L U C I E S TA H L SEPTEMBER 16, 2016–MARCH 12, 2017
Lucie Stahl utilizes a flatbed scanner to create large-format images in which various objects such as food, photographs, magazine clippings, and trash appear to emerge from a dark abyss. The resulting images are encased in resin, giving them a glossy, tactile finish and distinct material presence. Stahl’s work plays with the notion of liquidity in its many forms—from finance to bodily fluids to the malleability of gender, identity, and images. In all her work, the artist explores the trappings of modern-day consumer culture through found objects and imagery, addressing branding, consumption, dependency, and excess. For Concentrations 60: Lucie Stahl, the artist’s first US solo museum show, Stahl presents both old and new work in an immersive installation that explores the intersection of nostalgia, patriotism, Americana, and surreality. The following is an interview between Gabriel Ritter, the former Nancy and Tim Hanley Assistant Curator of Contemporary Art at the DMA, and Stahl that examines the artist’s thought process and touches on a variety of themes present in her work. gabriel ritter: A lot has been written about how your images flatten space, collapsing the image and object into a screenlike space. Beyond being a consequence of using a flatbed scanner, is this conflation of image and object something you are actively trying to explore? lucie stahl: I perceive the process of branding through advertising—in printed matter or in 3D moving images—as flattening space. Desires and needs are conflated. Deeply personal stories of overcoming obstacles are mixed with the smell and feel of a chip crunch, and twisted into an image. Advertising—commercial as well as political imagery—is central to my work. I make oversized posters after all. It is a playful relationship to pop iconography, and to propaganda. The process of sifting through images and collaging them out of context is related to abstraction, pop, process painting, and repetition in painting. There is a long history of artists using these tactics, because conflating—flattening objects, ideas, and concepts—equalizes and confuses the meaning of everything. Hijacking these malleable, ubiquitous commercial tools allows for a space where stereotypical polarizations don’t make sense anymore, can be erased—a feeling of free falling. Image and object—a conflation of everything. gr: How and when did you embrace the flatbed scanner as your main imaging tool? ls: The first series I did with a scanner was an image spread for Texte zur Kunst, in 2007, called Cooking up a Landgrab. It was a series of four images featuring rocks, a bag of moist clay, a whisk that resembled a dildo, a huge lollipop, a cut-up print of a photograph of hands holding knives by Walther Pfeiffer, an article about Hillary Clinton called “Clinton Retreats on Issue of Men vs. Women,” and a short quote by George Carlin about American football. The series deals with the power of language, control, and aggressive man-handling. It mixes silly and violent undertones, a combination I deploy throughout my works. The subject matter of this early work continues to resonate in my recent works. I use humor and punchlines, but behind the joke I am simultaneously quite serious. gr: One constant throughout your work is the use of epoxy resin. This technique is incredibly seductive; it gives your images a glossy finish that is reminiscent of industrial processes. When did you begin using this technique, and how did you first arrive at it? For you, personally, what does the resin technique achieve that the image itself is lacking? ls: Resin as a material speaks to a toxic fluidity that is fast, flawed, and process based. With it, I capture
a moment in time, a temporary, incomplete arrangement. A lot of my works reiterate this process, as many of my scans feature fluid matter—abject slimy stuff that could be sweat, spit, or blood—or earthy materials that relate to resources like raw oil or tar. Another doubling of this process is that people viewing my work, and the exhibition’s surroundings, reflect off the surface and are distorted like in a funhouse mirror. I am interested in Surrealist photography, its repetition of reflection, of reflective surfaces. I find the attempt for perfect surfaces, or “finish fetish,” interesting. I’m not HD aspirational. I like a certain grittiness to the surface. The philosopher Byung-Chul Han once spoke in an interview of the contemporary obsession with supersmooth self-repairing surfaces—of smartphones, of skin—the fear of a lesion, of injury, and what that says about our culture, even in relation to love. The surfaces of my works are hand poured, imperfect; they encapsulate every grain of dust, every fly that lands on them. gr: Your works often feature your hands, but they are always caked in mud or clay. This human element seems at odds with the slick veneer of the image’s epoxy resin surface. How do you see your hands functioning in your images? Are they there to humanize what could otherwise be a cold digitally scanned image? ls: Hands have an iconic quality of representing “the artist,” but also “the human.” Hands are the oldest sign of a human making a mark—think of the Cueva de las Manos in Patagonia, or any old cave for that matter. These pre-cuneiform ideas make their way into my work, and they have become this humble gesture I appreciate. The mud and clay represent something similar—this very archaic material that has been used forever. The hands covered in clay always seem to have just dug something up out of somewhere, as if pulled from a bizarre archaeological landslide. There is a relationship between the clay (or powder, or paint) that covers the hands and the resin that covers the images. They both function like a sort of protective device. The clay covers the hands almost like a glove: it dries matte, and the surface of the skin becomes invisible. The resin does something different: it diffuses the view, it reflects the surrounding, which stops the viewer from completely penetrating the image; it disturbs the gaze, yet at the same time the “wet” quality of the resin opens up the dark areas of the images in a spatial way. The clay represents something wholesome, dry; the resin implies toxicity, danger, something moist, abject. gr: Do the hands in your work have volition? Are they like the puppet master, pulling strings, or do you see them as something disembodied and lifeless? ls: The hands in my work are definitely animated. They activate the images, create relation of scale. The hands relate the works to the human body. They have control, are a stand-in for actions. They almost seem to occupy a moral high ground, indeed like a puppet master, or rather like an admonisher. A bit funny. gr: Taking your work as a whole, there seems to be an underlying political tone or message more generally (if pressed, I would say there is an anti-big business, anti-pollution, pro-women, pro-nature thread that can be teased out); however, this message doesn’t necessarily have a clear moral or ethical compass, but something a bit more nuanced—maybe even naïve. ls: I like the idea of a seismograph. I pick up on issues of daily life—I am just like everybody else in that regard. I filter and scan through all sorts of material; I walk through the streets; I collect stuff. I sift through the aisles of the supermarkets and the columns of newspapers—it doesn’t matter if it is the New York Times or a local pharmacy magazine, a beverage from the supermarket or a trampled-on Pringles container from the street. I allow a lot of things to come in by chance. I would call it a trust in chance, an active, “challenged” chance, maybe, which is a Surrealist concept that interests me. A big part of how I work is indeed intuition, improvisation—a fluidity with the material. The process is very important, the action. It is expressionistic, painterly in that way. Things are not decided beforehand; they happen while I am making the work. I am collecting—one could almost say hoarding—things, and I often pick something up that I gathered years ago. The works express my own grasp of the world, which is not a fixed position. It is a combination of infor
mation and experience—it is loose, blurry. Opinions can change; personalities can shift. I think the works are coming from a deeper space within, an intuitive, emotional space. gr: The objects featured in your work are often mass-produced, heavily branded and marketed items like chips, junk food, and soda. These too have a level of toxicity associated with them on a number of levels—pernicious marketing, as well as the harm they do when ingested. ls: My relationship to these products hovers between attraction and disgust. There is a critical approach based in observation and interest—not exactly neutral, yet not that of an activist. It is more complex than that. I always stress my own participation and involvement in the structural power games and mix of interests. I don’t live under a rock, though I like to pretend to sometimes!
Sensitivity in Journalism, 2009, inkjet print and polyurethane
A bit of naïveté and immediacy helps me find a simple, direct imagery that flows into the production processes, using objects that are very of the present and transforming them into something strong, iconic, aggressive.
You mention ingestion. To me the idea of digestion is quite an important one—digestion as an idea of processing, of transformation. This is where questions of the unconscious, of the “abject,” enter my work. gr: Your work often focuses on American brands (Coke, Cheetos, Pringles, American Spirit). Is there something exotic for you about these brands or are they symbols of American excess? Or are the issues you are addressing ubiquitous at this point? ls: American brands are totally ubiquitous to me. Coca-Cola colonization happened during the Cold War, or even earlier, maybe starting with American soldiers handing out chewing gum and chocolate to German kids at the end of the Second World War. My personal obsession with the idea of Americana, under which, of course, products like Coca-Cola, Cheetos, etc. can be subsumed, is related to a kind of American folklore. There is an almost stereotypical optimism in the idea of the American Way of Life. It’s something that really grabs me. The mix of nostalgia and patriotism—something that is inherently scary but can also be read as innocent—is an enormous trigger in my work. But, again, I am trying to break it, to deform it, to change its meaning. When I transform old Coke or beer cans found in the California desert, where they’ve been used for target shooting since forever, into prayer wheels, the work starts to open up to all these issues art history is always drowning in—national identity, romanticism, nature—mixed with the loss of religion, which has been replaced by an almost folkish attachment to consumer goods. gr: My feeling from looking at your work is that you are as critical of mass-produced big businesses like Coca-Cola or Kellogg’s as you are of “green” alternatives or brands pushing a healthier, more natural product or lifestyle—like somehow they are both morally bankrupt or deceiving. ls: Of course brands like Nestlé or Monsanto and their universal takeover make me furious, and that anger informs the work, creeps into it. But the idea of the “green” or natural lifestyle is equally problematic, although I am biased as I am more sympathetic to it. It is a reality, though, that green alternatives are by now often almost equally commercialized, and of course only a lucky few can afford that type of lifestyle. But there’s another inherent problem that is less understood in an American context than in Germany or Austria. Today’s ecological politics and ideas are rooted in 19th-century nature mysticism. It’s a relationship to ecology that heavily influenced Nazi ideology and directly fed into the rise of Nazism. Eco-fascism was deeply embedded in Nazi policies—like the ideas of nature worshipping, organic farming, vegetarianism. Once you make that connection, it is hard to unlink the two. gr: Your work seems to be an indictment of contemporary consumer culture—its pervasiveness, rampant excess, and wastefulness. The resulting imagery has a post-apocalyptic look and feel to it that is utterly dark and full of decay. How would you characterize the darkness in your work? Is it the unconscious? A digital abyss? Or simply empty space? Are you interested in the legacy of Surrealism? ls: Yes, a post-apocalyptic theme is running through a lot of my works, but there’s an almost optimistic outlook at the same time. A kind of transformative freedom arises out of this “material,” out of this stuff that exists with us and that is deemed “waste.” There’s a lot of imagery in my work that one might read as hopeless or dark, but I always see a positive part, no matter how “sad” or “lonely” the creatures are that I create. They are empowered and independent. In a way, the “darkness” does relate to an abyss, but more a psychological one than a digital one. Humor plays a role in this reading, which relates to Surrealism—the use of non-sequiturs, of absurd language and imagery. This humor deeply informs my earlier poster works, which incorporated self-written texts and statements— little rants, short comments, fragmented notes that one might put down in a diary. Dreams, also. The texts are seemingly “authentic,” but are, of course, heavily overworked. They often begin with a personal point of origin and delve out into something more universal. At that time, I was—and still am—interested in the Surrealistic concepts of dream diaries, of écriture automatique, and how these techniques could be used for my purpose—not to try to achieve genuine authenticity or an expression of the individual soul, but in order to speak out.
Lucie Stahl was born in 1977 in Berlin, where she currently lives and works. She studied at the Berlin University of the Arts, Glasgow School of Art, and Städelschule, Frankfurt am Main. Recent solo exhibitions include presentations at Halle für Kunst, Lüneburg (2016); Queer Thoughts, Chicago (2014); Freedman Fitzpatrick, Los Angeles (2014); Neue Alte Brücke, Frankfurt am Main (2014); and dépendance, Brussels (2012). She has participated in group exhibitions, including the 9th Berlin Biennale (2016); the 13th Biennale de Lyon, Musée d’art contemporain de Lyon (2015); Mirror Effect, The Box, Los Angeles (2015); DOOM: Surface Controle, Le Magasin, Grenoble (2014); and Puddle, Pothole, Portal, Sculpture Center, New York (2014). Stahl has been awarded residencies at Hessische Kulturstiftung, London (2014) and MAK Center for Art and Architecture, Los Angeles (2012). Together with Will Benedict she ran the exhibition space Pro Choice in Vienna from 2008 to 2012. Concentrations 60: Lucie Stahl is organized by the Dallas Museum of Art. The presentation is made possible by TWO X TWO for AIDS and Art, an annual fundraising event that jointly benefits amfAR, The Foundation for AIDS Research and the Dallas Museum of Art, and by the Contemporary Art Initiative. The Dallas Museum of Art is supported, in part, by the generosity of DMA Members and donors, the citizens of Dallas through the City of Dallas Office of Cultural Affairs, and the Texas Commission on the Arts.
local support
IMAGES Recto: Sensitivity in Journalism, 2009 Verso (left to right): Whistle Blower, 2014 Identity, 2015 Big Gulp, 2014 Untitled (Foxy Mega), 2014 Ganesha Portal, 2016
All works are © Lucie Stahl.
EXHIBITION CHECKLIST new work An Apparition, 2011/2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm)
Prayer Wheel (Amstel), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm)
Stone Circle, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 58 ¼ x 104 x 1 in. (148 x 264 x 2.5 cm)
Chastisement, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 47 ¼ x 65 ¾ x 1 in. (120 x 167 x 2.5 cm)
Prayer Wheel (Coca Cola Christmas), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm)
Water Crisis, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm)
Companionship, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 47 ¼ x 65 ¾ x 1 in. (120 x 167 x 2.5 cm)
Prayer Wheel (Coca Cola College Gameday), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm)
Unless otherwise noted, all works are courtesy of the artist, Freedman Fitzpatrick, and dépendance.
Defeat, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 47 ¼ x 65 ¾ x 1 in. (120 x 167 x 2.5 cm)
Prayer Wheel (Dr. Fine), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm)
Ganesha Portal, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 104 x 58 ¼ x 1 in. (264 x 148 x 2.5 cm)
Prayer Wheel (Dr. Pepper 1), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm)
Big Gulp, 2014 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Pierpaolo Barzan
Grime, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Freedman Fitzpatrick
Prayer Wheel (metal white), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm)
I am, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Mascot Face-Off, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Not O.K., 2011/2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Prayer Wheel (1383), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm)
Prayer Wheel (white), 2016 Found can, aluminum 6 ¾ x 3 ½ x 3 ¼ in. (17 x 9 x 8.5 cm) Repository, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 58 ¼ x 104 x 1 in. (148 x 264 x 2.5 cm) Shiva Portal, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 104 x 58 ¼ x 1 in. (264 x 148 x 2.5 cm) Soot, 2016 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 47 ¼ x 65 ¾ x 1 in. (120 x 167 x 2.5 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Freedman Fitzpatrick
loans
Critic’s Pick, 2014 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 47 ¼ x 65 ¾ x 1 in. (120 x 167 x 2.5 cm) Private collection Identity, 2015 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Private collection, Switzerland Nature, 2013 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Kelsey Adams Untitled (Foxy Mega), 2014 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Glenn Glasser Whistle Blower, 2014 Inkjet print, aluminum, epoxy resin 65 ¾ x 47 ¼ x 1 in. (167 x 120 x 2.5 cm) Ron Handler