My encounter with Sophie Calle
In France, Sophie Calle is to Art what Marguerite Duras is to literature : a super heavyweight champion who appeals to sensitive folks.
Back in the Fall, during FIAF Festival, Sophie Calle transformed a suite at the Lowell hotel into a whole installation entitled « Room ».
I went on a Sunday night, before the definitive closing of the exhibition at 11pm.
Most thrilling was to walk across the lobby of this luxurious and somehow discreet Upper East Side hotel to tell the receptionist: I’m here to see the installation… for it seemed highly unlikely that an installation was taking place there. Without rising an eyebrow, he indicated the elevator, 3rd floor, Suite 30.
Very few viewers, essentially women, were moving silently inside the room, bending to carefully read the narratives accompanying the objects that the artist had displayed everywhere. In fact, the room was filled with Sophie Calle’s works, from the bathroom to inside the safe to the walk-in closet.
Not seen in this image, a photographic portrait of Freud adorning the sink.
In the lounge, the TV was on with the news. The news on that banal sunday night was so odd, looking so much like the News in all its tragic excess or dumbness, that I thought it was another piece of Calle’s work.
The artist and her iconic wedding cake.
A tiny woman with big eyeglass frames (more angular than those of Duras) and a short skirt was sitting on the couch, checking emails while sipping Chardonnay.
She looked so much like the artist, that I couldn’t help inquiring :
- Is it you? I mean, are you the artist ?
- Well, yes, I am.
- How incredible to see you sitting in your own installation! But… is this the real news?
- This? (She looked at the TV.) Yes, it’s the TV. Why ?
- Oh, I thought it was a work of yours, some video you could have also done…
She narrowed her eyes.
- Hmm… that would be an idea…
After that, we had nothing else to say. I kept on watching the news, and her too, while taking another sip of white wine.
A stuffed cat.
- Do you also sleep in your installation? I asked.
- As a matter of fact, I did. Just last night.
It reminded me of the first time I had seen her work, No Sex Last Night, at a Whitney Biennal, in the early 90’s. I stood for a long time in front of the video screen to admit that it was true, night after night, in spite of a wedding in a Las Vegas chapel, there was no sex, and they kept on driving on and on with the top down.
A red wedding dress on a half burnt bed.
A man who was also seated on the couch was introduced as her boyfriend.
- Are you part of the installation?
It’s not very kind, said Calle of my innocent joke, and I apologized.
- So how did you sleep? Did you sleep on the Red Wedding Dress, or did you set it aside?
She looked at me, surprised.
- There are 2 beds, I slept on the other one.
- I see.
Once again, we had nothing more to say.
- And you, who are you? she asked.
- I am the Unknown Hipster.
- Hmm?
I indicated my url and she checked this very blog you are reading right now.
She didn’t seemed facinated beyond measure. She landed on the post about Carine’s karaoke, Anna Dello Russo’s legs and Valentino singing My Way.
- Who are these people?
I tried to explain that they were giants in the fashion world, but she seemed dubious.
At that moment, a tall blonde woman, with whom I had earlier admired the installation inside the kitchen fridge at the beginning of my visit, was now walking toward the artist to hug her.
She was a dear friend, and they completely forgot about me.
Just before I made my exit, I interrupted to ask Sophie Calle if I could take a picture with my iPhone .
- Are you going to do a portrait of me?
- I don’t know, I said. Maybe.
An installation by Andy Spade
On September 9th Andy did a one day installation at the Half Gallery.
In a work entitled « Casa Grande AZ 1972-1975 » 30 cacti of various shapes were arrayed on the floor, while black ballons floated above, up against the ceiling.
As the gallery text said : « Andy Spade’s first solo show offers a glimpse into his youth growing up in a small town Arizona town. In a household with a new stepfather, he and his brothers felt the tension between his fits of rage and depression and his mother’s blind, yet always sunny disposition. This installation represents the sublimation of childhood disenfranchisement. »
The deflating balloons exploded when low enough to touch the cacti, and their number gradually diminished.
This slow but inevitable process went on all night behind the gallery’s closed door.
Martha Graham Dance Company, « Snow on the Mesa »
In the midst of the winter I was invited to a preview of the Martha Graham Dance Company’s 85th Anniversary season.
It was cold and lightly snowing the night I went up to the Martha Graham School of Contemporary Dance on East 63rd Street.
In a basement rehearsal room folding chairs had been set up along the walls. A school bench placed in the middle of the floor was being used as prop, and a dancer was waiting against an exercise bar.
The calm assembly of dance scholars and serious writers made me feel slightly out of place : not only do I know very little about dance, but I’m always in fear that a live performance will extend to an inhuman length of time, like contemporary art videos almost always do.
But I was struck by the beauty of the piece, and hypnotized by the grace and intensity of the dancers.
They performed excerpts from « Snow on the Mesa », a dance choreographed by Bob Wilson and premiered in 1995 after Martha Graham death, and originally subtitled « A Portrait of Martha ».
It turns out to be no time at all when I had to extract myself from this « Cave of the Heart », to return home, enlightened, by the subway.
Xiaochuan Xie and Ben Schultz in « Shaker Interior » (« Snow on the Mesa »)
Carrie Ellmore Tallitsch in « Navaho Rug » (« Snow on the Mesa »)
Martha Graham Dance Company 85th Anniversary Season at the Rose Theater, Frederick P. Rose Hall, home of Jazz at Lincoln Center, NY, from March 15–20, 2011
Cut Pieces
On Fashion’s Night Out, the art galleries of Chelsea were no less crowded than the shopping sidewalks of Soho.
At D’Amelio Terras, the incoming visitors had to be contained so as not to storm all at once the Polly Apfelbaum’s installation. In a piece titled « Off Colour », the artist had cut and arranged sequined stretch fabric in colors derived from a stack of erotic slides bought in a London flea market.
Althought most viewers were carefully navigating through the piece’s negative space, some pieces of fabrics, simply laid on the gallery floor, were disturbed out of place by the more distracted visitors—or those equipped with oversized shoes—leading the artist to re-adjust the pieces in an unpremeditated performance.
I then had to elbow my way down to the MoMA store in Soho, where Adi, Gaby and Angela from threeASFOUR were paying tribute to Yoko Ono’s 1964 « Cut Piece » by cutting into pieces their own design worn by a model. Here Adi wears a dress with drawings by Yoko, from the previous collection.
A wide range of scissors were available to the participating viewers, and when my turn came, I was torn between not damaging my friends’ design with the desire to reveal more of the stunning beauty.
The faux Baldessari (a true story)
This was about twelve months ago in Paris, at about this same time of the year.
I went into a supermarket, around noon, and in the most mundane surrounding, my eyes were suddenly attracted by an unusual, while somehow familiar silhouette.
A very tall, white haired and bearded man, wearing a green turtleneck, slightly worn khakis, and carrying a cool tote bag, was walking down the alley, giving a gentle but slightly amused stare at everything that came his way. A benevolent giant, or a Dutch hippie, who reminded me somebody: John Baldessari, the great conceptual artist! Could it be him?
I had met him 17 years ago in NY. He had a show then in a galery in Soho, and I had shaked his hand, after he signed a small poster printed on tracing paper.
Although it was a bit surprising to see him in this dull Paris supermarket, it could be because of the forthcoming Basel Art fair, about to open in Switzerland a few days latter. It wasn’t illogical that he would have made a quick stop to Paris on his way to say hello to his dealers, or even to discuss a major retrospective at Beaubourg.
Mr. Baldessari… ? I hesitated to greet him among the other customers.
In the same way an insignificant black-and-white photograph on which is added a pale blue or yellow dot becomes a Baldessari, I contemplated how the whole supermarket had been turned into a Baldessari by the simple presence of the famous L.A. artist in its insignificant alley.
I wondered how many people had recognized him. While debating on whether keeping a discreet distance to respect his incognito, or approaching him to confess my admiration, I saw him strolling away with one or two whisky bottles in his tote bag, followed by a pigeon, in the direction of the Luxembourg garden.
I was delighted the whole day by this poetic vision, although already saddened by the prospect of never seeing him again, and having wasted the chance of a great encounter.
Nonetheless, two days after, on a sultry evening, I saw the man again. He was swaying on the boulevard, dragging his tote bag, his pants half unbutonned and covered with dirt, with a somewhat demented and defiant look on his face.
As if to add insult to my delusion, Art Basel was aproaching its end, and the bum who could then onwards commonly be seen in various states of decay, had become a fixture of the area.
Trisha Brown at Dia Beacon
This was a few weeks ago at the Dia Beacon Benefit.
The Michael Heizer sculpture, the most powerful and impressive piece one might see in an indoor art space, was open to the Art patrons so they could walk around the vertiginous holes. Physical confrontation with the geometric void was in fact so overwhelming that even the most self assured Art experts and trustees would only bend over in the most overcautiously manner, fearing loss of glasses, cellphones, or dignity (by having to be winched from the depth of Art by a crane).
When all the guests were finally safely gathered in the John Chamberlain room, Dia director Philippe Vergne announced that, as a surprise and special treat, Trisha Brown had decided that she will perform a dance piece herself.
She silently came out barefoot, and very slowly became to animate parts of her body at the contact of the other dancers. It started out in very light and delicate touches of fingers and palms. The graceful fragility of hands, wrists, and necks made for a moving contrast with the heavy metal, brutally bent and hammered car parts Chamberlain sculpture which stands next to the soft flexible bodies of the dancers.
A sartorial note : it was hard to figure out a dress code for this kind of event, when everyone has to get noticed while blending in the Art world. For men, the formal outfits were most commonly pastel cashmere tight cardigans, as if dressed for a picnic, while a few individuals met the occasion with bolder statements.
A rival hipster, Kenneth Goldsmith, made it on to several blogs wearing a paisley Thom Browne suit.
Marina Abramovic « The Artist Is Present », part II
I did my best to sit in front of the artist with the appropriate seriousness.
But when she lifted up her eyes, Marina didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic.
I felt like a forgotten lump of clay on a sculpture stand, half dry, and not very enticing, so that after a little consideration the artist finally decides not to use it.
I felt like another mile in the endless journey of a truck driver.
I thought of Marina’s performance as a living illustration of the philosophical concept of how Art looks back at us.
Was Marina hypnotizing me ? I became incredibly relaxed and felt a tremendous urge to sleep.
Images of the full MOMA collections were flying by in my head, along with highlights from the Prado and never-shown pieces from the Louvre reserve.
I watched black and white 16mm footage of early seventies performances, when girls in the audience wore printed miniskirt, and men with wide ties on fitted white shirts, spectacles and long beards, similar to those of today, but with outstanding genuineness.
I was woken up by a nightmarish vision of Marina’s « Dragon Heads », a series of pieces where she had big snakes all around her face.
How long had I slept ? Many of the visitors were in awe.
Walking out, I passed in front of a group of people who seemed offended. In doubt, I apologized for possibly snoring.
Marina Abramovic « The Artist Is Present », part I
It was not without anxiety that I went to « The Artist Is Present », Marina Abramovic’s exhibit at MOMA.
I had always feared that performance art would require a lot of patience, or specialized knowledge, like the kind needed to understand some japanese dances. And I’ve got this big book on Feminist Art with photographs of performances I’m glad to never have endured.
What to expect from a woman who, since the Seventies, has constantly exposed herself to danger, disgust or boredom, played with sex and Death? This morning, a friend remarked that Art is always about Death, but it’s one thing to do a gloomy painting, and another to cut yourself with knives, hold snakes, and scrub skeletons.
On a happy Spring Saturday afternoon, I finally joined a peaceful crowd of tourists and Art lovers at the museum.
On first entering the Marron Atrium, I saw Marina in her red gown. It was stunning.
She was sitting alone, her face in her hands, with the facing chair unoccupied. Standing on the perimeter of the rectangular area, visitors were silently looking, in awe, as if witnessing the last moments of a saint or a beloved outer space queen.
I personally felt sorry for Marina, that nobody would dare sit in the empty chair. Summoning my courage, I considered walking up to the table so that, at the very least, the artist wouldn’t be present for nothing.
But before I could commit, a short plump woman slipped in, moving with less noise than if she had been walking in her socks, and was already in the chair.
She was sitting stiffly, her feet firmly on the ground, her hands flat on her knees, with an expression of calm submission and awareness, as if attending an examination, or a yoga class for the first time.
Marina still had her face in her hands. Was she asleep ? Or in profound pain ? Or intolerably bored with the museum institution, or the idea of « Art » itself ? I sensed she might suddenly stand up, kick her chair, slap the participant’s face, and leave, never to return.
Instead, she slowly lifted up her head, and started to gaze at the woman.
Walking to the other side of the perimeter, I realized that what I had originally taken for a more condensed group of viewers was, in fact, a line. It’s not because Performance Art is imbued with the spirit of Seventies happenings, that there was no order here. Or maybe it was adapted to today’s standards of order. More likely, it was part of the ceremony and constraints within which the visitor was invited to take part. I asked for confirmation from a tall brunette in a very Salinger pale green dress, who was writing in a notebook.
Helen was an Art student in Maryland, and she had indeed been in line for 2 and a half hours.
- Are you afraid? I asked.
- Afraid ?… No. Well, I guess, yes, a little bit.
- I think it’s very brave!
Because who knows what’s going to happen, once one is left alone with his inner self under imaginary scrutiny?
In the distance, opposite to the person facing Marina, was photographer Marco Anelli. He sat behind a telephoto lens, similar to those used to capture wildlife, or celebrities sunbathing on a private island.
He has been documenting the performance since it began, and clocks the same hours as Marina. All his close-ups of participants are on the exhibit website, and it’s the most astonishing body of work.
A strange collection of faces, some illuminated, some in tears, some lost in the void, and a few trying to aggressively dominate. There’s even a priest (one wonders if he is mentally exorcizing the artist), a bewildered child, and a woman wearing a veil, so only her eyes can be seen (was she trying to say something?).
I pointed out to Helen that the people seated in front of Marina always mimicked her position. Although there was no rule clearly stated, it seemed not to have crossed anyone’s mind to slouch on the minimalist wooden chair.
While this made the art student slightly smile, I left her to her upcoming experience with the artist, and went to speak with Marco.
I was curious to know if he was taking pictures randomly or instead, choosing the moment. He said he usually waited at least 10 minutes. Then, he explained, people’s faces changed, something was unleashed and revealed.
In the meantime, the line has reduced. Soon it was my turn. I walked to the chair, and my heart beating, I sat down.
A Dreary Saturday in Chelsea
A tormented, Burchfield-esque vision presented itself on a Chelsea street on Saturday, when the sinister weather puts Art and gallery visitors to the test.
Somewhat less torturous Charles Burchfield graphite drawings are on view at the nearby D’Amelio Terras Gallery.
Hunting rubber boots, worn in various colors, brought a cheerful note to the dark mood of the day.
Melting snow left a handful of Art Lovers stranded on slouchy snow banks with little chance of rescue from gallery assistants.
Ironic wiring in a Banks Violette installation at Gladstone – a sculpture which somehow formally echoed my hat. Being in a mundane state of mind, I wondered how one could vacuum between the wires without messing up the piece.
« Band of Bikers » at Zieher Smith presents a hundred fading 1970s snapshots of gay bikers found by the gallery owner in his building basement, among the discarded belongings of a recently deceased tenant.
I wonder where Hell’s Angel cap went.
Damien Hirst’s “End of an Era”
Damien Hirst is one of those rare artists who once in a while produces an artwork that gains more instant awe than that of a new Ferrari parked on the street.
And he is one of the few artists today who challenge Money and Power with means that speak at equal level to the most wealthy and powerful.
A master of Vanitas, he always find entertaining ways to remind the viewer of Death, or that diamonds, no matter how many or big, are nothing.
“Judgement Day,” a thirty-foot long gold cabinet filled with 30,000 manufactured diamonds, is an ironic slap in the face of the shallow, while a consolation for the broke.
Viewers in front of “Painful Memories/ Forgotten Tears.” Gold plated, glass and cubic zirconia.
Ancient Greek philosophers — and more recently, psychedelic gurus — used the same rhetoric to one-up kings and rich merchants, but somehow with less efficiency than an entire shark, or a bull’s head, submerged in formaldehyde solution.
Terry, the master of Fashion vanitas, was there !
The exhibition is called “End of an Era.” I don’t know if it refers to some political or financial analyses about the end of our era, or if it states that a particular body of Damien’s own work, had come to an end.
Although the opening was on a Saturday, the uptown gallery (limos waiting outside) was buzzing with famous artists and important people.
The only way to know if somebody was less well-known was to see if he was taking pictures of others. Come to think of it, a lot of people were actually taking pictures of each other, like at an entrance of a Fashion show.
This neck-tie works well with dots.
Rose’s necklace amusingly echoed the diamond paintings.
Damien was surrounded by people asking for autographs and handing to him various books or objects to be signed. A skateboarder even had a Damien dots new skateboard signed. I couldn’t see if he drew a big skull on it, as he did for some others of his fans.
Like Karl, Damien wears lots of Gothic rings : skulls and gargoyles.
A simple post-it signed by Damien
Larry talking with Mick
It turned out that the only discreet viewer was the real rock star, Mick is in a dark crewneck sweater worn under a navy suit. Why does he looks so cool ? Of course, he has seen it all, even Jean-Luc Godard filming the Rolling Stones recording “Sympathy to the Devil.” But while “One+One” could have been the coolest documentary, JLD got carried away by vanity, French intellectualism, or some girlfriend’s advice, and added all these revolutionary theories sequences that required so much coffee for the viewer.
Unlike Damien’s works.
Mick walking along « Judgement Day ».
6 comments