5
MAY-JUN 2016
FABRICATED SPACES: ENCOUNTERING DO-HO SUH’S NEW YORK CITY APARTMENT CORRIDOR / GROUND FLOOR PLUS STAIRCASE / BRISTOL Meg Boulton PhD in Art History, Research affiliate at the University of York from York, England
IMAGINING UTOPIA: THE ART OF ALFREDO JAAR Cecilia Cammisa Freelance Writer from Philadelphia, PA
DOVE NASCE LA BIENNALE DI VENEZIA Matilde Ferrarin Studentessa di Storia dell’Arte da Verona, Italia
ROMÁN EGUÍA, PREMIO NACIONAL MEXICANO DE GRABADO: “LA INSPIRACIÓN EXISTE PERO NO ES INDUCIDA. NO LLEGA, SE BUSCA” Gabriela Giménez de la Riva Profesional de la cultura / Crítica de Arte desde Málaga, España
UNA HISTORIA DE VIOLENCIA (ANIMADA CON PINTURAS DEL XIX) Ramón Melero Guirado Profesional de museos desde Cazorla, Jaén, España
INTRODUCCIÓN A LA ARQUEOLOGÍA DE LA MUERTE. Juan Pérez Garrido Arqueólogo desde Torredelcampo, Jaén, España
THIS IS NOT A CHAIR: THE DESIGNER STAR OF BAD DESIGN Katia Porro MA History of Design and Curatorial Studies; Parsons Paris from West Palm Beach, Florida
THE STILL HOUSE GROUP Sonya Tamaddon Independent Curator and Freelance Writer from Los Angeles, CA, USA
IL LINGUAGGIO DELLA STORIA DELL'ARTE COME SOCIO-SEMIOTICA SOCIALE DEL CONTEMPORANEO: TRA ECUMENISMO, CELEBRAZIONE DEL PASSATO, NAZIONALISMO E AUTO-IDENTIFICAZIONE NELL'INDIA POST PARTITION Chiara Tomaini Indologa da Lecco, Italia 5 QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT HAVE ABOUT HILMA AF KLINT Eline Verstegen MA student, London Metropolitan University; Whitechapel Gallery, London from Antwerp, Belgium
Photo by Roberta Pirisi, Storica dell'arte
MAY - JUN 2016 Sonya Tamaddon Independent Curator and Freelance Writer from Los Angeles, CA, USA
Cecilia Cammisa Freelance Writer from Philadelphia, PA
Ramón Melero Guirado Profesional de museos desde Cazorla, Jaén, España
Katia Porro MA History of Design and Curatorial Studies; Parsons Paris from West Palm Beach, Florida
Juan Pérez Garrido Arqueólogo desde Torredelcampo, Jaén, España
Meg Boulton PhD in Art History, Research affiliate at the University of York from York, England
Eline Verstegen MA student, London Metropolitan University; Whitechapel Gallery, London from Antwerp, Belgium
Matilde Ferrarin Studentessa di Storia dell’Arte da Verona, Italia
Chiara Tomaini Indologa da Lecco, Italia
Gabriela Giménez de la Riva Profesional de la cultura / Crítica de Arte desde Málaga, España
FABRICATED SPACES Encountering Do-Ho Suh’s New York City Apartment Corridor / Ground Floor Plus Staircase / Bristol “At times we think we know ourselves in time, when all we know is a sequence of fixations in the spaces of the being’s stability—a being who does not want to melt away, and who, even in the past, when he sets out in search of things past, wants time to ‘suspend’ its flight. In its countless alveoli space contains compressed time. That is what space is for.”
This quotation from Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space (and indeed the text more widely) is a fitting place to begin a consideration of Do-Ho Suh’s site-specific, immersive installation 348 West 22nd Street, which was first presented in Seoul in 2000. Since its inaugural show, the work has had many incarnations, exhibited in its various permutations of space and structure. In its entirety, the piece presents the space of the New York apartment building inhabited by the artist, (re)imagined in fabric, forming a complete architectural replica of domestic space that blurs the line of public and private space, folding to fit into two suitcases as it travels from exhibition space to exhibition space, echoing the itinerant identity and contemplative (be)longings of its creator. One of its most recent incarnations
was its exhibition in Bristol as New
York City Apartment Corridor /
Ground Floor Plus Staircase /
Bristol in 2015; an exhibition
developed in partnership with
Arnolfini and commissioned with
a grant from the Art Fund, under
Art Fund International, the Arts
Council England V&A Purchase
Grant Fund and the Henry Moore
Foundation. The Bristol
Museum and Art Gallery was a
particularly interesting space in
which to experience this
installation; some way from the
sterile and ascetic white cube
gallery spaces of my previous
encounters with Do-Ho Suh’s
work. The Bristol collection is
housed in a Baroque building
designed by Frederick Wills,
composed of two large halls
with barrel-vaulted glazed
roofs, separated by an imposing
double staircase; a grand
cabinet for an impressive
collection. This remarkable
space contains a varied treasure
trove of cultural artefacts and
objects of natural history: an
unfolding collection of
minerals and fossils, eastern art,
world wildlife, Egyptology,
archaeology and fine and applied
art, with works drawn from
across periods.
In its beguiling and textured taxonomical curation and richly inter-layered presentation/s of art and artefact, the museum powerfully recalls the concepts and spaces of the Wu n d e r k a m m e r n a n d Cabinets of Curiosity of the earliest days of collection, and the encyclopaedic knowledge of the world produced by the acquisition and ordering of things. Exploring its rooms and objects produces a feeling of childlike glee; with potential and discovery around every corner, through every door, in every case.
Despite its museological roots, firmly embedded as they are in early and classic tropes of collecting, the museum is no stranger to major contemporary intervention/s within the collection; as in the summer of 2009 it hosted an exhibition by Banksy that featured more than seventy works of art, including animatronics and installations that played with and off and around the extant collection in an act of art-making/occupation/intervention that garnered huge amounts of public interest; transforming the museum into “a menagerie of Unnatural History”. This space then, crammed full of minerals, fossils, archaeological finds, art objects and technological innovations throughout history, was an intriguing one in which to encounter Do-Ho Suh’s immersive installation, which speaks to ideas of place and history, memory and identity. Indeed, according to museum curator Julia Carver, the space of the institution and collection as a whole intrigued the artist, who was “fascinated by the encyclopaedic model that attempted to present multiple cultures and histories through objects assembled from the globe and housed in one building. [For his installation within the collection] We discussed the idea of a floating corridor based on the one in Do Ho’s New York apartment - a space of transition assembled in the museum between cultures.”
Thus, although distinct from much of the
collection in terms of its artistic identity, that replicates a distinct space of negotiated place and contemporary identity, there are explicit links between the space of the installation, and the space of the museum; not least as sites of human inhabitance and knowledge.
The work was placed in an upper floor room in the museum as “the proportions of the brownstone corridor of 348 West 22nd Street match[ed] those of the museum’s galleries, with a similar style of wood panelling, skirting boards, double doors and even patterned grilles”; New York City Apartment Corridor/First Floor plus Ground Floor/Staircase/Bristol was based on the corridor of 348 West 22nd St, a space inhabited by the artist since 1997; but designed to engage with the architectural identity of its new(est) display space. This wasn’t the first time I encountered Do-Ho Suh’s work, or indeed, even one of the partial sections of the New York City Apartment suite; but it was to prove powerfully distinct from other occasions of (on)looking at these ephemeral, spectral structures due to the curatorial choices made at Bristol - which allowed for a more immersive encounter with the work than I had previously experienced. Often referred to as ‘ghost architecture’, the discrete spaces of New York City Apartment work together as an architectural whole but also function as a series of separate complete, complex spaces – that (en)act as impossibly detailed floating platforms of place, presenting fabric replicas of the space of the original New York architecture. Used to encountering his work as a series of frustratingly inaccessible architectural fragments in suspended animation, such as Staircase V as seen in the Hayward as part of the Psycho Buildings show in 2008 or the installation of Staircase III at the Tate Modern, 2011, finding that New York City Apartment Corridor/First Floor plus Ground Floor/Staircase/Bristol was a space that could not only be walked around but walked through, performing as a true corridor space, was revelatory.
Do-Ho Suh’s textile works are elaborate and intricate representations of real objects, spaces and places, recreating and replicating furniture, rooms and buildings; so excruciatingly detailed that rather than being simulacra of known places, they become totemic and monumental floating landscapes of what place might be; of all the houses and homes we have ever or never inhabited, located somewhere between remembered place and real space; the surreal colours of their nylon walls function as memento/es and memories of real spaces, but in their unusual materials or unexpected scale triggering a viewing response that verges on the uncanny. They are architecture (re)constructed on a human scale, containing the comforting architectonic minutiae of the implicit every-day, the things that keep our lives regular and regulated - appliances, radiators, bannisters, light switches, wiring etc. the communal spaces of stairwells and hallways - these spaces are recognisable, and familiar, but not necessarily comfortable, or comforting. We think of architecture, for the most part, as a benign backdrop. It houses, holds and shelters. It enfolds us, surrounds us while presenting and providing a space for identity, a safe space of belonging in place. In contrast to this, Do-Ho Suh’s works are as intriguing as they are at once (un)safe and (un)certain.
He famously stated, “I feel displaced even in the
house I grew up in” and has described his textile architecture as “a kind of architectural ‘ready-to-wear’” – playing with the idea of fabric and clothing as being the smallest space to enclose the human body; here the fabric cladding of inhabited space that holds the body is articulated as translucent walls, (un)stable spaces of permeable encounter, in no way habitable in a/ny sustained capacity – these are not spaces for living in, although they are also always undeniably lived place/s.
The feeling of displacement saturates Do-Ho Suh’s work, in all of its possible curatorial articulations, perhaps especially in those pieces that are suspended out of reach yet remain achingly familiar in a lived context; stitch-prefect staircases that go nowhere, leading the viewer to imagined spaces beyond the physical, architectural limit of the gallery ceiling; conjured from their recollections of past and present spaces. Indeed, the work itself, in its (re)presentation of a series of flexible spaces recalling permanent places that can be reconfigured in various arrangements, and yet folded into the space of two suitcases, echoes the wider themes of travel, impermanence and place/ placelessness evoked by the wider work of the artist as a whole.
Encountered in the vast architectural space of one of Bristol Museum’s galleries, itself full of period detailing, Do-Ho Suh’s Corridor rested, jewellike, in the centre of the room, in its contrasting hues of bright scarlet and seagreen nylon. Imposing one architectural reality into another, (super)imposing apartment onto gallery, produced a further sense of dislocation around the work; of displacement. The two spaces, that of the solid, massive containing infrastructure of the gallery and of the smaller, intricate and diaphanous corridor held within it, work with and against each other, in a liminal and unfolding dialogue of thresholds: entering the museum; the gallery and ultimately, the corridor – a space beyond and other and outside.
Engaging with the work involves stepping further into an architectural non-reality, into a place of otherness, of othering - meticulously reconstructed in translucent nylon, ghost buildings produced from an architecture of facsimile, transparent uninhabitable places: at once familiar, wistful, alien – a blurring of the real and material and the recalled or remembered spaces of other times. When encountered from outside Corridor is a discrete and beguiling space, slightly foreboding, as it feels like entry within its walls would be an act of trespass, illicit, forbidden. These spaces, constructed in almost hyper-real detail are enticing and entreating. They beckon, but also caution, lost, lived spaces existing beyond the living; but as (re)presented in the space of the Bristol Museum and Art Gallery once again occupied by those visiting the work. The controlled access to the piece (with a finite number of people permitted to enter the tensile structure at any one time) presented an intriguing aspect to encountering the work; the nylon environment encompassed and subsumed those already inhabiting the work – waiting to enter Corridor the figures of other viewers strolling within the hallway space became gauzy phantasms, their careful examination of the minutiae of the fixtures and the fittings, their wandering in the space, looking at walls, windows, stairwell seemed ghostly, otherworldly. Becoming, for the external viewer, peripheral aspects of the work; contradictory corporeal, phantom echoes of the people who once lived in the space as it stood in its architectonic reality, transposed into the gallery for the fragmentary moments they inhabited the work, displaced from their lived reality for a while as they strolled through the space, caught between the inter-subjective (re)presentation of experiential, domestic reality created by Do-Ho Suh and the way back into the discrete, concrete space of the gallery, and that of the(ir) real world beyond.
Described by Miwon Kwon as “Sculptures to Inhabit”, being able to cross the threshold into one of these works added much to the encounter with the work; while from the outside it is entirely possible to admire the form, fragility and precision of these simulacra, it is also possible to maintain a certain amount of academic distance; to deconstruct these stitched together realities and to analyse the fabric that makes up Do-Ho Suh’s engagement with questions of longing and belonging, place and placelessness. Inside the work is a very different matter, thinking becomes feeling, and distance ceases to intervene between self and work. Crossing the threshold of the work, walking through the door into the corridor beyond, light changes, perspective shifts. The polychrome nylon adds a softness to the light filtering into the work, a gauziness, suffusing the space with a cool greenish tone that seems to slow down time in the space of the work. Corridor is undeniably ‘real’, the hyper-real detailing of the surroundings ensure you are always rooted in an architectural reality that is recognisable; yet the uniform surface of the nylon is unfamiliar and disconcerting, rendering the material identity of the original void: plaster, glass, wood, metal all, now, fabric, retaining form without function. Nonetheless the space retains its former identity, through vestigial traces of things; the retained nuance of pattern and ingrained memory from lived space brought in from other places, each surface is clear, knowable, there and yet not there in this fabric version of space and structure; performing, as it does, a “porous architecture […] of fragile segregated spaces; nomadic structures, whose meaning “migrates as they move from place to place”. Inhabiting the work is unfamiliar and undeniably charming, Corridor is filled with a sense of quiet discovery surfaces that are diffused and indistinct, filtered through the complex layers of nylon that make up the space when viewed from the outside are sharp, clear; it is the outside space that is now indistinct.
In this space everyday objects become newly important; imbued with nuance and complexity. A light switch, a fuse box, a door bell – all are new and slightly strange; objects of wonder outside of their everyday reality – useless in terms of their original function; but retaining all of their object identity, symbolic significance and societal semiotics. Do-Ho Suh has stated “by making highly moveable site-specific installations, I question the concept not only of specificity but also of the site itself implied within the notion of site-specificity”; and indeed the work is as much aligned with replicating ideas of all or any place as with the liminal habitat of the perpetual non- or displace(ed). Rosalind Krauss theorized that what we now call site-specific art is “fundamentally indexical in nature: an imprint or a trace rather than a mimetic semblance of a referential presence”; an observation that Kwon builds upon, applying it directly to Do Ho Suh’s practice in her catalogue essay that accompanied the 2002 collaborative exhibition between the Serpentine Gallery, and the Seattle Art Museum stating his installations are ‘Clearly […] products of indexical procedures. […] They […] materialize in other locations and other contexts as a trace, as a marker of absent presence.
While indexical processes align Corridor within the collection of the Bristol Museum and Art Gallery, providing the world with a wider material identity, it is perhaps the pervasive idea of absent presence that is the thing that remains most powerfully after encountering one of Do-Ho Suh’s pieces. The space is one that remains in the imagination, ephemeral but present around the edges of other discrete, built and lived spaces; perhaps, because in their monumental original they are so closely connected to sites of memory, place and non-place, inhabited but uninhabitable: echoing and evoking a complex embodiment of space, identity and (be)longing through a performance of space and structure.
Meg Boulton PhD in Art History, Research affiliate at the University of York from York, England meg.boulton@york.ac.uk
Imagining Utopia
the art of
ALFREDO JAAR
In the words of my own mother, liberal twentysomethings take everything way too seriously. We extrapolate vast sagas of injury and deceit from minute interactions. Publications from The Wall Street Journal to The Atlantic Monthly have reported on the rise of “trigger warnings” in higher education. “A movement is arising, undirected and driven largely by students, to scrub campuses clean of words, ideas, and subjects that might cause discomfort or give offense.” This seek and destroy attitude towards words or actions that are either grossly unjust or only politically incorrect is even more apparent for anyone who frequents Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter. In 2013 Justine Sacco, a PR rep for IAC, tweeted, “Going to Africa. Hope I don’t get AIDs. Just kidding. I’m white!” According to Sacco, the tweet was meant as a joke about the sheltered ignorance of white, upper middle class Americans who might subconsciously harbor a thought like this. The Internet thought otherwise. Several hours later, IAC had fired Sacco in response to enormous pressure from Twitter users who saw the joke as a disgusting racist statement. Sacco’s public shaming (which is covered with great depth in Jon Ronson’s So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed ) is the vicious mutant form of an arguably noble sentiment. World history is riddled with racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia and countless other prejudices that have fueled witch hunts, genocide and war. The validation of these morally repulsive sentiments has come from world leaders, journalists, celebrities and other manifestations of popular culture and consciousness – shouldn’t we strike out against them and make it clear that we do not tolerate bigotry and the atrocities it breeds?
The short answer is “yes,” but that doesn’t fully address the endless cataloguing of wrongs that I see today on the Internet and amongst my peers. Everyone I know chronicles the injustices of our time on Facebook by sharing articles and videos that address causes important to them. True, the articles they post address serious social issues that we need to raise awareness about, but that is all they do – raise awareness. There is a difference between recognizing wrongs and righting them, between awareness and action. When do we stop collecting countless new stories of injustice and start rewriting them? Alfredo Jaar thinks it starts when we create art. I went to see Alfredo Jaar speak at the SVA Theatre in 2015, and I never forgot the experience. For Jaar, art making is a way to create utopia on earth. “The spaces of culture are the last spaces in which we are free to create new models of thinking about the world.” Jaar insists that he is not an “artist” – rather, he is an architect who makes art. To him, art is not an interest or a vocation, but a responsibility. The art world “”offers a space that’s not available anywhere else. We should use every available space.” Jaar believes that art allows us to think of new ways to imagine the future of our world and offers a rare space where our ability to imagine and create is unlimited by pragmatism and politics. I would like to present a few of Jaar’s installations and interventions that engage with geopolitical and social issues and explore the way in which he imagines new ways of living.
In 1999 Jaar installed brilliant red lights in the Copula of the Marche Bonsecours in Montreal that were activated by buttons (which he fittingly called ‘detonation devices’) in nearby homeless shelters. The flash of red lights, almost like a camera’s flash, allowed the homeless of Montreal to make themselves seen without compromising their privacy and dignity - it created a photograph without an image, and let the city see each time another person entered a shelter. “We wanted the Cupola to become a permanent monument of shame. These red lights connected to the shelters were my way of sending a distress signal to the city. The project took the presence of the homeless and broadcasted it into the civilized homogenous areas we try to exclude them from. It created a new version of the world where the homeless and impoverished were the focus of our attention and we work together to find and destroy the cause of their poverty.”
The city of Montreal took down the red light installation shortly after installation: youth in the shelters began sitting around the button pressing it over and over, saying again and again “we are here, see us,” and the mayor found it a disturbance to the community and the tourism industry. According to Jaar, “like all of my projects, it failed. We did not give the homeless a home. We did not resolve their problem. We gave them a brief, hopeful moment when they regained their humanity, when people started acknowledging their presence, smiled at them, when the press also contributed to the dialogue, but eventually they returned to their status as homeless.” Another of Jaar’s interventions, The Cloud, involved the release of 3,000 balloons as an “ephemeral monument” to the estimated 3,000 people who had died between 1990 and 2000 while crossing the US-Mexico border. “The Cloud lasted 45 minutes in which we offered a space and time of mourning. Music was played on both sides of the border, symbolically uniting a divided land and people. Poetry was read and a moment of silence was observed. “Jaar has long been interested in the divide between the United States and the countries of Central and South America. In his Logo for America, Jaar made explicit the disdain the US seems to have for its continental neighbors. Logo for America was an animated display in Times Square that Jaar created for the Times Square Advertising Coalition in 1987 (and which was briefly restaged in 2014). It featured an outline of the US map with the words This Is Not America emblazoned across it.
US’s use of the
Jaar wanted to d r a w attention to the word “America” to describe only the United
States, when the word also describes Central and South America. “Language is not innocent and reflects a geopolitical reality,” says Jaar. “The use of the word America in the U.S.A., erroneously referring only to the U.S.A. and not to the entire continent is a clear manifestation of the political, financial, and cultural domination of the U.S.A. of the rest of the continent.” Jaar’s work in The Cloud and Logo for America reimagines the world in two ways. First, the music and poetry shared during the staging of The Cloud symbolically erases the border between the US and Mexico – sound and balloons are able to travel freely across it in a way that human beings cannot. The action both draws attention to the arbitrary nature of national borders and the tragically ludicrous destruction of human life in defense of it. A Logo for America reinforces this idea of the arbitrariness of borders by demonstrating our own ignorance and our misuse of geographical terms to describe our own country. Second, both interventions stage an artistic event in settings that normally wouldn’t see them. The border between Mexico and the United States has been a site of bloodshed for hundreds of years – Jaar’s The Cloud makes it a space of healing and beauty (however briefly). The screens of Times Square are a hub of advertising and commercialism – Jaar uses them to educate, chastise and inspire his viewers. Do Jaar’s works actually inspire social change? It is difficult to tell. When I saw him speak at the SVA theatre I was inspired and excited about the possibilities that art could provide us – could we imagine innovative solutions to the world’s problems rather than simply recording them?
Could we use art to become actors in history, not just spectators? It is much easier to collect art than to make art, to read about ideas than to have original ones yourself. It isn’t a bad thing to be informed. But the next step is not more of the same; the next step is the next step – something new. Rather than dwell in the injustices of this world, should we get off the Internet and imagine the joys of a new world without them?
Cecilia Cammisa Freelance Writer from Philadelphia, PA ceciliaisoldecammisa@gmail.com
DOVE NASCE LA
BIENNALE DI VENEZIA
É comune iniziare la storia della Biennale, la più longeva tra le gradi istituzioni espositive, nei poco istituzionali salottini del caffè Florian. D’altronde è assodato che i grandi caffè avevano assunto fin dal secolo precedente un ruolo sociale del tutto nuovo: ai loro tavoli sono nati manifesti politici e letterari, sono stati organizzati complotti e rivoluzioni, tanto che, come ha affermato Piero Bargellini, «non si potrebbe scrivere una pagina di storia né letteraria né artistica dell'Ottocento senza citare il nome di un caffè». Anche le radici dell’ideazione di un ente come la Biennale sono legate alle discussioni di intellettuali seduti al caffè, impegnati a congetturare e fantasticare su un’iniziativa che potesse rivitalizzare la scoraggiata situazione artistica e culturale della loro città. Tali radici sono però piantate anche in un terreno molto più vasto e complesso. Sono ancorate all’ampio progetto politico dell’allora sindaco Riccardo Selvatico, impegnato a rinvigorire la città di Venezia attraverso un programma in gran parte sviluppato su riforme culturali; sono ben fondate nell’ambiente accademico veneziano, formato da docenti e allievi impegnati a portare a Venezia nuovi stimoli, tessendo un fitto groviglio di relazioni con l’estero e con le altre esperienze espositive italiane; sono infine indissolubilmente legate alla figura di Antonio Fradeletto, dibattuto perno attorno al quale ha ruotato l’intero organismo della Biennale fino al primo dopoguerra.
Un sindaco-poeta, desideroso di dare un apporto significativo al decollo della città, è il primo protagonista di questa vicenda. Il periodo di gestazione dell’Esposizione Internazionale d’Arte della Città di Venezia risale infatti al mandato del sindaco laico e progressista Riccardo Selvatico nella prima metà degli anni Novanta dell’Ottocento. Selvatico sentì come propria missione personale il rilancio culturale ed economico di Venezia, e indubbiamente l’ideazione e attuazione dell’Esposizione fu il suo successo più illustre, e durevole, in entrambi gli ambiti. Fattore determinante nel successo dell’impresa fu la doppia figura di Selvatico, il “sindaco poeta”, spesso impropriamente chiamato anche “sindaco artista”. Non si rende giustizia alle doti politiche di Riccardo Selvatico, se non si ricolloca la Biennale all’interno del vasto progetto politico maturato e sapientemente mandato avanti dal sindaco per la città di Venezia. Il progetto dell’Esposizione si dispone in questa complessa e multiforme azione di governo e Riccardo Selvatico motivò così l’idea della mostra: «Che l’Esposizione riesca al duplice scopo di giovare al decoro ed all’incremento dell’arte e di creare ed avviare qui un mercato artistico dal quale la Città può sperare un vantaggio non lieve». Egli mandava avanti così un piano d’azione che univa la necessità di “far fruttare la storia”, come il sindaco stesso diceva, di rendere cioè la tradizione e il folclore economicamente fertili, a un’intuizione altrettanto acuta, quella per la quale una città come Venezia potesse trasformarsi in un’officina di modernità.
«Di tredici secoli di ricchezza e di gloria non rimangono ora che ceneri e pianto» scriveva Lord Byron. E Ruskin gli fa eco: «un fantasma sulle sabbie del mare, così debole, così silenzioso, così spoglio di tutto al di fuori della sua bellezza che qualche volta, quando ammiriamo il suo languido riflesso sulla laguna, rimaniamo incerti su quale sia la città e quale la sua ombra». Lungo tutto l’Ottocento la città stessa e di conseguenza anche gli artisti veneziani, si erano interrogatati sul proprio destino: sin dove conservare e sin dove cambiare? Cosa ricordare e cosa dimenticare?.
Selvatico, consapevole che il peso della celebrazione del passato stava rischiando di
prevalere sulla capacità e volontà di rinnovamento, portò avanti con risolutezza l’obiettivo di portare a Venezia un nuovo turismo, che doveva accantonare le indicazioni ruskiniane sulla città (che avevano istruito generazioni di estimatori degli splendori passati) esplorando nuovi percorsi in cui il fasto antico potesse visivamente amalgamarsi con la modernità e il progresso. L’invito a celebrare le nozze d’argento dei sovrani «con manifestazioni degne di un augusto anniversario», rivolto ai sindaci delle città italiane da una circolare del ministro Rattazzi, il 15 luglio 1892, procur l'opportunità di respingere ogni diffidenza ed evitare gli ostacoli che un’iniziativa libera e indipendente del sindaco e dei suoi amici avrebbe altrimenti incontrato. La proposta dell’Esposizione Poteva così essere presentata nella relazione della Giunta come una forma di dignitosa e originale beneficenza, «omaggio a quella Monarchia che ha dato agli Italiani la Patria».
Sono i veneziani, pittori e scultori dell’Accademia di Belle Arti, docenti e allievi, personaggi appartenenti alla Società Promotrice e al Circolo Artistico, i veri protagonisti della storia della Biennale alle sue origini, coinvolti in diversa misura nella nascita di un’idea, nella sua attuazione, nella gestione e nell’amministrazione di un ente destinato in poco tempo a crescere smisuratamente. Dobbiamo dunque ritornare tra le sontuose stanze del caffè Florian, in Piazza San Marco, dove effettivamente artisti, docenti, intellettuali e personalità di spicco dell’ambiente culturale veneziano si recavano per trascorrere qualche ora dopo gli studi, gli impegni amministrativi, le conferenze e le lezioni. Ai tavolini del caffè sedevano gli artisti Mario de Maria, Alessandro Zezzos, Bartolomeo Bezzi, Emilio Marsili e Augusto Sezanne. Vi erano poi altri personaggi noti dell’ambiente veneziano, come l’ingegner Minio, Filippo Grimani, futuro sindaco della città e presidente della biennale fino al 1914 e il filosofo Giovanni Bordiga, che la presiede dal 1920 al 1924. Le occasionali riunioni diventarono in poco tempo organizzate e attive e al piccolo manipolo del caffè Florian si aggregarono parecchi altri tra gli artisti locali più accreditati e di maggiore fama, tra cui Luigi Nono, Guglielmo Ciardi, Cesare Laurenti, Antonio Dal Zotto. Sicuramente, una volta presa la decisione di rendere la mostra di carattere internazionale, si movimentarono con grande impegno molti altri artisti veneziani, che provvidero a stabilire i contatti con i colleghi d’oltralpe sfruttando le relazioni di amicizia e di collaborazione intrecciate in tanti anni di mostre all’estero. La Commissione nominata dal Comune per definire il regolamento venne composta «per metà di cittadini noti per l’amore per l’arte e per la lunga pratica d’affari, e per l’altra metà di artisti scelti fra i colleghi risiedenti a Venezia».
E’ necessario soffermarsi, infine, sul fondamentale ruolo di un altro personaggio veneziano, Antonio Fradeletto: dal 1895 al 1914 ed oltre, egli rappresentò un punto di riferimento per gli artisti italiani ed europei, per i critici d’arte e gli intenditori. Ma ciò che sicuramente sorprende, e che rende da sempre la figura di Fradeletto discussa e studiata, è la sua provenienza da un contesto di studi ed una preparazione professionale completamente estranei al mondo dell’arte. Docente di lingua e letteratura italiana e di storia alla Regia Scuola Superiore di Commercio in Venezia (1881-1930), Fradeletto non aveva compiuto studi artistici, non si occupava di arte e di rado era stato coinvolto nell’ambiente dell’Accademia veneziana di Belle Arti. Eppure, nonostante questa iniziale estraneità al mondo artistico, era stata unanimemente considerata la persona giusta in grado di caricare su di se tutte le responsabilità della nascente Esposizione Internazionale. Docente universitario, organizzatore culturale e conferenziere di successo, Fradeletto era unanimemente riconosciuto come un factotum nello scenario della cultura veneziana. Tuttavia, come spesso accade, non erano state soltanto le sue riconosciute doti intellettuali a dargli un posto di primo piano nel panorama veneziano. Fondamentale era stato anche un ingegnoso intreccio di conoscenze importanti, ed in particolare il sodalizio con Riccardo Selvatico. Fradeletto era rimasto a lungo appartato rispetto al fervore di idee che stavano nascendo attorno al progetto di una nuova esposizione d’arte a Venezia e di ciò che si diceva al Florian veniva informato dall’amico Selvatico. Non dobbiamo sorprenderci del ruolo secondario di Fradeletto durante questa fase: era sagacemente indaffarato ad inserirsi in tutte le manifestazioni e di iniziative culturali di Venezia. Quando però cominciò ad aumentare l’impegno organizzativo della nascente Biennale, il sindaco-poeta nominò al suo fianco, come segretario generale dell’Esposizione, Antonio Fradeletto, che risultò la persona giusta nel posto giusto.
Nonostante le polemiche, inevitabilmente presenti durante tutto il mandato di Fradeletto, «egli s’insediò nella saletta della biblioteca del Comune, poco discosta dal gabinetto del Sindaco, che era divenuto anche l’Ufficio di Presidenza», e vi rimase per undici biennali, fino al 1914. Una così repentina affermazione del Segretario nelle alte sfere della Biennale, avvenuta nonostante la sua formazione non ortodossa nel settore artistico, e una così duratura permanenza ha da sempre imposto riflessioni, ma come la storiografia ha, a ragione, ininterrottamente riconosciuto, l’autorità di Fradeletto, il suo carattere determinato e risoluto, la sua perspicacia e il senso pratico sono state armi indispensabili con cui il Segretario Generale difese l'ente e superò gli ostacoli che ne avrebbero altrimenti provocato la precoce fine. Fradeletto seppe essere misurato e astuto, rigoroso e assolutistico e seppe cogliere tutti gli stimoli necessari alla buona riuscita dei suoi propositi. Nonostante Fradeletto non riuscì mai ad ottenere quella padronanza del mondo dell’arte, né quella sensibilità estetica che avevano avuto quanti contribuirono alla fondazione dell’Esposizione, senza il suo energico assolutismo, non ne festeggeremmo, quest’anno, il 121esimo anniversario.
Matilde Ferrarin Studentessa di Storia dell’Arte da Verona, Italia matilde.ferrarin@gmail.com
Román Eguía
Premio Nacional mexicano de Grabado
“La inspiración existe pero no es inducida. No llega, se busca” GGR –Desde que conversamos en Madrid, has hecho varias exposiciones y además has cambiado técnicas. Ahora estás ocupado con el acrílico y óleo sobre lienzo. Dijiste aquella vez cómo estás muy definido por tu técnica, el grabado. En tu obra de grabador, “Gabinetes de exploración”, por ejemplo, tenías un interés muy científico y detallista por la naturaleza pues eres una persona muy minuciosa. Quizá ahora el lienzo te esté llevando hacia otros aspectos más estéticos… RE –Claro, el grabado, al ser dibujo, pues lo que más explota es la línea, los volúmenes… En el caso de la pintura, donde ya empiezo a trabajar con óleo, pinceles, rodillos, se involucran más cosas, como el color, que en el dibujo no estaba o en el grabado está de manera muy limitada. Aquí ya el color empieza a figurar más: las texturas, las transparencias, el espacio más amplio. Ya no es solamente el dibujo o, a lo mejor, el dibujo no es tan preponderante. A lo mejor ya no me interesa hacer este dibujo tan preciosista sino encontrar cómo funcionan los colores, cómo se relacionan en un espacio de tela.
Que además es ya gran formato, algo radicalmente distinto al grabado. Sí, realmente fue complicado cambiar de formato para mí porque yo estaba acostumbrado a cosas pequeñas, al dibujo. En Madrid compré una libreta de estudios y, en ratos libres, dibujaba, y, de alguna manera, entendía una forma distinta de abordar mi trabajo. Yo antes me iba directamente a la placa, a la tela, al papel, era muy directa mi relación con la obra. La libreta me hizo empezar a acercarme a mi trabajo de otro modo: planearlo y luego ya decidir. Aunque termine siendo pintura, grabado, etc., siempre el eje inicial va a ser el dibujo muy estudiado. A veces las piezas parten de algo muy sencillo, pero lo importante no es tanto la idea inicial sino cómo la acompañas. Cada pieza es una suerte de relación. Yo sé que mi relación con el grabado es muy cordial [risas]. El grabado y yo nos llevamos muy bien porque mi naturaleza es de dibujante. Con la pintura, de repente, la relación es un poquito más tormentosa, pero en ambos, en lo que haga, siempre hay un trabajo de busca de acuerdos. Siempre pienso que una pintura se abandona cuando ya estás de acuerdo con ella y piensas “ya no le puedo hacer nada más”.
En este trasvase entre técnicas, me contaste cómo habías completado tu formación de grabador a partir del aprendizaje de técnicas joyeras; tu grabado se hizo más preciosista y delicado. Como grabador, ¿cómo varía tu grabado a partir de la pintura? Eso es algo bien interesante [piensa largo rato] porque va a cambiar… Hablo de mí como grabador que pinta, pero es curioso pensar en el otro lado, por ejemplo, en Giorgio Morandi o Lucian Freud, pintores que hacían grabado. Sus grabados se ven como si tuvieran pinceladas rasgadas en el metal. Sus líneas son de pintor, no de dibujante. Yo estoy convencido que, a medida que me involucro con otras técnicas, el enriquecimiento es recíproco. Va a terminar por cambiar y creo que lo que más va a influir es en los colores. Pero, a final de cuentas, el arte no se nutre necesariamente de arte, sino de todos tus intereses, los más cotidianos y sinceros; las aficiones que tienes… A mí me gusta mucho la cocina y cocinar consiste en procesos. Me funciona el orden y la limpieza en la cocina o el taller porque es una especie de ritual. Siempre he pensado que, por ejemplo, un torero no empieza a torear cuando sale al ruedo, sino desde que lo están vistiendo dos horas antes, porque empieza a concentrarse. También un artista es artista en casi todo lo que hace. Sí; yo creo que los rituales son esenciales en cualquier dedicación… Además, desmitifican un poquito esta parte de la inspiración. No es algo que te llegue de manera divina, sino que viene de un trabajo previo, de la dinámica que creas en torno a ti.
Me alegra que menciones lo de desmitificar la concepción romántica de la inspiración que aún creo que la gente sigue teniendo del artista, que tiene un acceso de inspiración y en una noche hace su gran obra. Por lo que conozco tu obra, creo que tú tomas muy en serio tu arte, lo tienes, en su mejor sentido, profesionalizado. Me recuerda al proceso de trabajo de Picasso quien tomaba seriamente estos protocolos: tenía una producción diaria, un registro exhaustivo, horarios... Y toda su producción, aunque dé giros inesperados de técnica, guarda una línea muy definida por sus preocupaciones recurrentes. Es que ocurre que la inspiración sí existe, pero no es algo que se induzca. No es algo que llega; es algo que se busca. Les puede suceder a las personas creativas que lleguen a sentir culpabilidad por pensar que no hacen nada extraordinario, sólo mostrar algo que vieron. Pero la creatividad es eso: tomar entre lo que encuentras, recuerdas, imaginas… No eres artista necesariamente porque hagas algo que no existe, porque realmente nadie hace cosas de la nada.
Y además no es igual mirar que ver. Se puede estar mirando sin ver absolutamente nada. Sí, y ayer alguien me decía en la inauguración: “tú que eres artista debes ser una persona muy culta”, y no. Obviamente, te gusta el conocimiento porque es, como el arte, transformador, pero no necesariamente saber mucho de algo te da cualidades. No soy artista por una cuestión técnica ni por una cuestión de conocimiento sino por una cuestión de percepción.
Nunca me decido si lo pienso sobre el artista, el espectador, o el crítico, pero tienen la facultad de catalizar sensaciones que, aunque existen, no todo el mundo consigue condensar en algo material. Sí, claro. Yo creo que todos, independientemente de nuestra profesión, tenemos que ser eso, un punto de encuentro de cosas. Las personas tenemos que tomar esa actitud ante la vida.
Ayer recordaba una frase de Arthur Rimbaud que pienso que encaja con tu carrera. Él creía que el compromiso del poeta, o artista, era encontrar esas percepciones y “hallar una lengua” con que transmitirlas. Sí, es eso. Hay quien piensa que se es artista porque se tiene un tema, por ejemplo, el paisaje, pero eso no es. Como lo dices ahora, cuando encuentras un lenguaje personal tan decantado, pulido, eso está por encima de la técnica o temática. Lo importante es cuando un artista tiene personalidad, que es lo verdaderamente complicado. Son tantas cosas: conocimiento, aprendizaje técnico, personalidad, intereses…, que solamente dedicándole tu vida completa, y siendo artista veinticuatro horas al día, se puede alcanzar al menos un poco a encontrar ese lenguaje.
Ya que ha salido la temática, me interesaba ésta en relación a tus últimas pinturas. Me hablaste de cómo encontrabas una estrecha relación entre la técnica gráfica y la idea de la memoria… Q u e r í a p re g u n t a r t e : ¿ q u é temáticas te están ocupando en la pintura? Siempre me gusta pensar mis piezas como pequeños contenedores de tiempo. Represento mucho estas puntas de flecha, llamadas chuzos, del desierto de Coahuila, porque me parecen una muy bonita analogía de la memoria. Cada golpe termina siendo un evento, positivo o negativo: la memoria racional a la que puedes acceder. Las aves me gustan mucho; las pienso como si fueran ideas. Hay un cuadro que expuse en Saltillo que se llamó “Tres pensamientos a la deriva”: a una mujer acostada le salen tres pájaros de la cabeza; uno está en la frente, otro muerto en la espalda del otro pájaro, y el otro sobrevolando, muy lejano. Son los distintos pensamientos. Y la figura de la mujer también resulta recurrente. Lo planteo como misterio porque, para mí, simboliza la búsqueda de resolver algo.
Sí, no había visto que apareciera el retrato de la mujer en tus grabados; me sorprendió porque lo identifiqué con el cambio al gran formato… Sí, en el grabado no existía. De hecho, durante los primeros seis años sólo hacía plantas. Veía la naturaleza como una escuela para hacer grabado, aprender, comprender y experimentar.
Para terminar, Román, me interesa especialmente esta última parte de tu obra, la que no conocí en Madrid: ¿qué es lo más importante que te está dando la pintura en esta etapa? Creo que lo que más respetaría sería el aceptarme, ya de manera intencional, como un artista con metodología de grabador afianzada. Cuando hago joyería, lo hago como grabador; cuando hago pintura, lo hago como grabador. Al principio me causaba un poquito de conflicto que mis pinturas no se vieran como pinturas, pero es que, a fin de cuentas, no soy un pintor.
Me siento muy cómodo en lo que estoy haciendo. A partir de ahí, ya puedo empezar a trabajar con eso, no de manera tan tímida ni con miedo. Ahora creo estar ganando mucha libertad en mi trabajo.
Gabriela Giménez de la Riva Profesional de la cultura / Crítica de Arte desde Málaga ggimenezdelariva@gmail.com
UNA HISTORIA DE VIOLENCIA (animada con pinturas del XIX) “Resulta fácil y reconfortante reconocerse entre los reflejos luminosos de aquellos siglos; en cambio, es mucho más incómodo y problemático mirar de frente a la oscuridad. Y es que, nos guste o no, también en su crueldad, irracionalidad y pragmatismo extremos se encuentra nuestro propio reflejo”
La historia universal se rige por las leyes de la destrucción. Desde el origen del hombre la incesante lucha por los recursos o simplemente por el dominio ha generado una recalcitrante sintomatología en las manifestaciones culturales ya sean artísticas o antropológicas. Esta inminente condición es la que ha escrito con sangre las páginas de nuestra historia y la que ha forjado con candente hierro las religiones. Hacia el 2450 a.C. una horda de guerreros armados de Lagash avanzó hacia la vecina ciudad de Umma a fin de destruirla, su dios Ningirsu, les facilitó el trabajo sometiendo a aquéllas gentes a terribles castigos tal y como nos muestra la Estela de los Buitres; Ramsés II, tras una sangrienta batalla en Kadesh, consiguió mitigar la amenaza hitita, así lo narran los relieves del Rameseum hacia el 1237 a.C.; los frisos del templo de Afaia en Egina exhiben orgullosos como Temístocles, con la ayuda de los eginetas y espartanos, consiguió destruir la flota persa allá por el 480 a.C.; la institucionalización de la violencia durante el Imperio Romano tiñó de rojo una cultura que influenció fuertemente la sociedad occidental, como más adelante veremos; los martirologios, tan populares durante el Medievo, se convirtieron en la fuente de inspiración para todo “artista” desde la génesis del cristianismo;
el lenguaje que galardonaba la nueva y refinada cultura del renacimiento no hacía más que travestir una truculenta realidad, ¿o acaso la cruda escena que protagoniza el David de Donatello, pisando sutilmente la cabeza del gigante Goliat, deja de ser violenta gracias a la andrógina y sinuosa figura del joven?; en el siglo XVI Pieter Bruegel el Viejo retrata la visión apocalíptica de la destrucción a través del triunfo de la muerte; ya sea con Caravaggio en Italia o con Valdés Leal en España, el fenómeno se alza como la auténtica pandemia de la cultura, una afección interiorizada, asimilada y traducida en muchas ocasiones de manera encubierta. No existe periodo de tregua, no existe una historia de la no destrucción, la esclavitud, el horror y el caos a través de la violencia nos han perseguido desde los albores de la humanidad, inexorable es, por tanto, que todo arte encierre un lado destructivo. El siglo XX no es más que la punta del iceberg, la circulación, acceso e inmediatez de la información habla mucho más que las fuentes antiguas, creando en nosotros la idea de que el cataclismo es más inminente a día de hoy. La espectacularidad con la que la tecnología bélica se ha desarrollado en los últimos años nos aleja de la idea diacrónica con la que tenemos que contemplar el pasado: todas las épocas experimentaron una sofisticación tecnológica hacia una búsqueda más asequible del dolor, la muerte y la destrucción.
Así por ejemplo durante el siglo III d.C. la legión romana introdujo unos importantes avances tecnológicos en su panoplia incorporando lalancea como arma arrojadiza, ya que su coste de producción era menor y la distancia de alcance mucho mayor, o la plumbata, que consistía en una flecha lastrada con abultamiento de plomo que incrementaba su poder de penetración. Los 4437 años que separan el Estandarte de Ur del Guernica de Picasso son la prueba inequívoca de que la violencia, la destrucción y la muerte son el leit motiv de una historia que tiene como protagonista al hombre. A pesar de la insistente presencia del fenómeno durante todos los momentos de nuestra historia, el Imperio Romano propició una coyuntura perfecta pocas veces superada. No debemos olvidar que la gloria del imperio y la apertura de sus fronteras, desde Britannia a Cappadocia, sucedió a golpe de gladius, gracias a una sociedad extremadamente militarizada. Esta población se convierte en la institución matriz donde se diagraman los modelos vinculares que van a tener mayor impronta en los individuos que la componen, haciendo posibles grandes
urbes
donde
“autodepredadores egoicos” convivieron utilizando la violencia como el único modo de actuación.
El modelo social en la antigua Roma reconoció la imposibilidad de escapar a esa tortuosa realidad convirtiéndose en un elemento autodestructivo que frustraba las posibilidades de experimentar el mundo en modo nutritivo, asistiendo a una ley incondicional de dependencia en el que uno es el amo y otro el esclavo. De este modo se hicieron posibles manifestaciones culturales tan brutales como las ejecuciones en el anfiteatro, la marginación funeraria o las maldiciones más escurridizas, todas ellas orgullosamente representadas a través del arte y cuyos vestigios aún afloran en nuestra sociedad. La dualidad amo-esclavo, cobró protagonismo en muchos aspectos de la vida del romano, la más simple e irrebatible de sus manifestaciones violentas es la esclavitud como modo de explotación, podemos extremar este fenómeno si la consideramos como un medio económico de compraventa y agudizar su atrocidad si la reducimos a ámbito infantil, un comportamiento más que demostrado5 perceptible aún a día de hoy.
La lacerante escena del comercio de esclavos caló en el imaginario decimonónico, como manifiesta Jean-Léon Gérôme en 1862 y Gustave Boulanger en 1887, sendas creaciones inspiradas en una conducta evidentemente violenta y destructiva. Alejándonos de la naturaleza somática de la sociedad y acercándonos a la divina, el problema se hace más acuciante aún, no sólo basándonos en una simple lectura de su historia, sino en los rituales que éstas imprimen en las sumisas hordas de fieles. En la antigua Roma, uno de los casos más evidentes lo protagoniza la serena y virtuosa figura de las vestales, sacerdotisas de la diosa Vesta. La ortodoxa vida de estas mujeres comienza entre los seis y los diez años, congregadas en collegia en grupos de seis. Muchos privilegios favorecen su condición de mediadoras, pero también quedan sometidas a duras restricciones. La virginidad es una cláusula que debe quedar asegurada durante treinta años.
Si en cualquier caso ésta norma se violase la pena inmediata sería la muerte. Las fuentes nos han permitido conocer trece casos de «incesto» penalizados, seguramente fueron muchos más los suicidios para evadir tal castigo. Entre las vestales conocidas destaca Orbinia, cuyo suplicio conocemos gracias a la descripción que de él hace Dionisio de Halicarnaso: “Orbinia viene immediatamente allontanata dai sacra, processata e riconosciuta colpevole; dopo essere stata batutta con verghe, la conducono attraverso la città fino al luogho di sepoltura. Termina a questo punto la pestilenza e la strage de donne”. El martirio de las trece vestales conocidas fue exactamente el mismo, sepultadas vivas con un poco de pan y de agua, totalmente aisladas a la espera de la muerte. En este caso el delito viene provocado por la contaminación de la relación con lo sagrado. Augusto Fraschetti propone el origen del suplicio durante la monarquía romana, concretamente bajo el reinado de Tarquinio Prisco (616 a. C. – 578 a. C.), coincidiendo con la muerte de la primera vestal (Pinaria), aunque no descarta la idea de que se trate de un ritual formalizado a partir de una leyenda8 fruto de la mescolanza del espacio-tiempo, tradiciones, cuentos e historia.
La pureza y dulzura que Frederick Leighton imprimió en el siglo XIX en la representación ideal de una vestal (fig. 2) lejos se encuentra de la quebradiza y frágil realidad que éstas encierran: uno de los primeros casos documentados de violencia de género por imposición religiosa. La más inicua de las manifestaciones que germinaron durante la antigüedad romana fue la del anfiteatro. Más allá de los tópicos arraigados por la sociedad actual que nos conducen a una imagen perniciosa fruto de juicios de valores realizados por historiadores, o de la morbosa percepción romántica de ese espacio (fig.3). El anfiteatro fue un auténtico microcosmos de liberación a la ideología imperial y al pragmático sentido de ciudad que tanto caracterizó la antigua civilización. Para que este icono del mundo antiguo alcanzase tal status debemos aludir sucintamente a sus orígenes. La religión romana exigió una serie de manifestaciones cultuales concretas, en todas ellas la sangre jugó un papel fundamental (sólo tenemos que pensar en el taurobolio o el poder de la sangre virginal), era pues, en este espaciodonde se realizaban algunas de estas tareas rituales ligadas con el mundo funerario. Es posible que, fascinados por la naturaleza universal y atemporal conexa a la muerte, el pueblo llano comenzara a acudir a estos rituales en los albores de la civilización itálica.
Durante la república, grandes patricios vieron en este comportamiento una oportunidad de acallar a la plebe, así como un medio para poder enriquecerse a costa del comercio con gladiadores. El anfiteatro se convirtió en un auténtico laboratorio del ocio, un espacio de suspensión momentánea de la realidad donde contemplar y controlar lo incontrolable. El impacto que protagonizó esta construcción supuso una conversión a un espacio de estrategia política, donde se controlaba mesuradamente cada palabra pronunciada. El riquísimo y complejo mosaico que formaba la conjunción social, ritual, ética y política realizada en el anfiteatro generó un nuevo sistema de comunicación visual, que inundaba la vida cotidiana de la ciudad (mosaicos, pinturas, relieves, juguetes…).
La espectacularidad con la que se consolidó este fenómeno de amplificación social no permitió que nadie cuestionara las cláusulas emanadas del anfiteatro. La violencia fue el elemento canalizador de todas estas manifestaciones sociales, la sangre el combustible que permitió su funcionamiento y la muerte el éxtasis. La brutalidad del espectáculo embriagaba a un público desinhibido, incluso algunos emperadores dejaron al descubierto un estado de crueldad e irracionalidad sin límites. Entre los siglos II d.C. y IV d.C. la religión cristiana comenzó a calar en la sociedad romana, la oficialidad de la religión pagana imposibilitó la convivencia de ambos cultos durante estos años.
Los practicantes cristianos fueron duramente represaliados, el miedo a terribles torturas les condujo a reunirse clandestinamente para oficiar sus liturgias y a desarrollar un lenguaje iconográfico particular. La parte cristiana adoptó el papel de sumisión respecto al dominio pagano manifestado en clave de la violencia más brutal. Para tal empresa las fuerzas romanas no atendieron a atenuantes de género o edades, las penas se impartieron por igual. Una vez que el cristianismo se configuró como religión oficial las actas de mártires se encargaron de recoger todos aquéllos héroes del cristianismo. He aquí el testimonio de una de las pocas mártires conocidas recogido en un acta de mártires:
“Y añadió Anulio a los oficiales del tribunal: Hay que dejar a esta mujer totalmente fea, y así empezad por raerle a navaja la cabeza, para que la fealdad comience por la cara”.
Ramón Melero Guirado Profesional de museos desde Cazorla, Jaén rmeleroguirado@gmail.com
INTRODUCCIÓN A LA ARQUEOLOGÍA DE LA MUERTE
1.
INTRODUCCIÓN.
Sin duda alguna la muerte es la última fase de la vida, un fallecimiento es un acontecimiento que altera la normalidad y la rutina de la actividad social (BINFORD 1972). Esta situación conlleva a una serie de rituales funerarios (accidentales o intencionados). Dependiendo del tipo de sociedad o la época en los que se realicen, variaran dependiendo de la evolución socio-cultural de cada civilización, lo que nos permite a través del estudio de sus sepulturas y el conocimiento de sus rituales, conocer en profundidad a la sociedad que los efectúa. Grosso modo hablamos de la Arqueología de la Muerte. Un sistema metodológico que surgió a partir de los años 60 con el nacimiento de la nueva arqueología, abandonando ese carácter historicista que se venía desarrollando a lo largo de los S. XIX y XX. Y desarrollándose con la arqueología procesual en adelante. Susana Abad Mir nos define en el número 3 de la revista Historiae la arqueología de la muerte como: “un campo de la investigación arqueológica que nace en el seno de la denominada arqueología procesual anglo-americana de los años sesenta. Su objeto de estudio son las prácticas funerarias de las sociedades humanas y, por extensión, el impacto que tiene la muerte sobre los miembros de dichas comunidades”. (ABAD MIR, 2006). En un primer momento dentro del marco de la arqueología moderna se establecerán una serie de pautas metódicas relativamente simples que ayudaran a la documentación y a ofrecer una interpretación de las sepulturas que se 2excavan (arqueología procesual).
No obstante, no tardaran en aparecer críticas por parte de la arqueología post-procesual, ya que estas “normas para la documentación arqueológica” son muy simplistas para el ámbito en el que se desarrollan. Es decir, el ámbito místico que rodea la muerte, conlleva un gran simbolismo y que no se deberían de llegar a interpretaciones científicas documentando solamente los objetos de carácter material que se encuentran en las sepulturas, sin pensar en el valor simbólico que pueden poseer esos objetos. Estas críticas, fueron bien acogidas con el paso del tiempo, los propios arqueólogos procesuales admitieron que su sistema era demasiado simple para el estudio del ámbito funerario, ya que tiene muchas dimensiones y que no se pueden anteponer unas a otras, sino que deben ser estudiadas todas por igual y en conjunto (CHAPA, 1990).
2.
METODOLOGÍA
Hoy por hoy, la arqueología de la muerte sigue siendo un tema de debate desde el punto de vista teórico, sin embargo, se han establecido una serie de principios básicos para su documentación y a partir de esas pautas desarrollar diferentes visiones y perspectivas que puedan ofrecer otros puntos de vista en su interpretación. Se dan tres niveles de estudio: el nivel Macro-espacial, el cual se encarga de estudiar la relación de las diferentes necrópolis con el poblado y la geografía en la que están situados. El nivel semi-espacial, estudia las posiciones de las necrópolis y su orientación con respecto al paisaje, destacando si aparecen estructuras que no sean de carácter funerario y el micro-espacial, encargado de interpretar los ajuares de cada sepultura de forma individual. Una vez que ya conocemos muy resumidamente los niveles de estudio dentro de la arqueología de la muerte pasaremos a nombrar muy brevemente los aspectos metodológicos a tener en cuenta para iniciarnos en la investigación. En primer lugar encontramos los datos topográficos, los cuales nos hablan sobre la posición de la necrópolis con respecto al poblado, el número de necrópolis, su posición en el paisaje que lo rodea, si existe o no estructuras que delimitan el espacio sagrado, la localización de cada sepultura dentro de la necrópolis y su orientación, la posición del ajuar funerario que contiene cada sepultura (en el caso de que lo tuviera) e incluso la posición de otras estructuras (por ejemplo un espacio para incinerar a los difuntos, ustrinum) En segundo lugar profundizamos en la construcción,
empleo y factores de deterioro de las sepulturas, es decir, indicar que tipos de sepulturas hay (dolmen, cista, túmulo…), el número de enterramientos que contiene la necrópolis, si los restos del cadáver presentan algún tipo de ritual preparatorio (inhumado o incinerado), si las sepulturas han sido expoliadas en época contemporánea a su enterramiento o si bien ha sufrido un deterioro por causas naturales. En tercer lugar centramos nuestra investigación en la sepultura y lo que contiene, realizamos un exhaustivo registro del ajuar (armas, cerámica, joyas…), el estudio antropológico del difunto realizado por forenses especializados en la materia, análisis de los restos faunísticos que pueda albergar la sepultura, análisis diversos en los que entrarían los de ADN o carbono 14 y finalmente establecer una cronología a raíz de todos los análisis y estudios realizados en el ajuar (CHAPA, 1990).
A grandes rasgos, estos son los conceptos básicos que debemos conocer para comenzar nuestro camino para el estudio de las arqueología de la muerte, no obstante, cada necrópolis es diferente la una de la otra y puede que los puntos que nos han servido para estudiar una no valgan para otra, debemos tener mucho cuidado y respeto cada vez que trabajamos con los materiales procedentes de tumbas tanto desde el punto de vista ético como profesional.
Juan Pérez Garrido Arqueólogo, Museo Arqueológico de Linares desde Torredelcampo, Jaén perezgarrido123@gmail.com
C air This is not a
The designer star of bad design
Designer and the Chair The history of design is usually written from chairs, which is quite curious. Perhaps this is simply because chairs are pieces of furniture that are ubiquitous. Chairs permeate modern daily life. The emphasis on the chair in the history of design, however, may allow for a critique of the historians themselves. Because of the ubiquity of the chair, it is easy for historians to draw conclusions, to find a common thread. This has possibly had an affect on the historiography of design which has gone unnoticed simply because we do not question the function and aesthetic of the chair. This has not, however, gone unnoticed by designers. Designers are very much aware of the effectiveness of the chair, and by the end of the twentieth century many designers were launching their careers with iconic chairs. Tom Dixon, Ray & Charles Eames, Philippe Starck and Ron Arad are among the designers who have risen to the limelight with iconic chair designs. To consider this idea of the chair as a launch pad in the field of design, the career of Ron Arad presents particularities for design as a whole.
Arad as Contradiction: readymade to commodity Ron Arad is one of the most prominent figures in the contemporary world of design, yet he began his career in 1981, in his own words, “out of total ignorance.” The first piece of furniture that Arad ever created was a readymade composed of a chair from a Rover car and two Kee-klamps that he salvaged from a junkyard. A gesture clearly referencing a groundbreaking moment in art, Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain from 1917 (Fig. 2). Arad has even called the artist “an undoubtable hero” of his. Fountain was suddenly no longer art representing reality, but rather the reappropriation of a mundane object presented as art. This was art questioning its own status, a gesture that opened a new discussion about the nature of art, and expanded the realm of the avant garde. If Duchamp’s Fountain triggered this dialogue about art, then Arad’s Rover Chair has done the same for design.
Figure 1. Ron Arad, Rover Chair, 1981, readymade chair made by the seat of a Arad had been working at an architecture He instead went to a junkyard where he
produced by One Off (Arad’s London based studio). A Rover car and two Kee-klamps salvaged from a junk yard. firm while one day during lunch he left and never returned. began his career as a radical designer.
Figure 2. Marcel Duchamp, Fountain, 1917
This inaugural gesture by Arad questions the very nature of design as he engaged with a practice, comparably still in its infancy at less than 200 years old. Just as Duchamp’s readymade was assassinating every former perception of what art was, Arad was assassinating the perceptions of design. Interesting, however, is the simple fact that although Arad’s gesture was challenging the world of design, his creation can also be seen as referencing something that is an ancestral practice: creating something from what is at hand. This bricoleur approach to design is something that existed centuries ago, at the very inception of furniture making. This was a continuation of the basis of design: the assemblage of two existing elements out of necessity. This idea of radical design linked to the roots of furniture making is a contradiction. However, paradox lies at the heart of Ron Arad’s career. The Rover Chair originally reflected the spirit of London’s 1980s post-punk nihilism. It was edgy. It had grit. It was a readymade object that was birthed out of a rejection, or even mockery of contemporary society, of contemporary design. Contrary to the punk ideologies that Arad first assumed, and perhaps still embodies, is the simple fact that this design was commodified when Vitra started to produce editions of the Rover Chair (Fig 3.). Unlike Duchamp who was simply radicalising the world of art by sparking a debate with his readymades, Arad’s early exploration in the field of design could not have been simply out of ignorance, as he likes to maintain. By designing a chair, a ubiquitous object that has a function in daily life, Arad was predisposing himself and his designs to commodification. Arad, the spectacle; his designs, the commodities. Figure 3. Ron Arad. Rover Chair. 1981 edition produced by Vitra.
This is not a chair: the Pappardelle Firstly, the material of the Pappardelle must be addressed. Steel is most often associated with cars, industrial design, architecture and minimalism. The Pappardelle is none of these. In the twentieth century, modernist architecture was based on the steel frame which posed as a convenient and financially profitable solution to previous techniques in architecture. Steel was about limiting the amount of material used to construct. Steel was about minimalism. This was true also in terms of minimalist art. Before Arad, steel was most commonly associated with this movement, used by many artists of the period: Sol leWitt, Donald Judd, Carl Andre and Richard Serra, to name a few. The Pappardelle is quite the contrary to this. If steel in architecture and in minimalism was about reduction, the Pappardelle can be viewed as a waste of steel. It is a seemingly nonfunctional chair with an obvious absence of any comfort signals. It is a hard, virile material manipulated into a soft,
feminine form. There is an element of weightlessness to it, which challenges rational thought simply because the delicacy of form does not seem as if it could support the weight of a body.
Figure 4. Ron Arad, Pappardelle Chair, 1992, One-Off Ltd. Edition, woven stainless steel, image via Les Arts Decoratifs, photo by Jean Tholance
Arad was purposefully and ironically manipulating a material in a way it is not typically used. Arad was pushing the limitations of not only steel, but also of postmodern design. Although to the contemporary eye the Pappardelle chair seems to be aesthetically out of place within its historical context, it stayed fairly true to postmodernity and the ideals of art and design in the early 1990s. Humour and scale were two elements explored in the postmodern period and both are present in the Pappardelle chair. The title of the chair itself is telling of Arad’s ironic approach. Pappardelle is a type of pasta, thus Arad is comparing his design to an element of cuisine, which is fairly irrelevant to his career as a whole. With the title in mind, the Pappardelle chair then reveals itself as a play on scale. Similar to the Celebration Series begun by Jeff Koons in the early 1990s, Arad is portraying a type of pasta noodle on a monumental scale. Clearly the Pappardelle adopted the ironic nature of postmodern art. When drawing parallels between art and design, functionality is a key differentiation that bubbles to the surface. The Pappardelle serves as a great example within this debate because to call this object a chair is problematic. Chairs are perhaps the
Arad was born in Tel Aviv. He attended the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem between 1971–73 and the Architectural Association in London from 1974–79.
most utilised objects in daily human life, so the Pappardelle is in a sense stripped down to the very essence of a chair. It simply exists as a base to elevate its occupant from the floor. However, in what context? It is not a chair to lounge on, to seat at a desk or upon which find any comfort. It is merely a statement. If design is a field of utilitarian objects produced to meet human needs, how then should we consider the Pappardelle?
The death of the avant garde. the birth of a star Prior to the 1980s radical artists and designers were often considered as avant garde because they were supporting an aesthetic based on revolutionary ideals. They were engaged in a political dialogue amongst other artists, designers, philosophers and thinkers. A dramatic shift that has not been explored within the developing discourse of the history of design is the fact that post-1980s, post-avant garde, prominent designers in every field of practice have been dubbed as “stars.” From interviews to articles, in exhibition catalogues and films, Ron Arad is consistently referred to as a “designer star,” and he is not the only one. Among others described as designer stars have been Philippe Starck, Mathieu Lehanneur, Tom Dixon and Marc Newson. Thus, to revisit the comparison previously explored, while Duchamp was a leading figure of the avant garde in the early twentieth century, Arad is now considered a star. This term is unusual though as its connotations are indicative of the world of celebrity.
Do-Lo-Rez, sistema singleTitle by Ron Arad, 2008
Perhaps this is simply because of the commodification of his practice, which in turn exposes a superficiality seen in the world of design that did not exist prior to the death of the avant garde. The question that designers such as Arad are now facing is no longer how do you make yourself heard, but rather, who is hearing you and what do you have to say? This absence of a philosophical basis has pushed art and design into the realm of stardom. If the manifestos of avant garde movements once proclaimed their revolutionary ideals, then the chair as a designer’s manifesto is no longer a manifesto of ideals: the chair exists as a manifesto of self-display.
Katia Porro MA History of Design and Curatorial Studies; Parsons Paris from West Palm Beach, Florida katiaporro@newschool.edu
THE STILL HOUSE GROUP
The Still House Group is an emerging artist run organization based in Brooklyn, New York. Founded in 2007 as an online viewing platform cofounders Isaac Brest and Alex Perweiler alongside permanent artists: Zachary Susskind, Louis Eisner, Jack Greer, Brendan Lynch, Dylan Lynch and Nick Darmstaedter have produced numerous exhibitions, hosted over 19 artist residencies, and founded over 3 project spaces. Their most recent off-site exhibition venue launched this March, To_____Bridges_____ consists of one 50 square foot project space, and the other a workshop dedicated to community based educational initiatives. In the rear of the building are two gallery spaces programmed bi-monthly. Sonya Tamaddon sits down with: Isaac Brest: cofounder of the Still House Group, Zachary Susskind: active permanent Still House artist, in their newly launched project space To_Bridges_ to discuss the importance of artist run spaces, their recent collaboration with Lock Up International, and how their residency program shapes and informs their studio and respective artistic practices. Benjamin Lallier speaks about his experience as a former resident artist.
Interview Sonya Tamaddon: So we are seated in To_____Bridges_____, Still House’s recently launched project space in the South Bronx. Tell me about your plans for this space, and the works included in your inaugural show. Isaac Brest: The space has 3 components, one of which is Overhead which is the front space just on the other side of a roll up gate and that was kind of created really out of circumstance. The space is not square to the street or parallel to the street. It’s on a bit of a kink so we had to square it off regardless. Instead of turning the space into a closet we decided to make it into its own sort of sub-gallery so it’s called Overhead, it’s got its own program, its own agenda, it rotates bi-weekly, whereas these spaces in the backroom rotate bi-monthly, so 6-8 week long shows here, two week long shows in the front, it is quite literally open to the public. You roll up the gate and there is no glass, there’s no front door, so there’s no security system. Which leaves the work vulnerable to a degree which tends to inform the decisions that artists make on what they want to show. I think a lot of people are going to be doing installations, sculptures and paintings that hold up to the elements a bit more site specific to that project because sometimes depending on the artist’s choice they will want that space to be open 24/7 so there will be circumstances where they are out all day all night for two weeks on end. That gate is up, the light is on and people could just walk in. People could enjoy, people could vandalize, people could steal, anything can happen and that’s kind of the point of that project space. Then this is a bit more of a formal gallery. There are two wings, sometimes there will be a single show like this sometimes there will be two separate shows but again the program is a bit more focused on artists that we haven’t worked with before or we haven’t worked with often. So that’s kind of the idea.
ST: So past residents? IB: Yeah so past residents and people we’ve just wanted to work with and haven’t had the chance to: older, younger, local, you know, from other countries. But unlike Howard street that was more strictly focused on solo presentations it will be a bit more group shows here, a bit more shows with artists that we haven’t worked with, it’s just kind of rounding out the program a bit. That’s sort of what we tend to do with the off site projects. We look for a void in our operation like what are we missing, what haven’t we been able to achieve? And then we get those spaces and address that issue and do it for a year, usually that’s all we need to get it out of our system then we move on.
ST: So for less familiar audiences, can you talk a bit about how Still House was conceived and came to be? IB: Yeah it was started as an online viewing platform, a website for emerging artists most of which were not attending university at the time for fine arts so it was a way of putting in the work of not formally trained, not sort of formally supported artists in their late teens early 20’s to a general audience, almost creating sort of website that appeared as if it was part of a gallery but there was no space. It was all existing online at a time when people weren’t really doing that, before Instagram, before image sharing on Facebook, before artists really utilized the internet to promote themselves significantly. That was like our way of having our voices heard without having to open a brick and mortar gallery.
ST: That’s interesting because you later brought on Jogging as a residency. IB: Exactly. Yeah I mean that’s what drew me to them because they’re doing a similar thing that we were doing but completely different. They were really making work that actually only existed online so they were creating hypothetical works using Photoshop, image manipulation, you know fake installation shots to not only exist online but making works that actually didn’t exist in real life period. Which was a great project still kind of one of my favorite things I’ve seen in the last five years or so. Zachary Susskind: And they had never worked together in the same physical space to create any of that content or any content.
ST. Right. IB: And that was a big draw for the residency program, for us to actually see how well something worked that was created to only exist online. Verbally really all their planning happened online via Skype and things like that. What happens when you take something that exists purely online and try to serve support in a physical manner? It turned out really successful; I thought their show was great ST: So that kind of segways into another question about how the residency-and I’d love to hear your thoughts on this, Ben- shapes this studio space and informs your practices. IB: Oh, significantly I’d say. I think when we first thought about the residency program we had already done TriBeCa so the TriBeCa temporary studio which lasted about 7 or 8 months was really a trial for Red Hook and I think something that we learned was that it’s good working with a group of people but like any relationship things can start getting repetitive if you don’t add something new to it constantly and I think t h a t , y o u k n o w, variety is extremely important especially in creative situations if you’re going to be working in the same space with the same people it’s important to kind of challenge people sharing your space with different artists with different ideas. Things like the internship program and the residency program, constantly having new people in the space really helps sort of keep things fresh. And plus it’s a way to kind of feedback into another system to not keep, because everything is funded by sales, so to not just keep the sales amongst ourselves but to help have that support our endeavor but to trickle out almost like a tax in a way to another generation, another type of artist. We just finished our 19th resident. Way more people have done the residency program than exist in the actual permanent group. Which is nice.
ZS: And also I think one of the things that’s worked well the roster of artists that work there regularly is a kind of as it is and for as much exchange as there can be there is boundary amongst the artists which I think helps people sort of out of each other’s hair. I have always been sort competition that is felt. There always seems to be a real each other’s work, but I think to preserve that there’s in a way. The residents have been an opportunity for exchange and a lot more sort of permeability into like the resident’s studio in many ways is the one I am the most, sort of enjoying the most. They seem quite community not that we take it for granted necessarily all we know. We’re kind of conditioned to the balance of utilizing it and sort of obtaining from it in terms of it being a contributing factor to our personal practices and our production. Whereas I think a lot of residents come in and find it exciting to have access to a group of like-minded people and people that are working. It’s not that they’re naïve and fresh it’s just different from the circumstance that they are familiar with. I think in many ways it is the key to a more open, permeable exchange and that’s really important. Without that like Isaac said it would run the risk of getting too familiar or too similar to a circumstance that has been… and yeah I’ve loved it. To me it’s been really people in there and to see people acclimate, to see how challenge of this culminating exhibition after three very short period of time. They are very resourceful they come from situations where they don’t have access the same amount of space and assistance with other to them being able to get their work done and they really advantage of the system they are not familiar with. ridiculous but when you’re contributing to that system as a peer or whatever you don’t always know how to elements of it, and you learn a lot from watching other and time again and everyone doing it differently.
about the studio and distance. For as open also a kind of inherent stay independent and of amazed at how little inherent respect for also a kind of removal there to be a lot more people’s studios. I feel in the most, going in receptive to that but it’s
always exciting to have new people rise to this months which is a because oftentimes to the same facility or things that contribute learn how to take Which might sound an administrator or as benefit from certain people do that time
ST: Ben, could you speak to your experience after having done the residency? BL: I knew all the guys before so it was quite interesting to be able to be a part of that family and especially for me because I am not American, so it was a way to understand more and better the way they are working and thinking about creating. It was quite challenging because it’s a really complex situation because you’re in the middle of 8 or 10 people, 15 people working all around because with the assistants and stuff it’s a lot of people. You’re quite naked because you’re working there, you have new ideas, your conception of everything with the energy around you … It’s challenging a little bit you have to…yeah find your mark to know where you’re going and you have that deadline and how Isaac was saying it’s not a charity thing. I mean for me I was trying to do the best of my production for that show and the space that I knew well. It was a little bit strange too because it was big, it was only three months, and I wanted to show new stuff. It was short and really intense too. But it was really nice because when you’re losing energy you have that kind of casual coming and saying “Hey what are you doing blah blah blah” and you know, when you’re alone in your studio sometimes it’s just like… I mean you’re alone in front of your paintings. And when you’re around in the studio it’s like kind of a... ST: A community? BL: Yeah, a community, yeah. It’s like a wall, you feel stronger when you’re surrounded. Sometimes it’s difficult because like all artists.. I didn’t feel competition but it’s quite, I mean they’re successful obviously so you’re trying to find your own position in that but it was a really good, really good experience. ST: Can you speak a little bit about your background before coming in? Where you came from and if you’d exhibited in the states before?
BL: Yeah, I’m coming from France. I was studying in Switzerland. I decided one year after my diploma to come to New York. I heard about the group before coming to New York and you know when you’re arriving in a city and you don’t know a lot of people it can be tricky especially in New York. Then I sent them an email to be able to work with them, to ask them because for me the exchange is nice when you start to give and you know the thing is going naturally. So I worked there for like 6 months I think maybe 8 months I don’t know. And yeah after we spoke about the residency program and yeah. But I was living in Paris before coming and now I am living in New York. ST: Do you find this a unique, specific environment you were able to produce work in? BL: Oh you mean about the residency? ST: Right and also Still House BL: I’ve never seen something like this especially in Europe because here there is a way of thinking, of in metaphor you can all be stronger together. But for example in France and in Switzerland you’re by yourself and it’s really competitive but in a bad way because people are not able to understand that maybe if you work together you can be better. Anyway, yeah I was really surprised, that kind of thing in Paris or in Switzerland or in Belgium or wherever you want. I think it will disappear after 6 months. And now it’s like almost 10 years for them. So it’s totally different. I’ve never seen a fight between them. And I’ve known them for a year and a half. No, never. ZS: It’s amazing. BL: Yeah, it’s super strange. ST: So I wanted to ask or build on how you continue to work with artists you have built relationships with through various platforms, among them Lock Up International from what I understand based in Mexico City. One of your former residents is a founder? IB: Yeah, he is the founder. He’s like the only, the one and only. ST: Oh great. IB: Yeah he runs the whole thing. It’s a one-man show.
ST: If you could talk about what they do and Zach, your recent project with them.
ZS: Yeah, I mean it’s not based in Mexico City and I think that has a lot to do with it. I remember speaking with Lewis about this project early on, and Lewis, I don’t know if you’ve had the pleasure? Obviously we know him quite well, but he’s got a great sense of humor and he was looking at Lock Up International from two angles: one was a concept that was rooted in real concerns about world issues among real people all over the world. About issues of commercialism in art and artist’s tendency, and anybody’s tendency really to explore, explore the world, the priority to engage and be in different places and to do things that comment on a feeling or a circumstance or a bias in some way. At the time he thought it would be hilarious to have a global gallery and he found this is a very affordable way of doing that. Affordable in a lot of levels, not just financially but I think… IB: Logistically ZS: Logistically but not needing to commit to artists I think in a way that is actually great. There’s a single project that an artist does one thing, and you know, it’s on to the next. It’s about expanding the program and about expanding the roster and not about repeating opportunities for the artists that he works with. I think that there’s something funny and sort of self deprecating and clever about running a program that way. Who would never want to go to a fun city and show something in a storage unit for a week? I love that idea. I was into it right away. And I knew that he would appreciate, and he and I have this in common: there’s something inherently pointless about art and the pointlessness of a project that’s sort of fantastic, it’s a sort of self fulfilling type of endeavor you know? There’s no point to any of it really so why not do something that embraces that to a degree that isn’t just an “I’ll do nothing” but something that sort of incorporates the nothingness into it? That was what I wanted to do. I’ve worked for a while where I’ve tried to work in a way that’s very conscientious of what is in a particular location on a physical physique based level and I was thinking a lot about a place like Mexico and the fact that I’m from Southern California, from a part of Southern California that historically was Mexico and yet had never been there. I always was very aware of the fact that it was a place from which people were traveling and emigrating from. And the idea of transit and possessions and not having possessions, a lot of people that enter this country from Mexico don’t bring anything with them. From an early age that was something that I thought a lot about so I thought that the storage unit provided an interesting opportunity to explore that narrative in a way. And maybe more so than it does, more so than in some other cities that the project has already taken place in and that it will take place in. So I felt really lucky to get to sort of harness that narrative to some degree and incorporate it with things I’d been thinking about.
IB: I think to sort of sum that up in a different way you know from my perspective a situation like that is as ideal as it gets because you know we’re in a way sort of flying a flag of artist run exhibition spaces, artist run organizations and have been pretty hard for a pretty long time. Like Ben mentioned a lot of these things don’t last very long, and they don’t last forever and I think that’s sort of what’s so great about it that everyone who is involved knows there’s sort of a time limit to these things and that’s why they’re special. Even when Alex and I originally started the group we always hoped that this would sort of facilitate or propagate more things like this. Not identical to it, I think in its own way it’s sort of un-replicable, but in other ways, you know aspects of this sort of can be replicated. So to do a residency program and in a way I’m sure to some degree slightly inspire an artist. I don’t think we are responsible for the program in any way but I’m sure we inspired Lewis to a degree. To then have him go do his own artist run organization and then invite artists that we work with it kind of creates this full circle and that transfers itself back to the core that’s really great. I wish that stuff like that happened more often honestly but I’m happy when it does, because it is rare. I wish more artists ran their own programs. I think Lock Up International is great and really smart and really funny. I think artists that have that capacity have a responsibility to initiate programs for other artists and I would like to see a lot more of that. I think that the internet age is the perfect foundation for that type of endeavor to start catching steam. And kind of diversifying the way the art world works because right now it’s either institutions or galleries and I think everyone is seeing an emergence of artist run organizations at least getting a bit more traction.
Sonya: I would love to hear you speak to how you’ve managed to sustain that over this period of time and what the delicate balance is, what your advice would be for projects happening around the world with people trying to achieve that space? Isaac: I come from a film school background and a lot of my way I run this is off of things that I learned there. Something that they say in the film industry is that you’re always a slave to the script. So it’s like no matter what you do no matter how hard you work in casting stars and putting money into it and getting the best effects and marketing ploys and music and all that kind of stuff no matter what, you’re tied to that original script. I think our script was really choosing the cast in a way and picking these people and I think in a way that casting process was the most important part so in reality none of this would have been possible if we didn’t choose a group of people that organically gravitated towards one another and didn’t fight a lot and really respected each other and kind of loved each other and in a way were willing to go to bat for each other and bring resources back into the pot that would basically not go to them they would go to other people and you have to be ok with that. You can’t run a socialist government full of libertarians.
You have to make sure that your model fits the people that your model is designed for and knowing that no one is doing anything against their will. For the first four or five years of it, it really was editing down people and basically people leaving on their own will or us sort of gently brushing people away that didn’t understand this system and weren’t interested in the work it takes to have a shared organization like this because it is really difficult. It’s really rare to find people who want to work in this kind of situation which like Ben said is quite naked, where you can see resources you’ve garnered for go to other people. If you’re not the type of person, which I think is like an inherent thing people have or don’t have, that’s ok with that type of system, then it’s doomed. I think the biggest piece of advice I would say is make sure that you have people that are really as we would say “down for the cause.” They really understand it and respect it. You know, not everyone is perfect in our organization either. We have issues of course like anyone else does but there has to be that mutual respect if you’re going to be in a collective collaborative thing, that’s really important. The rest kind of falls into place.
Sonya Tamaddon Independent Curator and Freelance Writer from Los Angeles, CA, USA sonyatamaddon@gmail.com
IL LINGUAGGIO DELLA STORIA DELL'ARTE COME SOCIOS E M I OT I CA S O C I A L E D E L CONTEMPORANEO: TRA ECUMENISMO, CELEBRAZIONE DEL PASSATO, NAZIONALISMO E AUTO-IDENTIFICAZIONE NELL'INDIA POST PARTITION
“[...]l'importanza dell'arte figurativa non si esaurisce in ciò che essa riesce a comunicare in base al contenuto, di sensazione e di bellezza, e ancor meno è una semplice trasposizione della vita nel linguaggio dell'immagine, ma essa stessa offre un contributo indipendente all'orientamento del mondo.”
Memoria, metafore e mutazioni Parlare di cultura visuale nell'India contemporanea significa fare riferimento a quello straordinario contributo che il Subcontinente fornisce all'interno di un già vasto, composito e complesso panorama di arti figurative che coinvolge, assimila, rielabora e restituisce agli occhi del fruitore dell'oggetto d'arte aspetti di un patrimonio condiviso che innesta le radici nelle celebri miniature Mughal, nelle scuole pittoriche Rajasthani, nell'arte Pahari e, inevitabilmente, nella longeva produzione vallinda e dei siti di Harappa e Mohenjo-daro. A ciò si aggiunga quel processo internazionale di modernità in cui l'India risulta coinvolta precisamente durante l'epilogo della presenza coloniale britannica, è qui che la scena artistica indiana si trasforma profondamente soggetta ad impulsi prepotenti: cambia il ruolo dell'artista, i contesti politici e culturali in cui arte ed artista convivono sono profondamente mutati, le tecniche rivoluzionate e persino le finalità dell'arte sembrano rispondere ad esigenze completamente rinnovate. In parte mitologico, fantastico, terribilmente utopico e in parte reale, concreto, ma in reiterato cambiamento, il concetto di nazione sembra essersi configurato. Sconfinati e caotici paesaggi urbani, un proliferare di culture e linguaggi, e la presenza di una tradizione che insieme si perpetua ed evolve, costituiscono un'entità che si può descrivere, che è conoscibile ed è finalmente ascrivibile al concetto di Subcontinente. E' qui che Lahore, Mumbai, Karachi e Nuova Delhi si impongono come il nucleo di una classe che è globalmente connessa ed è qui che, alla velocità imposta dai nuovi media, l'immagine è libera di circolare.
Contemporaneamente si avverte l'esigenza di riflettere sulla neo-nata cultura delle megalopoli indiane che denuncia enormi disparità tra il vecchio e il nuovo e che si pone l'ambizioso obiettivo di raccontare una realtà più omogenea, ibrida ed umana. Inevitabilmente le città accolgono un'arte pluralistica e stratificata che è diventata tale anche per rispondere alle esigenze di consumo e di un mercato che hanno pretese sempre diverse. New York, Singapore, Shangai, Berlino, Mumbai: l'arte non è mai stata così itinerante, viva e così transnazionale come appare ora. E' un'arte che oltrepassa i confini geopolitici, investe culture, ingloba esperienze molteplici, dall'esilio all'appartenenza, dal nazionalismo ad identità politiche alternative, dall'universalismo alle circoscritte realtà locali. In questo senso un'arte così dinamica come è stata descritta svolge un ruolo fondamentale nella trasmissione di ciò che sono le aspirazioni umane, i dilemmi e, contemporaneamente, rimane fortemente ancorata ai bisogni e alle necessità che sono propri delle comunità da cui l'arte proviene. In altre parole l'incalzante bisogno del momento sembra essere un tentativo di assimilare lo sviluppo urbano completamente fuori controllo degli ultimi anni, di fare propria quell'internazionalizzazione che ha creato prodotti culturali così differenti e di leggere il vorticoso processo di globalizzazione come la realtà fenomenologica del futuro. All'arte del Subcontinente è imposta la duplice richiesta di essere credibile e dunque fruibile all'interno di un mercato dell'arte mondiale e, parallelamente, di continuare nella personale ricerca della costruzione di un’identità che finalmente potrà essere chiamata e universalmente riconosciuta come indiana. E anche una volta definita, l'indianità tanto anelata sarà sufficientemente autentica e credibile? In che modo, cioè, gli artisti indiani potranno scegliere di rappresentarsi smettendo di essere l'esotico, il lontano, l'irreale su un palcoscenico mondiale? Come l'arte riuscirà a descrivere la realtà senza sacrificare l'individualità dei singoli artisti a favore delle esigenze di una società troppo composita per essere generalizzata?
Mi sembra si tratti di un problema per nulla decaduto, e che, in una certa misura, gli artisti tribali hanno affrontato per primi. Abbiamo assistito negli ultimi decenni ad una graduale valorizzazione delle arti etniche che ha permesso che alcune individualità importanti emergessero: artisti le cui opere non sono più come nel passato, soltanto voce di valori condivisi dalla comunità di provenienza, ma nelle quali essi esprimono la personale visione del mondo, prodotte su committenza o addirittura all’unico scopo espositivo. Soltanto rifuggendo approssimative e tendenziose definizioni che confondono il folklore con la cultura tribale, possiamo guardare con onestà e disincanto a ciò che gli artisti propongono e scelgono di raccontare. Spesso una patina di tendenza si unisce alla mancanza di contenuto la cui combinazione dà luogo ad un lento impoverimento dell'oggetto d'arte. Ciò che è necessario affinché la proposta artistica risulti duratura e credibile è l'autenticità del significato dell'oggetto artistico, e questa, per essere tale, deve saper rinunciare al compromesso di piacere forzatamente. Altra questione lungamente dibattuta è quella legata alla necessità di una politica di coesione che passi attraverso l’arte. Come se all'arte fosse ora conferito quel potere salvifico di allontanare il demone del colonialismo, di isolare il secolo che fece grandi Thomas e William Daniell e le loro tenui ed eleganti acquetinte dell’Oriental Scenary. In altre parole, da Nehru in avanti, si è irrobustita l'esigenza di riformulare con le nuove nozioni acquisite di storia e modernità, il concetto di tradizione finalmente sciolto da quel punto di vista coloniale ed eurocentrico.
Il caso pakistano ne è la riprova più forte: geograficamente connesso all'India e culturalmente debitore alla Grecia, alla Persia, al mondo arabo e centro-asiatico, il Pakistan fronteggia il problema di una riuscita conciliazione tra Islam e self-image come entità ideologica. Non è certo possibile reinterpretare il ruolo dell’Islam nelle arti visuali dal momento che esso è presenza dichiarata almeno dal Sultanato; si può però prendere coscienza che esso non sia l'unica realtà, e che anzi, accanto ad esso, si valutino almeno altre due componenti fondamentali: la cultura indigena figlia della straordinaria varietà territoriale e ciò che nasce dalla parentesi coloniale britannica. E non è un caso che uno degli artisti più apprezzati, Rashid Rana, le cui opere fanno base, per il mercato dell’arte occidentale, nella prestigiosa Lisson Gallery di Londra, sia, ad oggi, l'esponente più autorevole di questa ricerca identitaria che può compiersi unicamente nell'accettazione di molteplici realtà. Nato a Lahore nel 1968 e diplomatosi presso il National College of Arts nella stessa città, R. Rana spiega della sua ossessiva ricerca dei lasciti culturali di tradizioni interposte, a volte concordemente connesse, altre volte in assoluto disaccordo tra loro, che anima il suo personalissimo prodotto artistico.
La sua carriera è costellata di luoghi sempre diversi, Lahore, Karachi, Los Angeles, Monaco, Londra, Parigi, New York, Mumbai, Manchester, Singapore, Brisbane e di nuovo Lahore: sono, dice lui, le città nelle quali si è soffermato maggiormente per compiere la sua intima ricerca. Il denominatore comune di questi centri è il cosmopolitismo e il fatto di fungere da vivaci crocevia di culture e tradizioni sempre diverse. I collage fotografici che lo hanno reso celebre nel mondo, nascono con l'intento di eternizzare un contributo che, affiancato a decine di altri apporti, crea l'immagine d'insieme. E così i primi ritratti della sua città natale fotografavano moschee, case, edifici in stile inglese, studenti con velo e ragazze occidentali in minigonna, iscrizioni antichissime e le sponde del fiume Ravi: un puzzle narrativo che, forte della potentissima missione dell'arte, raccontava un frammento di storia e di cultura.
Ricostruire l'immagine: la questione identitaria L'improvviso sviluppo economico che segue l'indipendenza, la comunicazione che circola a velocità elevatissima e almeno un secolo di educazione illuminata, costituiscono le basi per la costruzione di una nuova coscienza del se' che prenderà avvio in India a partire dagli anni '50. La percezione dell'individuo e dunque del diritto di esso alla libertà, risulta inestricabilmente connessa alla causa nazionalista: peculiarità del modernismo indiano è perciò la riuscita combinazione tra volere individuale e identità nazionale. Con queste premesse si inaugura il grande dibattito delle scuole d'arte indiane su cosa sia descrivibile come oggetto d'arte in un paese colonizzato. L'avvento degli inglesi, infatti, aveva valorizzato le rinomate scuole del tessile, gli artigiani che da secoli intagliano avori e pietre preziose, ma gettava un cono d'ombra sulla produzione pittorica e scultorea che voleva ritrarre il passato mitico, terrifico e fantastico dell'India. In The Arts of India (1986) di G.C.M.Birdwood leggiamo “[...]le forme mostruose che accompagnavano l'epifania delle divinità puraniche erano assolutamente stridenti con le forme più alte della rappresentazione artistica di gusto occidentale, ecco perché in epoca coloniale scultura e pittura dell'India non potevano essere categorizzate tra le fine arts”. L'eccellenza indiana assoluta, a quelle date, era unicamente circoscritta alla lavorazione dei metalli e delle pietre preziose: da nord a sud, dalle mode della corte di Delhi ai barocchismi opulenti delle corti del Tamil Nadu, è immenso il repertorio di stili e forme che si traduce in collane, orecchini, bracciali, anelli, recipienti, vassoi, spargitori di essenze e altro.
Questi erano gli oggetti che colpirono primariamente i coloni che abbagliati dalla preziosità dei prodotti ne fecero l'inizio di redditizio mercato del lusso che si reitera fino ai giorni nostri. Persino nella corona della regina Elisabetta giganteggia lo straordinario, per bellezza e valore, Koh-iNoor, un diamante da 105 carati, un tempo preziosissimo occhio di una mūrti hindu, poi trafugato da mano inglese quando la East India Company non rispettò la volontà dell'allora imperatore Ranjit Singh. 13 Anche in occasione della 56esima Biennale d'Arte di Venezia, R. Rana chiamato ad esporre per il Padiglione Nazionale della Repubblica Islamica d'Iran, ha esposto il criticato e controverso Notions of Narration, un collage fotografico che assembla immagini digitali ispirate alle opere di Cesare da Cesto e Andrea Solari: una Salomé e una Vergine inghiottite e restituite all'osservatore sotto forma di scabrosi dettagli che hanno la capacità di raccontare ognuno una narrazione a se’. La rinnovata attenzione ai manufatti locali che raccontano dell'India dei villaggi, dei culti popolari e delle credenze locali è la prima grande novità del post indipendenza. Si registra, a partire dal 1951un fortissimo aumento della produzione di manufatti artigianali la cui destinazione è duplice: consumo e commercio e oggetto d'arte: nel 2003 Head di Himmat Shah (1995), una testa in terracotta colata d'oro dichiaratamente ispirata ai lingam della tradizione shivaita, viene battuta all'asta da Sotheby's per centocinquantamila dollari. La Mahalaxmi di Atul Dodiya (1959), una dea a quattro braccia realizzata sulla tradizionale foglia di palma è acquisita dalla Salama Bint Hamdan Al-Nahyan Foundation di Abu Dhabi per duecentomila dollari.
Esiste cioè, con il linguaggio evidente dell'arte, un modo di rimettere in discussione il sapere: quell'orientalismo che affonda le proprie certezze nella convinzione della superiorità razziale entro due termini di paragone, deve essere rivalutato, riletto, nuovamente analizzato, questa volta disegnando l'immagine di un'India che pur colonizzata non può essere unicamente soggetto passivo, ma che anzi partorisce risposte individuali che sole sono in grado di trasformare la natura del sapere. Significativa, in questo senso, è la nascita del Progressive Artists' Group il cui epicentro è Mumbai e la cui missione è quella di creare un'arte certamente in dialogo con le tendenze internazionali, ma nettamente più riflessiva, autoreferenziale, indianocentrica. Qui l'interesse è prettamente rivolto all'immediato presente, qui gli artisti collocano se stessi nell'hic et nunc che descrivono nella commistione di tradizione, egoica visione e lasciti coloniali; qui è il rifiuto di un'arte accademica, imposta e al servizio di un'idea; qui è la quasi controtendenza a creare modalità espressive individuali che però fanno riferimento ad una ricerca che è comune a tutti gli artisti. Il tentativo di rileggere la storia dal punto di vista dell'India e di farlo attraverso le immagini è stato criticato a più riprese: spesso chi si è occupato di raccontare la storia dell'arte indiana ha ceduto alla semplificazione, una volta giunti al capitolo del dopo indipendenza, di considerare quel momento artistico come imitazione di ciò che accadeva in Occidente, soprattutto nell'École Parisienne.
Ora, se la diffusione culturale diventa cifra di un essere meramente derivativo, dovremmo parimenti considerare che l'influenza dell'arte oceanica e africana in Picasso e Matisse, o di quella polinesiana in Gauguin, farebbe sì che in luogo di Cubismo, Fauvismo e Primitivismo, si raccontasse di un ibrido. Dovrebbe, invece, decadere da solo il dibattito su chi sia debitore a cosa, la questione della superiorità intrinseca di chi presta rispetto al ricevente è di fatto applicabile ad entrambi i termini di un confronto. La diffusione culturale è un fenomeno globale, universalmente condiviso dove esiste l'uno che arricchisce l'altro e manifesta se stesso in forme che sono alternative e molteplici. A V.S.Gaitonde, padre dell'informale in India, morto nel 2001, il Guggenheim di New York dedica una retrospettiva straordinaria: 96 opere dislocate lungo l'architettura spiraliforme firmata F.L.Wright, la più importante mai realizzata in Occidente per l'unico pittore divenuto celebre nel mondo senza mai essersi allontanato dalla sua India. Eppure, nonostante le sue pennellate raccontino di quella 'stasi dinamica', che lo fece grande persino agli occhi di J.Pollock, chiunque, avendo una certa familiarità con il linguaggio dell'arte, ne osservi le tele non può non coglierne l'eco del Paul Klee più delicato, del M.Tobey più tormentato o di quella Anne Ryan ossessionata dalle forme quadrangolari, o ancora del migliore dei Gottlieb e Rothko.
Si ricordi che il modernismo, ovvero quella corrente di sviluppo immediato postcoloniale, ha la tendenza culturale, in genere, a ripercorrere strade nostalgicamente orientate al passato creando un'estetica parallela, ed è fondamentale, per una corretta comprensione del fenomeno, non guardare al moderno come ad una forma di determinismo, quanto piuttosto osservare la modalità con la quale percorsi orientali si intrecciano ad esperienze occidentali e nel loro divergerne, costruiscano la base per la riconfigurazione di una scena internazionale. Le opere di Gaitonde e così quelle del Movimento dei Progressisti, o degli artisti che si formarono presso la School of Art di Bombay, o ancora di coloro che da Calcutta fondarono i primi movimenti artistici reazionari, evitano qualsiasi significato o descrizione intrinseca e devono essere affrontate accettandone le condizioni, senza compromessi. Sandhini Poddar, curatrice, direbbe che queste sono opere da esperire a livello ontologico e non in termini epistemologici perché avrebbero la tendenza a rifuggire la narrazione. Tuttavia è possibile scrivere una storia dell'arte dell'India e farla rispondere ad una periodizzazione, seppur grossolana che sia, non sono cioè, quelle indiane, opere disancorate e universalizzanti, ma prodotti artistici che esistono nel tempo e anzi dipendono dalla storia e dalla cultura, ovvero da quei fattori socializzatori che ne definiscono i loro essere moderni.
L'inclusione della cultura popolare nelle gallerie e nelle fiere d'arte contemporanea, tendenza in continuo aumento in India, dà vita ad un'energia sfacciatamente nuova e concorre alla riscrittura dei paradigmi dell'arte. Artisti e galleristi hanno deliberatamente reintrodotto la pratica della miniatura, l'utilizzo di materiali e tecniche della tradizione, mescolato il motivo folklorico a quello popolare, allo scopo di fomentare quel culto per il pop che da solo, quando emerge, configura la dimensione attuale. Condividendo la grande rivoluzione dell'arte popolare, la cui comparsa in India non si pensi abbia una portata minore rispetto al ready made di Marcel Duchamp che ha scosso l'Occidente intero, siamo anche consapevoli che la cornice non è più quel mezzo che intrappola il soggetto, ma anzi lo direziona al rapporto non mediato e diretto con lo spettatore. L'osservatore e l'oggetto osservato diventano ugualmente nozionali e distanti innescando un dialogo continuo sul ruolo rivestito da entrambi.Questa è la grande rivoluzione che si combatte con il linguaggio dell'arte e questo è il significato di un'arte rinnovata: la qualità di cui la modernità si fa vanto in maniera autoreferenziale è messa in discussione dalla forma stessa in cui essa si manifesta e dall'ossimorica nozione di arte che chiude e apre e la incapsula nella cornice stessa. Esiste, cioè, un potere autonomo dell'arte
Senza essere vuota decorazione di poteri esterni, l'arte così descritta crea l'illusione di voler invitare il fruitore ad una pluralità potenzialmente infinita di interpretazioni, di non imporre allo spettatore, ma soltanto superficialmente, alcuna ideologia. Non è un caso che fino al 1970 di arte figurativa nel Subcontinente non vi sia traccia: l'ascesa della pop-art in India porta con se' la legittimazione al figurativo questa volta con tinte ironiche e critiche alla politica. E' il riflesso incondizionato di un'arte fino ad ora a rischio politicizzazione, è il desiderio generazionale di costruire un'identità culturale: un lento processo di riscoperta di radici nel suolo della gente comune nel tentativo di abbattere retaggi passati di distinzioni tra alto, elite, basso e arte subalterna. Lo storico dell'arte tedesco Hermann Goetz ha più volte dichiarato che la produzione artistica indiana in epoca coloniale ha affrontato un periodo di crisi conclusosi, però, con la nascita di quel modernismo così popolare, vero, autentico promosso da alcuni tra i migliori degli artisti indiani che di nuovo ricercavano e sperimentavano nel vero e non nella superficiale imitazione di un passato che non esiste più. Tra il 1950 e 1970 la scena artistica è dominata, come detto, dall'arte non figurativa, un fenomeno condivisibile globalmente. Il contesto di fondo è quello intessuto nelle politiche della Guerra Fredda e così gli artisti che definiscono il proprio mestiere cifra di libertà, identificano il proprio alfabeto nel formalismo e nell’astrattismo, mentre quell'arte narrativa che riecheggiava il realismo socialista dell'Unione Sovietica, venne allontanato. Furono gli anni '70 a riconsegnare agli artisti la facoltà di compiere ricerca insistendo per il ritorno al figurativo, soggetto perenne nella produzione artistica indiana, in dichiarato conflitto con l'astrattismo. Paradossalmente la decolonizzazione ha reso gli artisti indiani maggiormente consapevoli della propria identità, ottimisti, e certamente liberi pur nel confronto in un ambito di modernità globale. La rivincita della cultura popolare ha, cioè, portato con se' il rifiuto da parte degli artisti di conformarsi alle limitazioni di uno stile specifico, che non è quell'eclettismo spesso descritto in senso peggiorativo, ma è ciò che riflette la scelta di una sintesi determinata dalle contraddizioni che emergono intorno all'individuo e supera l’idea di una commistione di forme altrimenti non correlate. La fioritura cui abbiamo assistito e di cui continuiamo ad essere attenti osservatori dell'arte indiana contemporanea, riflette, in buona parte, la gioia dell'artista nell’assistere ad un'evoluzione del contesto in cui opera in meglio, la sensazione inebriante di essere finalmente sciolto dalle catene del passato, e di diventare voce autorevole nei dibattiti del contingente finalmente svincolato da legami di patronato o di mercato. L'arte come mezzo di libertà e la libertà come contenuto artistico diventa il binomio vincente degli artisti indiani del contemporaneo. Sono artisti consapevoli quelli che operano oggi, uomini profondi dalla visione dichiarata, forse tutti, o buona parte di essi, eterni debitori a Jaimini Roy che più di altri conferiva all'arte e alla sua capacità di esprimere un sistema valoriale coerente, il prezioso attributo di verità.
E’ un'arte, con questa premessa, che può avere significato solo se capace di interpretare e raccontare un pensiero condiviso dalla comunità e, parimenti, diremo che l'esigenza, confermata da ciò che il mercato dell'arte indiana contemporanea ci propina, di semplificare le forme diventa quella condicio sine qua non l'arte può diventare simbolo. C'è una certa affinità con l'Espressionismo europeo nel raccontare un'arte che si nutre di forme simboliche e che assurge a sommo strumento di identità collettiva declinata secondo specificità locali, ma, a differenza del movimento che fece grandi Van Gogh e Gauguin, qui gli artisti mirano a riconoscersi in uno stesso ideale, cifra di quell'orgoglioso sentimento che rivendica l'identità di una storia forse già fin troppo frammentata.
Chiara Tomaini Indologa da Lecco, Italia tomaini.chiara@gmail.com
5
QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT HAVE ABOUT
HILMA AF KLINT
The debate about her place in art history is a provocative one, and the recent major exhibition of her work at the Serpentine Galleries in London, will probably only instigate further position taking. For some, she was a pioneer of abstract art, for others, she was an offbeat mystic woman in the early 1900s. To understand what the fuss is all about, continue to read this article and discover Hilma af Klint.
1) Who is Hilma af Klint? Hilma af Klint was born in 1862, a little north of Stockholm. Her place of birth might have been crucial for af Klint’s development, since there was a general openmindedness towards women pursuing artistic careers in Sweden. This allowed her to study at the Academy of Fine Arts, after which she became somewhat known for slightly conventional landscape paintings. This could have been a perfect synopsis, were it not for af Klint to have lived an almost secret double life, working prolifically on an radically different, abstract body of work inspired by her spirituality, which was only brought to international art world attention more than forty years after her death.
2) What kind of art did she do? Af Klint painted throughout her life. Her more traditional (and admittedly more boring) landscapes and portraits may have provided a stable income; it is really with her abstract paintings she pushed artistic boundaries of the time. These paintings are often quite large-scale, and feature both naturalistic forms, such as flowers and animals, as well as geometrical shapes and symbols. Stylistically, there very unique (we all know what this means); arguably a lot of her colour choices lack punch, and her defined lines render the paintings rather flat – which adds to the modern feel of the geometrical paintings, but does not do anything for the figurative ones (except making them look like 1970s hippie wallpaper). Combined, it can result in paintings that purely aesthetically are just not that pleasing.
3) What was the impact of her spirituality? However, visual pleasure might not have been their original intent, since her paintings were actually visual renditions of af Klint’s mystic visions. Af Klint was fascinated by theosophy, an esoteric movement which did not discriminate against women founded by the Russian Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, and acted as a medium herself. In séances she held with four other women – they originally called themselves The Five – they tried to contact the so-called “high masters”. These spiritual powers would then commission af Klint to paint, leading her to state that “the pictures were painted “through” her with “force” [...]”. It does sound a bit woolly, but one mustn’t forget that these were times in which invisible powers such as electromagnetic waves, x-rays and Darwin’s theory of evolution were discovered, and hence many artists were interested in a certain spirituality. However, its impact is especially undeniable in the case of as Klint, whose work would otherwise not exist.
4) Was she the first abstract painter? Now, was she the first abstract painter or not? There can be arguments found for either side. Non-believers will say her work contains mostly figurative elements and that even the geometric abstrahered forms are solely representations of cellular structures of natural things. Believers will counter that a considerable amount of work features abstraction before 1910, the year MoMA director Alfred Barr pinpointed the first abstract painting, predating work by Kandinsky, Mondrian, or Malevich. Non-believers will then say she was a spiritualist and not and artist, that she never explicitly stated that the works were intended as abstract paintings. Believers will mention that the canonized men also were fascinated with incorporeal powers. But as Spectator editor Martin Gayford wrote: “Being first, chronologically, is perhaps overrated; it’s being better that counts.� And hence, it is maybe more interesting to ask if Hilma af Klint was, rather than discussing art historical timelines and categories.
5) Why haven’t I heard of her? A major reason why af Klint’s work stayed under the art radar is her own will: she stipulated that her work was not to be shown for two decades after her death (in 1944). It took even longer, because in 1970 the Moderna Museet in Stockholm declined the donation of her work. Then it was only in 1986 that the Los Angeles County Museum of Art picked up on her work and included some paintings in their exhibition “The spiritual in art: abstract painting 1890-1985”. After that, she did have major exhibitions, and the current one in the Serpentine Galleries will undeniably strengthen her place in art history. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.
Hilma af Klint, Painting the Unseen, Serpentine Galleries London until 15 May 2016.
Eline Verstegen, eline.verstegen@skynet.be MA student “Curating the Contemporary�, London from Antwerp, Belgium
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Coordinated by Ramón Melero Guirado Designed and edited by Matilde Ferrarin Special thanks to Eline Verstegen for the revision.