melancólico, harto de las grandes ciudades, en plena revolución industrial, decide voltear la mirada a aquellas estructuras góticas consumidas por árboles, pastos y musgo. El deseado zapato colaborativo de Nike y Supreme es un producto cultural de nuestra era que es superado por una escena idílica en un estanque sobrevolado por una libélula. Bernadette Van-Huy por otro lado, aprende sobre moda consumiendo todas las revistas que puede y creando los espacios donde la gente pueda precisamente vestir: las fiestas. En el caso de BC, la moda no se vuelve un material de la obra artística, sino que la sesión de fotos es el objeto artístico, como se puede observar en la serie de fotos que el colectivo realiza utilizando las piezas de la colección Jumex como utilería para una serie de fotos que toma como referencia las pinturas de Mary Cassat para sus composiciones. La moda es una disciplina artística del día a día y precisamente por eso varios artistas de la galería realizan tanto ropa como joyería como una extensión de su oficio artístico.
La aparente vacuidad del mundo de la moda y del arte se vislumbra en las fotografías de moda de Bernadette Corporation, a través de composiciones de Mary Cassat y obras de la colección Jumex o las ideas del poeta Mallarmé. Éstas, a su vez, dialogan con la belleza en los objetos de Marc Camille Chaimowicz, remitiendo al diseño de interiorismo, considerado un arte menor al arte expuesto en galerías. La asociación de símbolos como dibujos se puede ver en la joyería de Ana Pellicer y las creaciones de joyería de Mended Veil -el alter ego de Danny McDonald, quien nos ofrece también estas escenas de la vida a través de muñecos y props del imaginario contemporáneo, al igual que Mathieu Malouf pintando imagenes de objetos o situaciones de la vida cotidiana.
Sacar la galería de la galería.- Emily Sundblad, como buena galerista/artista, decide salir de la galería con su exposición (pues imagino que puede ser más cansado estar dentro de una galería dirigiéndola que exponiendo en ella). De una manera que me recuerda a Eydie Gorme con Los Panchos, Emily canta un cover en español de la canción “Enjoy the Silence” de Depeche Mode en el piano, debido a que la artista menciona que le gustaría hacer objetos artísticos que el público no especializado pueda apreciar. Presenta pinturas en el inmueble de a lado, el restaurante Contramar y ameniza las calles del centro histórico de la ciudad de México en la calle de 5 de Mayo cantando sobre pistas de piano. Fernando Palma se filma caminando a las orillas de la ciudad de México con una cabeza de coyote de cartón. Podría decirse que las piezas de Palma intentan moverse para escapar de la galería, pero mueren en el intento. En el caso de Gurrola, el asunto es más de entrar y salir entre el teatro y la galería. En el de Nina Könnemann, de meter y sacar (de un bote de basura, una caseta de cargado de celulares) y de estar afuera de la galería y el estudio, filmando en las calles. También se debe salir para fumar, debido a que ya no se permite dentro de muchos edificios hoy en día.
Filmada en la Ciudad de México en 2007, Imperio es un remake de la famosa obra Empire de Warhol realizado en colaboración entre Reena Spaulings, Claire Fontaine y Bernadette Corporation, en donde observamos la Torre Latinoamericana inerte que a su vez nos permite ver en ella reflejada nuestras idealizaciones de lo que significa ser moderno o ser partícipes en conversaciones en un mundo globalizado. Pero sobre todo, es un llamado a las asociaciones de mundos que coinciden no en las reglas o diálogos imperantes sino en los de narrativas y experiencias estéticas compartidas fuera de éstas.
Sentarse en el piso.- Importante. En el pasto de alguna terraza, o en el pretil de la ventana. Con artistas de todo tipo, principalmente para platicar, si es en la calle, de nuevo, porque no se puede fumar adentro.
Fernando nos comenta lo que significa representar al artista suizo Peter Fischli en su galería. Fischli es un artista que surcó el mundo del arte dentro del colectivo que creó con su amigo David Weiss y que a partir de la muerte de éste, regresa a trabajar en solitario a sus 60 años. En este sentido es muy simbólico que Gaga tenga en su inventario el dibujo de un chango que pinta de niño y que regala a su tío, quien lo guarda como presagio a su futura carrera como artista.
También formada en las escuelas artísticas de Suiza, Vivian Suter replantea su práctica a partir de las condiciones atmosféricas y temporales del lugar donde decide vivir a partir de 1982: Panajachel, Guatemala. Su entorno se vuelve no objeto de inspiración y representación sino de coautoría.
Gesamtkunstwerk (no sé alemán).- Vivir en la rigidez de las categorías puede hacer que uno se aburra mucho. Es interesante cuando la obra artística existe en las fiestas, dentro de una memoria USB, en una servilleta en la sobremesa, en una habitación de gran tamaño o en los bolsillos. Cosima von Bonin aboga por exposiciones colaborativas en las que sus peluches escultóricos parecen invitar al espectador a sentarse con ellas a platicar. Lo que podría ser una pieza bidimensional montada en pared, se vuelve objeto escultórico que corta el espacio. En la obra de Marc Camille Chaimowicz también podemos detectar unon ejercicio creativo que va desde realizar dibujos, diseñar muebles, diseñar lámparas y crear objetos en general, hasta la creación de espacios. Chaimowicz reivindica a través de su trabajo el ejercicio sensible cotidiano de crear un espacio. Ana Pellicer por otro lado presenta en el espacio como objeto escultórico los mismos pendientes que podrían colgar de las orejas de la o el espectador. La escultura no reemplaza al objeto de joyería, ni viceversa, sino que Pellicer nos permite portar y habitar con los objetos, ambas dimensiones al mismo tiempo. Los cuerpos de obra que nos permiten experiencias estéticas tangenciales pero al mismo tiempo integrales, me parecen en la contemporaneidad las que mayor cercanía poseen con la idea de “obra de arte total”.
La performatividad como acto de creación integral es algo inherente en muchos de estos artistas. Emily Sundblad canta increíble, es artista pero también tiene un proyecto de galería en colectivo. Alex Hubbard cuestiona el acto mismo de pintar, de realizar composiciones, pero también de cómo se usan sus obras.
Las palabras.- La primera frase que identifico en el video de Karl Holmqvist que Fernando nos muestra en una laptop a Mariana y a mí en una tarde calurosa en Guadalajara es la letra de la canción “Cocaine In My Brain” del artista jamaiquino Dillinger. Me comentan que era una experiencia alucinante la forma en la que las palabras del artista sueco resonaba en las paredes del Laboratorio Arte Alameda en 2007, a pesar de esto, el solazo de la calle, las labores del taller mecánico que se encuentra frente a la galería y demás sonidos propios del mediodía, se vuelven una extensión de los poemas de Holmqvist, que se construyen como un collage que integra el sonido de las palabras escritas por el artista, fragmentos escritos por otros autores y la visualización de las palabras recitadas. Las palabras son comunes en las galerías, pero en Gaga estas no actúan solamente como complementos de los objetos artísticos, sino que son elemento protagónico de las exposiciones. El artista mexicano Guillermo Santamarina, por ejemplo, además de producir arte desde los objetos, plantea sus títulos desde una sensibilidad poética que puede surgir en el vivir cotidiano de la mesa de un restaurante. En la muestra colectiva del año 2014 “Todos los originales serán destruidos” esto se hace evidente en el hecho de que la muestra conjunta obras realizadas por escritores, entre ellos Luis Felipe Fabre. En la Ciudad de México, entre conversaciones, me comenta el escritor que en el campo del arte contemporáneo es donde irónicamente se topa con más censores de su pluma, pero que a pesar de esto, Gaga es el espacio en donde su obra literaria ha dialogado con el arte contemporáneo de manera más libre. Por esta razón nos pareció pertinente integrar un texto del escritor capitalino como una obra más dentro de la exposición.
Ir a Guadalajara.- Después de un año fuera de la capital jalisciense, me entero de que un grupo de artistas a quienes estimo, asisten con recurrencia a la nueva sede de la galería Gaga en la ciudad. Este grupo reúne artistas plásticos, escritores, músicos, productores audiovisuales y diseñadores de moda. A partir de la apertura de dicho espacio en la ciudad de Guadalajara, este grupo, a los ojos de la ciudad “desordenado”, pareció obtener un nuevo norte. Al realizar esta curaduría, nos encontramos con cuerpos de obra en los que se integran la pintura, la literatura, el ready made, la fotografía, la indumentaria, el teatro, el performance, el video y cualquier otro lenguaje que permite reacomodar elementos preexistentes para expresar la subjetividad humana. La elección de una carrera artística ofrece muchos más momentos de desconcierto, añoranza y desorientación que de certeza, conformidad y dirección concreta. Esta turbulencia emocional, propia de las actividades de “lo sensible”, viene por fortuna de la mano con amistades particulares, que no solo hacen llevadera la vida de quién decide tomar este camino, sino que también alimentan esa parte de nosotros que no se puede señalar en el cuerpo. Estas amistades abarcan desde personas que conocemos personalmente, hasta aquellos sujetos cuyo trabajo nos emociona y nos forma desde las exposiciones que visitamos cargando una mochila, o buscando artículos y escritos toda la noche en internet.
He sido afortunada de tener una amistad particular con Fernando: las conversaciones en las que compartimos nuestros intereses, lo que nos gustaba pero también lo que nos chocaba del mundo del arte… me asombraba ver como delineaba el programa de su galería: me veía confrontada por los artistas que exhibía, que me atraían pero también me forzaban a salir de ideas preconcebidas. Me fui de Guadalajara a la Ciudad de México en donde encontré a Fernando que venía de Chihuahua. Ahora revisamos diecisiete años de su galería para hacer una lectura de su historia en Guadalajara, el cual se convierte en una geografía que curiosamente permite ver con mayor libertad este conjunto de artistas que congregamos en la exposición. Estos lares han sido siempre una tierra fértil para la creación artística aún cuando es una ciudad conservadora pero con un sentimiento de identidad y arraigo muy fuerte. Estas tensiones son talvez las que nos permiten trazar propios caminos, experimentar y explotar por ese constreñimiento… y ésto siento que es algo que los artistas particulares que son presentados en Gaga hacen constantemente: buscarse fuera o a pesar de las estructuras, cantar o declamar ese sentido de no pertenencia para encontrarnos nuevamente en una colectividad particular. Gracias a Luis, Luis Felipe y a Fernando por compartir su visión en esta revisión.
Mariana Munguía and Luis Fernando Muñoz
Installation
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Ethan Assouline
Lire dans la fin du monde (Reading into the end of the world), 2024
Lire dans la fin du monde (Reading into the end of the world), 2024
People, alone or in a small group, reading while the world collapses. Still wondering if words or language can save the planet. Cozily absorbed in their activity, claiming time off, trying to make sense of the world or just letting go.
Sex With The City, 2024
A thick coffee table book becomes the place for a collage pertaining to an obsessive relationship to the city, and to the idea of being screwed by its organization of time, money, social relationships. The message here though is playful détournement or repurposing to suggest the possible advent of alternative relationships.
Nina Könnemann
What’s New, 2015
A video, projected on a free-standing screen, films men disappear behind advertisement billboards. If it weren’t for quick ‘reality’ checks – abrupt cuts where we are brought to the actual events or places advertised for – one wouldn’t even bother considering their poor (commercial, cultural, political) content. What is happening around and behind the billboards, the way the bodies ignore and bypass them, appropriating a sort of gap in « public space » to make it into an open air urinal – and the way the dispositive is doubled here, in its exhibition – is way more triggering.
Stroom, 2012
Video for designated smoking room
Stroom was presented as part of the artist’s 2012 solo show at Gaga which dealt among other issues with the pitiful residues of public – in between – spaces that smokers have been left to roam in since cigarettes got banned from sidewalks in corporate centers of many parts of the world.
Stroom has the duration it takes for a cigarette to consume. It was presented in a room designed as a special smoking area within the gallery space and functioned as an artificial window, an otherwise missing place upon which to rest one’s gaze.
Drone like shots of wind turbines and racing smoke twirls alternate. Something with the rhythm and the edit are threatening in an uncanny way. The computer animated « stream » feels as slippery and intense as some of the newest AI generated imagery. And the smoke rocket loops themselves call to mind all sorts of present day megalomanic starship endeavors.
Matthew Langan Peck
PV trunk 2024
Fence 3, 2024
Press Pause 1, 2024
Player 2, 2024
Trunks and boxes, at once loud and mute, full and hollow, occupy the grounds. Gently off in their straight forwardness, the visions and landscapes which adorn them – beach goers, injunctions to disappear, or more literally a sheer fence over an open sky – resemble what one gets when circulating the seemingly open-ended flux of social media, and the spaces/ worlds/fantasies/projections it at once feeds upon and regurgitates in a kaleidoscopic way. Transferred and transfixed with paint, and while depicting the opposite, the narratives start to embody and inscribe ideas of containment. Turning around the works to try and piece these dissonant layers together just makes them more uncanny: the trunks won’t open and the boxes’ edges seem to float apart as the wooden panels they’re composed of don’t meet. Paired with unresolved fantasies – or life equations – these infra slim spaces and openings, like faults, are where the sculptures primary tensions reside. In the sound piece, recorded in Spanish, a narrator emerges who speculates on other exit ramps.
Genoveva Filipovic
El Súper Elástico, 2024
6 drawings Untitled, 2024
First, there was a drawing (pen and acrylic red and blue paint on paper) of a race car melting, morphing into the landscape that it drives through. Then the desire to try and translate this fluid, two-dimensional vision into a volume and see what that operation of materialization and further morphing into a soft sculpture does.
Three solid variations have come forth and are finding their feet in the three dimensional space of the gallery.
Chung and Maeda
12 phorographs Untitled, 2014
In their 2015 show at Gaga in Mexico, Chung and Maeda presented a series of photographs shot in their 2009 exhibition Dead Corner [When Buffeted], at Isabella Bortolozzi in Berlin. For that show, they had left the gallery’s 19th-century space empty, save for cumbersome triangular cupboards placed in each corner of the oddly shaped rooms. These traditional gemütlich pieces of furniture appeared to fit so seamlessly in the darkly wood-paneled period interior that they were almost absorbed by the space, allowing the gallery to exhibit itself. Excerpt from « Rules, strategies and conventions; role-play, photographs and cupboards », Kirsty Bell, in Frieze, Nov 2010
The series photographs presented here are not installation views, however. And through the act of photographing them, the a-historical cupboards, initially denuded of any obvious purpose, come forth as more than props – the various angles, close-ups sometimes anthropomorphizing them, sometimes calling to mind Louise Lawler takes on the secret life of artifacts. Empty filler stuff.
Antek Walczak
Bright Ideas Lightbox (Advil), 2008
Hurricane Bree, 2013
Hurricane Duane, 2013
Excerpt from the exhibition press release for the show War Pickles, Paris, 2014:
Let us begin by testing the waters of the psychic imbalance between the market and the economy, terms implanted in the mind oppositionally, yet functioning according to the most subtle laws of sneaky dialectics. The market is an actual place, a site of dirty work, where we roll up our sleeves and do human business, like our daily rhythmic trips to the commode, but in public with social graces. We are constantly on guard about how to appear or admit our attendance at the market because it is the unforgiving materialistic demon of the everyday. It’s not only up in your face but contorting it lastingly – wrinkles, creases, frowns, the rigid smiles greeting customers in pharmacies and bakeries. Money is the pure symbol covering up all that toil. Ah but the economy is ethereal, encompassing system-wide whims too intricate for mortals to fathom. It’s enough to say that the economy either smiles or frowns upon the earth with its scales of cosmic balance.
As a faith it spreads its word and promises–enabled by a hunchbacked servant named market–with an ideology strong enough to conquer and govern, extending in every domain. Among others, there are aesthetic economies, sexual ones, economies of physical motion, and even those for madness. Thus, we might say that economy is the most perverse folly of metaphysics, an exterminating angel born from the ashes of a resentful dead god.
Works
Gaga is pleased to announce New Images, its third exhibition of works by Jay Chung and Q Takeki Maeda. New Images presents recent works made in line with the artists’ interest in conceptual formats that might be considered suitable to the current status of contemporary art with respect to its own history and place in the world at large.
Millenarian sects are religious, social, or political groups and movements formed in the expectation of a major transformation in society. In addition to early Christianity, doomsday cults, and Bolshevism, the art movements known as the historic avant-garde (e.g. Dada, Surrealism, and Constructivism) exhibit properties of millenarianism insofar as the artists associated with these movements worked in anticipation of a radical upheaval of bourgeois aesthetic norms and values. As is true for all millenarian sects, the predicted avant-garde revolutions never came to pass. Nonetheless, the artistic formats and principles developed by the avant-garde were taken up by later artists, being recycled in the works of the Neo-Avantgarde during the postwar era and again in today’s globalized contemporary art world.
There are many ways millenarian sects cope with the failure of their predictions. Display System: Suicide, Affirmation, Mediation (2018) divides the gallery’s exhibition space according to designations for three of these: suicide, affirmation, and mediation. The first, suicide, is usually associated with doomsday cults such as the Peoples Temple and Heaven’s Gate, and is the most violent of the three responses. But not all millenarian sects resort to such extreme ends. Others will instead proclaim their prophecy has in fact been fulfilled and simply affirm the existing state of affairs. In this second case, the failure of their prophecy paradoxically becomes the main evidence that the promise has arrived. Mediation, the third and most complex of the responses, involves a set of special texts, rituals, and institutions whose purpose is to manage the disparity between the prophecy and the reality of its non- appearance. Concrete predictions become metaphors, actions become rituals, and the sect becomes institutionalized, perpetually deferring expectations to some distant horizon.
Of the three sections comprising Display System, only one is used in the exhibition, with suicide and affirmation remaining empty. On the wall of the third section, mediation, the artists present a series of photographs of sharks, all Untitled (2018). In the sphere of contemporary art, the most well-known use of the image of the shark is The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, a purportedly “shocking” sculpture by the artist Damien Hirst, who rose to prominence in the early 1990s as part of a highly publicized group known as the Young British Artists. It could be said that Hirst’s sculpture, having been so widely disseminated in the media,
is so notorious that even today any work of contemporary art featuring a shark or sharks would inevitably be linked to Hirst’s, regardless of the fact of any actual or intended connection. In the photographs on display here, sharks are depicted, alive and swimming, in a tank at a public aquarium, for city-dwellers the most mundane of environments in which to view the animal.
Jay Chung and Q Takeki Maeda live in Berlin. Their work has been exhibited in solo shows at Statements, Tokyo; Essex Street, New York; Galerie Francesca Pia, Zurich; 356 Mission, Los Angeles; and Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin, as well as group exhibitions including Not Quite Verbatim, Hessel Museum of Art, New York; Travellers: Stepping into the Unknown, National Museum of Art, Osaka; and Stories of Almost Everyone, Hammer Museum, Los Angeles.
Footnotes
Installation
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Works
Even before the idea, the artist had the title for the piece. He was writing an essay about the work of Robert Longo, and in one part he wrote it was about the physical impossibility of death in the mind of someone living. It was poetic––all the clumsy Bs and Ps in it, and how it tried to explain something that wasn’t there, or was there. He liked the way it went bubbada-bubbada-bubbada. It really stuck in the mind.
He’d always looked at pictures and read stories about sharks. They had this really powerful horror. He thought if he could actually get a shark into a gallery-–because he didn’t want to paint one, and he didn’t want to have, like, a really beautiful Cibachrome light-box, or a photograph––if he could get one in a space, actually in liquid, big enough to frighten you, so you feel you’re in there with it, feel it could eat you, it would work.
He went down to Billingsgate Market and said to the guy, “Oh, can you get me a shark?” The guy said: “Oh yeah, any size you want.”
He said: “You can get me a twelve-foot shark?”
”Yeah.”
The fisherman told him how much it was per pound and he thought he’d worked it out. But then later the fisherman said he couldn’t get it, which really fucked the artist up, because he had planned to put it in a big show. It was also an extra cost for him. It meant he couldn’t make a lot of money on it.
Looking at a map, the artist took down the names of all the towns on the coast of the Great Australian Bight. Then he got the phone numbers of the main post offices in the towns, and started calling them one by one. When someone answered, he asked them to put up a poster with his number on it saying he wanted a shark. The phone never stopped ringing. Mad fucking crazy shark fisherman calling up.
There was a system the artist had used when he’d worked as a telemarketer at a company called M.A.S. Research, and he realized he could use the same system to rank the fishermen calling him from Australia. It was like: Good, Maybe, Slightly possible, Idiot, Madman. He gave them all a grade. Both the artist and his gallerist’s number were on the poster, so he’d be at his gallerist’s house drinking at four in the morning, getting drunk, and the gallerist would go, “It’s a bloke from Australia.” They narrowed it down further and further. One day, a friend of the artist said he’d heard of this great guy in Australia, a shark hunter called Vic Hislop. So the artist and the gallerist got a load of information on him too. In the end, Vic Hislop was the best, so they just chose him.
The shark hunter said:
My son and I have risked our lives many times, just the two of us against the ocean and the big sharks. We’ve drifted around in swamped boats for days and been pulled overboard at night tangled in ropes. When I was thirteen, my friend’s father flipped his trawler and disappeared, along with six other men. Two days later an arm and a leg washed up on the beach. After that I decided I had to learn more about killer sharks.
If you want to catch a shark, you have to get the right bait. I use stingrays, which are a treat for a big shark. I’ve got plenty of them in the freezer. Once the shark takes the bait, it’ll tow the boat, sometimes for hours. That’s why I only have a small boat, a little aluminum one. The shark circles and fights until its too tired to go on. Sometimes you can just shoot them, but I couldn’t shoot Hirst’s sharks because he wanted them to look pristine, so I towed them in. Once another shark came along and bit the tiger I was towing in and wrecked it. That was a sore point, even though England still wanted the tail. He was a big bastard.
The next thing to do, once the shark was back on land, was to freeze it, stomach contents and all. I used hooks and strings to hold the shark in a swimming position, and then I used a screwdriver to pop the jaws to expose its teeth. Sharks have no bone structure, so I slid a long piece of timber down its mouth and into the stomach to support the cartilage and lift it into place. The whole thing was frozen at minus twenty- five degrees Celsius, wrapped in plastic bags to keep the shark from losing size. If not it would probably lose about a fifth of its size from dehydration.
I used to preserve sharks in formaldehyde thirty years ago. I made a steel hose out of brake line and filled it every twelve inches. That’s the way to do it. I don’t do it anymore because one day I was pumping away when the line burst and it sprayed in my eyes. I went to hospital, and they flooded my eyes with saline. I’ve had some near misses for sure.
Later, the shark hunter said that he’d sent Hirst a great white shark that he’d had for years on his property in a makeshift freezer. He’d caught it before the great white became a protected species. To get it through customs, he had to prove the date of the kill by showing a picture of his son, who was twenty-six, as a nine-year old, posing with the shark. That shark became The Immortal, exhibited at the Oceanographic Museum in Monaco. The show horrified wildlife experts. But the shark had been long dead and frozen. He hadn’t broken any laws. It was a job well done.
When the artist first started out, he wanted to be a painter, but he couldn’t do it. A painter has to start from a white void. It used to screw him up completely. He tried everything to do it, but he never could. After that he started making little collages. If he could go around on the street and find little objects that were already organized, he could arrange them brilliantly.
The collages were good, but something still felt wrong. He spent his days wandering around, going, “I have to make something that’s about something … I have to make something that’s about something …” Because otherwise he was going to end up dippy-dappying around the art world before he’d even got started. He kept chewing on it, repeating the same sentence, “It has to be about something important.”
When he was really young, he wanted to know about death. He went to the morgue. Seeing the bodies made him feel sick. He thought he was going to die. It was awful, but he went back, again and again, until he was comfortable enough to draw the bodies. The point where death starts and life stopped, for him, in his mind, before he saw the morgue, was there. Now he was holding them. And they were dead bodies. Death was moved a bit further away.
He didn’t know where the idea came from, but one day he said to himself, “What if I had a life cycle in a box? And what if it was a rotting fucking head, and it was real, and it had flies on it?” It was by far the best piece he’d ever thought of.
Later the artist met Lucian Freud, who came up to him and said, “I’ve seen the fly piece. And I think you started with the final act.”
Not only had Lucian Freud seen it, but Francis Bacon too. The artist heard about it over the phone from his gallery. The person calling him said, “I don’t know if this is interesting to you, but Francis Bacon’s here, and he’s been in front of your piece for an hour.” He didn’t know what to say. It actually embarrassed him a little. At the time he thought it was probably best for him to play it down.
The artist told people in interviews he’d seen the fly piece mentioned in one of Francis Bacon’s last letters. Francis Bacon wrote, “Hi blah blah I’m not feeling well blah blah it was great to see you the other day. Just went to the Saatchi Gallery and saw this show of new British artists. Bit creepy blah blah. There’s a piece by this new artist”—the artist didn’t remember whether Francis Bacon mentioned his name—“and it’s got a cow’s head in it and a fly-killer and loads of flies and they fly around. It kind of works.” It kind of works! Like: “Nice toilet upstairs.” It kind of works. Fantastic, said the artist.
The shark piece and the fly piece were the centerpieces of the artist’s big show at the Saatchi Gallery. When he exhibited the fly piece before he did it with a real cow’s head. It stunk the place out. People wouldn’t go in the room. The head was rotting, and had maggots under the skin. The artist said, “Leave it!” But people were freaking out. In the end, he had to compromise. He took it out, nearly retching. Flaps of skin were peeling off, and the head was covered in maggots. He put it in a dustbin and lit it on fire. The head burned until it was a black mass. Then he took the black mass out of the dustbin and put it back in the vitrine, because he still wanted it to be real. The room stank for weeks.
The artist toyed with the idea of doing a certificate for Saatchi, stipulating that he had to have a real head in the vitrine. He wanted a real cow’s head in there. The problem was that if you have a real cow’s head, no one goes and looks at it. That much he was aware of. The artist thought, “I’m not into stinking everyone out of the gallery. I’m into drawing them into the gallery.” That made it less of a compromise. So what if they go, “Fake head!” He didn’t give a shit, so long as they thought it was real. If they didn’t know, he didn’t fucking care. He had a fake cow’s head made, and spent hours in the gallery, dressing the head up with dog food, ketchup, mayonnaise, and lard––stuff that flies would eat. Everyone asked “Is it real or isn’t it real? What the fuck is that?” No one knew, not even Francis Bacon.
On top of the fly piece, Saatchi had offered to fund whatever new artwork the artist wanted to make. The result was the tiger shark suspended in formaldehyde in a vitrine, Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. Saatchi bought it for £50,000.
After the artist sold the shark, he realized it was simple as that. Saatchi says he wants it; they invoice him; someone collects it. Once you put a price on something, you don’t really decide who buys it. If Saatchi were to sell it, on the other hand, he would have a problem. And he will eventually, because Saatchi sells everything. He’s interested in money, and that’s probably why he spent all that money on the shark piece.
He’s got all this work—he bought about six pieces, even more maybe—and then he thinks, “If I can pay sixty-thousand for one, all this goes up in value.” Then it gets to a point where you can’t get it up any more so he flogs it all off and finds another artist. The artist didn’t mind all that though.
Right from the beginning, people told the artist he was selling out. There was this one guy who told him: “You’re selling to the fucking Saatchis. How can you do that? Morally?” It was always “the Saatchis” even though Doris, Saatchi’s wife, had passed away. The artist took it seriously, at first. He thought, “God, I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up.” He had been caught up in the whole world of it. The guy was right, he was going that route.
The thing was, Saatchi also bought something from the righteous guy’s degree show. This made the artist come to realize that the whole time he was the only one losing sleep over it. The other guy just didn’t give a fuck. He spent a year bending the artist’s ear about it, and then, bang––sold immediately, like that. There was no discussion, nothing. The artist thought, “Oh I see. That’s all there is to it.”
Eventually the artist won the Turner Prize, and after that, he had the best two years of his life taking drugs and drinking with his friend Keith. For him it was all part of the art. It was a big celebration. Every night, when the drugs wore off, instead of going to bed on his own, hating himself, feeling like shit and wanting to commit suicide, he’d sit together with Keith. “This is the best bit!” they would say, and they would force themselves through it and fight it out. The other people would be asking if there were any more drugs, and the artist and Keith would say no. The people would say they were going home. “Well, fucking go home then,” the artist and Keith would say. “We’re not. We’re staying out, because we love this bit. The best bit.”
Not too many years later, the artist started blacking out. He figured he liked to mix his drinks, not sticking to one drink. He thought, why not cocaine and drink? It turned him into a babbling wreck overnight. He would be walking around in the morning and people would be telling him, “You did this,” even though he had no memory of it at all.
The shark hunter was of course aware of the artist’s success. He thought it was brilliant when he saw pictures of the sharks he’d supplied splashed over papers around the world. He didn’t care how much the artist’s work sold for. It has the artist’s name on it. He’s famous. The shark hunter had to take his hat off to him. Of course, the sharks wouldn’t last. They were bound to decay, and it wouldn’t even take all that long. Formaldehyde is not a perfect form of preservation. The difference was that the artist wasn’t using formaldehyde to preserve his artwork for posterity. He was using it to communicate an idea.
He got it right reminding people of what’s out there in the deep. There could be a person in one of the sharks and you wouldn’t know.
When Franzi died, my sisters and I had to figure out what to do with her things. Somehow, my sisters managed to weasel their way out of it, saying that they had no time, and that I, having moved into the new house, would have enough space to store it all. It’s not like I live in a castle, I said, I have Anni and Marta. It’s not like my cellar is any bigger than theirs in Munich. Why don’t we just throw it all away? There are even companies that specialize in that sort of thing. Yes, but first we should sort through it, and take out the things we want to keep, they said. I said I didn’t want to keep anything. My sister rolled her eyes. In the end, it all got put into my cellar, where I left it for a long time––several years––during which time neither of my sisters came once to sort through it. Eventually Anni was getting on my case because there was no place to lock the bikes in winter, and the stuff was just gathering dust, and why didn’t I call the entruempelung and be done with it? Which I thought was more than reasonable, except that they wanted 500 Euros to take it all away. I told the man on the phone that Franzi’s things were already in the cellar, all in one place. At which point he said that the job would still need two men, and of course a van, and if necessary a small trailer. That’s insane, I said. Then the man said, why didn’t I just find a few valuables among the belongings and put them on Ebay. Not only could I offset the cost with whatever money they sold for, but also there would be less stuff to take, and that would reduce the cost even more. Not a bad idea. So I hung up and went down to the cellar where Franzi’s things lay all covered in dust. She had everything our mother had given her, and besides that a bunch of stuff that was half broken and obviously not going to sell. The kitchen utensils were worthless. She ordered her clothes from a catalog. After some thought, I decided that the furniture would be the best bet. I could take pictures of it without dragging it upstairs, and I wouldn’t have to rummage through her things. Her bad taste brought back memories. I photographed a table that I thought would be good worktable, and some wooden chairs that were not too badly beat up. Then I found some jewelry, and I photographed that as well. The table sold for about 70, the chairs didn’t sell––not even for one euro––and the jewelry sold for a miserable ten Euros. I would have to go downstairs again for a second round. I found some smaller things this time, and finally there was the corner cupboard. This time, I got a friend to bid from his Ebay account, because if the thing was going to sell for ten Euros, it wasn’t worth the time to meet the buyer and conduct the whole transaction. It was pick up in person, so I wouldn’t have to pack it up, or go to the post office, but still. So with my friend’s and my other account, we managed to bid the cupboard up to 68 Euros. We didn’t go further, in case we won it ourselves. I think it was only fair to the buyer to stop there. He paid online, so all that there was left to do was meet him at my house. I let him know that it was big, and that he should bring another person to help him move it (I didn’t really need to say this, as it was actually light, and once you took the glass door off it would be bulky, but manageable enough for one person to move). Then a couple of days later, he came in a rented van covered in green stickers advertising the car. It wouldn’t have been difficult to guess it was him. Out here, you know the handful of cars that turn up the street––it’s still barely a street yet––but somehow I knew it was him anyway. I watched him park from the kitchen window. He was a young guy, Chinese, or actually, Vietnamese. Or maybe Thai. He was very skinny, and I guessed I would have to help him load the truck. When I opened the door, he explained who he was in terrible German. I led him down to the cellar, and showed him Franzi’s cupboard. So there it is, I said. He opened the door to the cupboard and looked it over. I was afraid he might not take it after all, and I pointed out that the scratches would cover up with a little furniture wax. He said that it didn’t matter. Then he said something else, but his German really was incomprehensible.
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“En este mundo no hay nada cierto, salvo la muerte y los impuestos.”
Benjamín Franklin
“¡Muerte, impuestos y partos! Nunca hay un momento conveniente para ninguno de ellos.”
Margaret Mitchell, Lo que el viento se llevó, 1936.
Primero la noción de persona, del latín personare, que quiere decir resonar. Era la mascara usada por los actores, luego se convirtió en el papel o el actor mismo, para luego derivar en un individuo de la raza humana. Aquel que en la vida real representa una función y que existe hasta el momento de su muerte.
Luego persona moral, del latín persona ficta como forma jurídica y mores, costumbre. O persona jurídica, una entidad no natural o física vista por la ley con el estatus de persona; un sujeto aparente que oculta a los verdaderos. Existe como consecuencia del acto jurídico de constitución y puede tener una vida que exceda la de aquellas personas que la constituyen.
Entonces la pregunta es, ¿cómo y qué declarar ya sea como persona física o como persona moral, en la dinámica de la exposición colectiva de verano? Performances pasados, retratos, cuerpos y proyectos de largo plazo, personajes ficticios y Empresas… Para aquellos que declaran y aquellos que deciden no hacerlo. Para aquellas personas morales y las que son inmorales, e incluso aquellas que no existen.
Fernando Mesta
Junio 2010 , México D.F.
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The last time Jay Chung and Q Takeki Maeda were in Mexico City, they started working on Hardy Boys and Gilmore Girls. This series of installations, with their conflation of theatrical staging and visual convention, came out of a swell of typical narratives from the (marketed) middlebrow: amongst others, a Mexico episode from a series of novels for young readers about teenage crime- solvers, a giant Louis Vuitton purse transformed into an auditorium to tell the life story of the company’s founder, and a tryout or “spec” script for a recently cancelled weekly television drama about three generations of mothers and daughters and the New England town where they reside.
But although the accumulation and polyphony of Hardy Boys and Gilmore Girls would be ideally suited for House of Gaga, Jay+Q have instead decided to show a new series of photographs, entitled Outtakes and Excerpts. The eight photographs on display depict either single people, pairs, or groups of people; yet the camera of the series has only a sole subject or interest, their candid smiles. The series filters the street life of the city according to a bluntly simple binary division, either one is smiling or one is not. In this respect, Outtakes and Excerpts runs parallel to many of Jay+Q’s earlier works, contextualizing form–positional and spatial relationships–against a background of habitual norms and procedures.
Ironically, this particular idea has already been used as an instrument of surveillance. The facial recognition software offered to consumers in the form of a “smile detector”, is the same as that used by the London Police to detect frowns, ostensibly because to recognize frowning is to isolate those who would pose a threat to the populace. Seen in this light, the work calls to mind not only a binary division but an inverse relation … and likely fictitious wrongdoers trying their best to maintain insincere expressions. What’s more, the axiom on which all this biopower rests is so everyday as to hardly be worth mentioning: in the sometimes desolate void of the public sphere, one is at the center of ones own life, yet lost in anonymity.
The exhibition also includes a new video by Nina Könnemann, Müll (2009).
Jay Chung (1976, Madison, USA) and Q Takeki Maeda (1977, Nagoya, Japan) started collaborating in 2001. Their work has been featured in Kunstmuseum Basel CH, Castillo Corales, Paris FR, Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlín, GR, Laboratorio de Arte Alameda, Mexico City, MEX, MAMbo de Bologna Italia and ARC /Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, FR.
Nina Könnemann (1971, Bonn, Germany) lives in Berlin. She recently exhibited at Portikus, Frankfurt, GR, Kunstverein Graz, AT, TPW Gallery, Toronto, CA, and at the beginning of next year will be showing a program of her videos at the Museum of Modern Art, New York.