JAKOB GAUTEL
First steps
How did you discover your vocation as an artist? What creative process do you use, and how do you materialize and develop an idea?
Regarding my vocation as an artist, I believe that we all have, deep down, a compelling need to express ourselves. I grew up in a family of artists, so I saw that it existed as a profession beyond a mere calling, even if it doesn't necessarily provide a good living. The working process stems from the need to express ourselves about things that happen to us, that we see, that we experience, and to give them a visual form. I'm not a writer, not a musician; my means are primarily visual, sometimes audiovisual with video. This is the most difficult question, it's endless: trying to understand how we function internally. There's always the relationship with others: we don't express ourselves for ourselves but to communicate with others; otherwise, we would write a diary and lock it away. The need to communicate one's perception and experience of the world is at the heart of an artist's work.
I use quite different mediums, but I believe there's a common thread: the question of what we see, what we want to see, and how we want to project ourselves into the images. I explore this in very different ways. Creating my website was very important because, for the first time, I saw an overview of 25 or 30 years of work on a single page. In fact, I realized that the questions are always more or less the same. Obviously, there are similar techniques like photography, video, installations, sometimes performance, but above all, there are recurring themes that I revisit with a different perspective, on another occasion, in another context. I feel like I'm weaving, knitting a kind of fabric—not a fabric of lies, but I hope a fabric of truths, even if they are subjective. All of this becomes a kind of mesh, a braiding of meaning over the years. Each work is an attempt to answer a question, perhaps always the same question, but in a slightly different way. Perhaps it's not even about answering, but about posing the question in a slightly different way.
Your entire work revolves around this idea of appearance, how it can be deceptive, and how it can be falsified. Have you always wanted to play with this idea of appearance?
I think that's really one of the first things in my work: is what I see, what I'm shown, real? What is the degree of reality in it? I thought quite early on about questioning the prefabricated images we're confronted with. This is the case with my work on Hollywood portraits that I retouched to remove the hair (Nude, 1991-1994). I confront two historical realities that were simultaneous, but in very different contexts, or even three: Hollywood photographs, the shaving of people's heads in camps in Germany, and women in France at the end of the war. I try to create confrontations between these contexts through images. I sometimes start with pre-existing images, or I invite people to participate in the creation of images, as was the case with the important work on Maria Theodora (1996/97-2005), or the images of the hero of the Dardanelles War in Türkiye (Hero of the Dardanelles, 2012), or the very recent work on the perception of justice (Justice(s), 2014-2016, with legal scholar Alexandra Bensamoun, CERDI, Paris-Sud University / Paris-Saclay) with a group of people connected to the justice system. It is a reflection on the status of the image and how the image contributes to the construction of identity.
This was very much the case with Maria Theodora, a historical image reincarnated by different models…
In a way, this questions the status and function of the image itself. We live in a culture awash with images; we are constantly churning out, sweating, and producing images through selfies, Instagram, and social media. The image becomes a kind of proof that something has happened. If there are no images of the event, it's assumed it didn't happen; it acquires a certain veracity. through The image. This encourages people to create events in order to produce images, or to create images to make events seem real. We're in a state of submission bordering on slavery, as if we couldn't exist without images. Politicians have been playing with this a lot since the 20th century.th century. In my performance Big Brother (2011) for example, I talk about the paradox of being trapped by the image. We are in surveillance by an image. Submission. We must question this status of the image and rethink the question of meaning, to what extent an image makes sense, and I believe that in my work I do this in two different ways: I question the meaning of pre-existing images, or the identity of people by creating new images with them.
We realize that the public plays a significant role in your work, whether in the Hero of the Dardanelles Or when you consider the question of public space, which is designed for the public to occupy. Is this relationship with the public a constant in your view? Can you conceive of art without an audience?
I believe that as an artist, you want to communicate, so the public is essential. Public participation in the creation of a work isn't always a given. There are works I've made for myself, in my own space, because I felt the need to do so, but there's always the importance of showing that work. A work that isn't seen may still be a work, but it's dead; a work needs to live, it needs to be seen. Then there's the question of people's participation. Some works require this participation; for them, it's part of the very concept of the work. Sometimes there are traces of this participation where the work exists because people participate. Then there are works where I elicit a reaction, like the stickers. Reserved for the homeless (1991), but it is not the reaction that is the work, it is the act of arousing the reaction that is the work.
«" Heaven "»
We see in your work that you create genuine interaction with the public, and you even quote an idea from Duchamp, explaining that a work exists because it is looked at, that it is the viewer who makes the work. In several of your works, particularly the inscriptions in public spaces (such as Direction of the visit, 1993/2010, or Pull yourself out, push yourself out, (1999-2006), you seem to question the public, to challenge them, to make them stop and think. How did you come up with this idea and what are you trying to question about people?
The perception of the situation. I really enjoy bringing two or more contexts into contact, making them meet and seeing what happens, in order to pose a question through this confrontation with the third element: the viewer who discovers this situation. Part of my work is a kind of mimicry, of signage or inscriptions. I grew up with words and writing because my parents were graphic designers and therefore worked a lot with text. It's one of the elements I like to question, not only images but also words, what conditions us in our daily lives: "Follow the arrow," "Don't go that way." My very first work on this subject was at the School of Fine Arts, where I renamed the entrance to the Palais des Études.
I had put up fake bronze plates« Beauty salon» (1988) and I had sent invitation cards to the trade association of master hairdressers. Some people came and were quite angry because there was nothing to see; it was a hoax, a clever hoax I think, because it raised the question of beauty and what is taught in an art school. It was a rather relevant question.
The second project I undertook, which subsequently encountered legal repercussions, was the story of the Heaven (1990) which was created as part of an exhibition in a disused building of the Ville-Evrard psychiatric hospital, where Antonin Artaud and Camille Claudel were interned…
We were a group of artists who had intervened in this building through various works. in situ but also through contact with the medical staff and, to a lesser extent, with patients. It was the building for alcoholics who were interned in a psychiatric hospital at the time and used as cheap labor for the farm associated with the hospital. The living conditions of these poor internees were visible in the rooms and on the walls, with beds placed side by side, grease stains from their heads on the walls, and two enormous dormitories with two toilets—the hygiene and living conditions were appalling. I saw in this building a door, monumental in appearance but ultimately quite small, perhaps 1.8 meters high, with two leaves—incredible, a kind of ready-made Like in Marcel Duchamp's house. It had been locked with a metal bar for a very long time. There were signs of wear on the door, a bit like those on saloons in Westerns, and the bar was completely rusted. The entrance to the toilets was through another door. I had a vision; I thought, "I imagine the gates of Paradise like this," a monumental gate that has been closed to us for a very long time, and on the other side, in reality, we are in a completely dilapidated place, in a kind of misery of the space in which we live, a metaphorical misery that is far from being Paradise.
You created the inscription in 1990 in Ville-Evrard. Was it intended to be a permanent work?
It wasn't meant to stay because the building was slated for restoration. That's why I took photos with the equipment I had at the time, which was two cameras, a small one and a 6x6, the best I could find, thinking that the only remaining trace of this work would be the photos. The artwork is the inscription of the word "Paradise" on the crumbling wall above the door, and I tried to blend it into the surroundings: the letters are written in an old-fashioned, peeling style. I tried to protect the flaking paint, which was already coming off, and then very carefully applied the gold paint. I even added gold leaf with a patina to completely integrate the inscription into the crumbling wall. I took photos. The following year, I had a small exhibition in a gallery, and I had the opportunity to create a small brochure, which I included with one of the photos. Years later a friend told me «"I think I saw your work in a documentary film about a photographer."», She's a very well-known artist who moves in very different circles: we're both artists, but she's a highly respected figure with considerable resources; she was Chirac's official photographer. I'm a more experimental artist, with very different means of production. So, people are talking to me about this documentary, which I haven't been able to get my hands on, but I have seen the book that was published about her photographic work. In it, she took stories from the Bible and staged them in various locations, mostly abandoned, like old factories and buildings such as the one in Ville-Evrard. She stages these biblical moments with rather attractive young people, as she works extensively with models from the fashion world.
I discovered two photos in which my work is used in its entirety. These two photos are part of a triptych. These three photos make sense because of my work, but they also distort its meaning. In the first photo, there is a young, naked woman modestly covering her genitals, and behind her is the gate, with the inscription "Paradise" above it, so obviously it's Eve being expelled from Paradise. In the middle, there is an allusion to the New Testament, the Virgin Mary, and to the right, an older woman in a pose somewhat similar to the young woman before the gate of Paradise, and the inscription has been aged even further, as if even more time had passed. The triptych is called The New Eve, There's a sort of mix between the Old and New Testaments, and between Eve's sin, the reason she was expelled from Paradise, and the Virgin Mary's virginity—a rather strange mix. I see my work in another artist's work, so I think there's a copyright issue. I contact a lawyer who specializes in copyright law, Agnès Tricoire, whom I'd met back in my art school days, and we write to the publisher to tell them that another artist's work is present in the photographer's work and that it legally constitutes copyright infringement. I felt there was a certain arrogance in their response. «"Prove that you are an artist, that you have done it."». I provide evidence, testimonies from people who saw me do it, including my art school teacher, Christian Boltanski, a fairly well-known figure. Faced with his refusal to acknowledge my rights, we were forced to take legal action. I have the impression that this photographer didn't want to accept that she owed something to someone else, to another artist; it was almost a matter of honor. At least, that's my assumption. There were several stages of the trial with some very interesting arguments.
The Paradis ruling will establish contemporary art as a protectable art form. Was that your goal when you wanted to take the case to court?
I think the definition of "court" is accurate. When it became clear there was going to be a trial, I had no choice. If I hadn't dared to go to court, it would have meant "abandoning this work." It's as if the photographer's photos had become the artwork, and I could no longer show either my installation or the photos of my installation (which constitute a second existence of the work). It's as if she had assumed paternity, or rather, maternity, of the work. I couldn't let that go because it's my work; I know what I did. Moreover, in this specific case, I intuitively felt that it was a powerful and meaningful work, that I had somehow touched upon something significant, and I didn't want to let go of it. We went to court; obviously, I was terrified. I don't have the resources of that person at all, so I trusted my lawyer, hoping she would be good. It was very good and there were different stages and exchanges of arguments that I found extremely interesting.
First thing: prove that you have completed the work. I provided evidence, testimonies. Secondly: The word you chose belongs to everyone: words are not protectable, therefore the work is not protectable.. Third argument: The typography used is not your invention., therefore it is not protectable. This is debatable because, even though I relied somewhat on Times, I drew the letters myself, so it's not an exact copy. Fourth argument: they measured the size of the inscription to conclude that it only covered a certain percentage of the entire surface of the photo and was therefore...’a negligible element. I had fun and found examples in art history of paintings where a very small element, just one percent of the painting's surface, gives meaning to the entire canvas. (this is the case of The woman with the flea (by Georges de La Tour). I used classical paintings and more contemporary examples. The second element was searching for text within a painting. For example, there is Rembrandt's depiction of the appearance of the divine word with a Hebrew word. (Balthasar's Feast). If you hide that part of the painting, it loses its meaning because the crucial element that carries the meaning has been removed. Finally, the most unbelievable argument for me, coming from another artist and a well-known gallery in Paris, was that I hadn't created a work of art because it was only an idea. This was tantamount to disqualifying my work as legally unprotectable. We were therefore engaged in a battle that was beyond us, concerning the kind of art I practice and potentially relevant to all artists working with minimalist forms.
The trial was both an interesting and extremely trying experience. I had to face the lower court, we won, then the Court of Appeal, which was petitioned by the photographer and her gallery, we won again, then the Court of Cassation, again petitioned by the same parties, and we won again. There are also some rather unbelievable aspects to the wording: there are, of course, the legal texts, everything is very well argued, but then there's a very insidious way of denigrating and belittling the other party: they talk about greed, that sort of thing. During the proceedings, I had absolutely no financial considerations; I was trying to reclaim ownership of my work, to get back something that belonged to me because I had created it. I simply hoped that they would rule in my favor. Psychologically, it's very difficult; it's akin to psychological warfare. Later, with time, I learned how to protect myself against it. I read the texts and responded in the third person: "Monsieur Gautel" had become a kind of character in a scenario, and that allowed me to distance myself. It was a scenario that was unfolding and being written as it progressed. There were very well-known lawyers on the other side; at times I felt like it was David versus Goliath, and I like to say that, my lawyer, Maître Tricoire, was my slingshot.
In relation to ready-mades and works where the contribution is minimal, one can ask when a work becomes a work for you, from what point does it exist and deserve to be protected?
I think there's some confusion with the term "conceptual art." There's a tendency to think that conceptual art is a single idea, but when you look at the works, there's always a materialization of the idea. Always, even if it's just in the form of text that provides instructions, like Yoko Ono's advice to climb a ladder and look at the sky. She formulated the idea, laid it out, and wrote it on paper, so there is indeed a materialization of the idea. If I say I'd like to write the word "Paradise" on a wall above a dilapidated door, that's not a work of art; if I do it, it becomes one. The two main points in the decree are that the work expresses the artist's personality, which is an expression of their own relationship to the world, their subjectivity. The second point is materialization, and I think the definition is very clear. When we think of one of the artists who completely revolutionized art in the 20th centuryth century, Marcel Duchamp, and that we look at each of these ready-mades, There is no transformation, or there is none. Either there is assemblage, or he has turned the objects around, placed them elsewhere: a coat rack is placed on the floor, thus changing its axis, giving it a title, and it becomes "trebuchoir"; the urinal becomes a "fountain," he has turned it upside down, signed it. There are several actions on the object itself that place it in the artistic context by changing its meaning and the way we look at it, which becomes something else through the artist's intervention.
There's no difference between conceptual art and Art: Art is always conceptual. There's the form, there's the idea, and between the two there's always a dialogue. Sometimes the form is more important than the idea, sometimes the idea is more important than the form. Sometimes one comes before the other, sometimes the form can be the starting point for something very conceptual. I'm thinking, for example, of François Morellet, who starts with geometry and creates works rich in meaning and very funny, tragicomic, but which begin with lines. He starts with a square, he draws lines inside the square; he's a conceptual artist who starts with the form to arrive at the meaning. I see myself more in the other direction; I start with the meaning and I try to find the form that corresponds to it. I believe that art is always conceptual; in the choice of what we want to show others, there is already a conceptual choice: I tell you that I am showing you this and nothing else. Even a photographer makes framing choices and can produce conceptual images; a draftsman even more so, because they can omit and emphasize other things, they can blend imagination and reality: art is conceptual. I believe the decree is very accurate because it states: the work of the artist is this, and the approach of the 20th century...th and the 21stth The century is a continuum, there is no break. We are in continuity with the history of art, and when I talk about my work, the artistic references are not limited to the last ten years: it's Rembrandt, Goya, Egyptian art… We are a large family; it's a coincidence that we were born in one era and not another, but there are ideas, forms that transcend centuries. The dialogue is open, not limited to people who live in the same era. We also engage in dialogue across the centuries.
You have completed the installation Heaven The case began in 1990 and the trials concluded in 2008. Looking back, what impact has this case had on your creative work and artistic journey? Are you aware of the significance this ruling has had in the field of intellectual property?
Yes, yes, of course! People talk about it, there are publications, comments, but I'm not sure that the art world has truly grasped the significance of this ruling. It seems to be better known in the legal world. For me personally, there hasn't really been any change; except that it encouraged me to continue with my own work.
Role of the public and engagement
We've talked about your relationship with the public, but what we haven't mentioned is the tenderness that emanates from some of your works towards people, particularly in the "machine" for creating business cards (Business cards, 1993) which allow people to regain an identity. You can feel it; it was a very moving installation. It was in a shelter, so installing this machine in this place demonstrates a real tenderness, but also in the inscriptions, especially on the benches which bear fragments of conversations that are very moving, these lost conversations (Mood swings, 2014). What is your relationship to the public in the way you want to share things with them?
I am very moved. The word "tenderness" resonates deeply with me. I think it's quite accurate. The works you're talking about are largely in public spaces or were triggered by public spaces. There's a general societal shift, expressed through the use of public space, that goes against what you're saying about tenderness. Tenderness is about listening to others, trusting them, not seeing them as enemies but as fellow human beings who, at a given moment, share the same space and time as you. And I think that in recent years, with the migrant crisis in Europe and the situation of the homeless, we've entered a society where we're afraid, perhaps rightly so, because the world is unstable. This stability of the "Thirty Glorious Years" is crumbling; this is also due to the fact that Europe was a somewhat closed and leading space that still benefited from the effects of colonialism and the wealth accumulated throughout the history of the 18th, 19th and 20th century. Certainties are crumbling, and as a result, fear is one of the reactions, reinforced by certain far-right political trends, but not only them. I think that, in a way, this isn't how we're going to solve problems, by considering the other as a barbarian, to paraphrase Cavafy, the Greek poet, but by simply considering them as someone who comes from elsewhere, who may have a different culture, but who is a human being and who has interesting things to tell us about their vision and experience of the world. So I think that sharing is more valuable than conflict. Indeed, I think that the public sphere is changing for security reasons; for example, terrorism plays on this and tries to break down a kind of basic trust that exists in our Western, republican, and democratic societies by sowing fear.
I believe we must trust. In the series on justice, there are two people I met through another project with residents of social housing (Between ! In 2013, their building faced the offices of Charlie Hebdo, and they witnessed the attacks. One of the residents was even in the street when the terrorists left; she saw the policeman shot dead and was traumatized. When I asked about justice, the answers were remarkably insightful: Nadarajah, the cook from Sri Lanka, spoke about secularism in very simple words but with incredible clarity, saying that we must live together, and asking why we should go to war simply because we belong to different religions.
There's another aspect to public space as well: a kind of retreat of the state for budgetary reasons. As a result, the private sector is increasingly taking over, and this is changing the public space. It creates situations where trust is eroded. For example, in cities like Lyon, where there used to be passageways between streets, or in Paris, courtyards where you could enter, all of this is becoming increasingly privatized with its own codes. Public furniture is increasingly preventing homeless people from lingering or lying down, even though there are more and more homeless people because society no longer functions as it used to. There's a huge amount of work to be done, but I think one of the things we need to rethink is compassion, reaching out to others. One of the first photos in this series on justice is of a young man who became homeless against his will, but the whole neighborhood rallied around him. There was an incredible surge of support to prevent him from sinking into despair.
I think we need to be careful: we're facing ideologies that come from very different quarters, with very different justifications. On the one hand, there's this conflict being created for religious and cultural reasons. On the other hand, there are also economic reasons, with the claim that we want to protect our European space. Finally, there's the ideology linked to this neoliberal vision of capitalism in which the other is considered a competitor, an enemy to be eliminated. Reality TV plays on this. You have to "nominate" the other, that is to say, eliminate them. I believe I'm very critical of this because a society can't function like that; we can't constantly consider the other as a competitor and try to eliminate them, otherwise the world becomes a «"Ego Shooter"» Or "« First-Person Shooter», That is, a video game where you have to kill everyone. Disasters in the US where young people kill 15-20 people are a bit like that: they snap because they grew up in a world like that. I think it's important to introduce these points for reflection into the public sphere.
To return to what I was saying, I occupy a very marginal position in the art market, which is a real shame for the creation of projects or exhibition opportunities. I finance my artistic work through teaching because I can't make a living from my vocation. But at the same time, projects like those in public spaces or with residents of social housing are very important to me because the question of meaning truly arises. I work for the participants, and then for the public, even if it's an exhibition in a town hall or a library.
So you would say that your art is engaged because it seeks to shake up society. You teach at the Paris-la Villette school of architecture; we can see in this a desire to engage on the ground by training future architects to take greater account of public space, which is a place of exchange, whereas today we tend to try to avoid gatherings, to avoid places that could attract people.
I'm just an artist, not the president or head of a multinational corporation, so my resources are very limited. I believe the good thing about teaching is being able to connect with another generation. At the architecture school, I proposed a course on art in public spaces, which culminates in interventions within those spaces. Students, in groups of four or five, create some truly beautiful projects. And it was wonderful; we had a blast. For me, it's part of being committed, but if it were a little better paid and a little more respected, that wouldn't be bad…
You do very committed work, for example, when we see your work in Indonesia on the t-shirts with the appointment and targets on the back (Appointment !, 1996) it is a very strong form of commitment.
And very political.
It was a public action, supported by the Goethe-Institut and the French Cultural Center in Jakarta, Indonesia, in May 1996. We organized a gathering of several hundred people, all wearing the same T-shirt with "Rendez-vous!" written on the front and a target printed on the back. This was well before Facebook, Twitter, and the Arab Spring. flash mob Politics before its time! We circulated the information with small leaflets, folded like paper fortune tellers, like a child's game, but with a subversive message inside.
In the context of a dictatorship like Suharto's in Indonesia at the time, the expression "we're being targeted" (by advertising, media manipulation, surveillance, etc.), which we often hear, takes on a completely different meaning… In 1998, Suharto was forced to resign. Perhaps, on a very modest scale, my actions contributed to encouraging people to oppose the regime? It's an action I'm very proud of, and one I was very afraid of. I was responsible for hundreds of people! But it went well, and all my Indonesian friends had encouraged me to do it. When I returned the following year, the guard at the Cultural Center was still wearing my T-shirt, completely faded from being worn so much.
A political action, like the stars on the European flag. So there is a political dimension to your work?
Sometimes yes… Not always, I wouldn't say I'm systematically a political artist, on the contrary, I'm a very shy and introspective person, but sometimes I can't take it anymore, I have to react with the means at my disposal. Regarding the European flag, there have been several works, actions, performances, and reinterpretations, including two carried out in Greece with my friend Jason Karaïndros (Europa?!, 2013, and Europe – a double-edged sword, 2015). Jason is Greek, I am German – the impossible European couple! And we are both deep down in favor of the idea of Europe, but quite despairing of the evolution of this beautiful idea.
Housing is also important to you, particularly on your website. You involve people and try to transform the housing they live in or put it into perspective. For example, you talk about the ideal city as it was built in the 1960s and you compare it with today (New town? 2010). Does this issue of housing and social space have a real dimension for you today?
Yes, and perhaps my attention to this point has grown since I started teaching at the architecture school. It's also the result of chance. You're referring to the interventions in Montbéliard; it was an art center that invited me on the 19th, so it had nothing to do with teaching at the architecture school. However, this teaching made me more aware of these issues. I believe that housing is a question of space, just like public space, and in this respect, the role of architects is important: to create spaces that make things possible instead of preventing them. Currently, we tend to focus on preventing or restricting, on segmentation.
The other day, with the third-year students in my public art course, we went to Place de la République, which has been redesigned in a very simple way: with smooth paving stones for rollerblading and street furniture made from assembled beams. The square is empty; they've removed the cars that used to circle it, and yet it's extremely lively, even without any specific design, precisely because all sorts of things can happen there. I was discussing with some architect colleagues the importance of creating open, multifunctional spaces that aren't limited to a single use. It's very important. Art, too, a good work of art must have these qualities: it must remain open and not be confined to a single meaning or form.
Memory
We also have questions about memory. You haven't talked about it much, but it's present in your work. The theme of memory is subtly woven into many of your pieces. A good portion of your creations are ephemeral; not all are intended to be permanent, to endure over time. What is your relationship with time and memory, and what role do they play in your work?
There are different aspects to my work. On the one hand, there are intentionally permanent pieces; for example, I have postcards printed on acid-free paper in the hope that perhaps a set of postcards will survive. And then there are things that are inherently ephemeral, because they are part of the artwork, which cannot last, or performances where ephemerality is the very essence. I do, however, try to keep a record of what happens. The object endures, like a photograph, a book, or cards, and sometimes it's the trace that remains—the recording, the description. So ultimately, on my website, you see both: the artwork itself and traces of the artwork. Heaven It's actually a bit of both. It depends on what I want to say; sometimes it needs to disappear, sometimes it needs to stay.
[Pointing at the artwork Everything must disappear (2011), a funerary plaque engraved with these three wordsWith this work, we are in the realm of paradox; the paradox itself becomes the work. This stone, too, will disappear; it is not eternal and will transform into something else, like the planet Earth, which is not eternal.
Memory is very important on several levels: perception, how we perceive the world through our senses, what meanings we ascribe to it, and how we interpret it. I'm also very interested in neurology: how it works, how it functions. Because we are machines, after all; we are organs. There's this neurological memory: what we remember and why. My Tower of Babel (2006-2011) blends several memories; people who see this work say, "Ah, but it's the Tower of Babel!" Why do they say that? This tower may never have existed, or at least not in this form; they may never have seen it, or perhaps only the imaginary tower in Brueghel's paintings, but its form is so distinctive that it remains in our collective memory, shaped by a culture shared by people who share a time and a moment of living together. Thus, there is collective memory, neurological memory, and personal memory. Sometimes these things intertwine. That's why I'm so interested in memory, because through it arises the question: what remains? The same applies to the question of identity: who are we in relation to a memory? To what extent can we agree on a collective memory, what do we share? And what, pertaining to personal memory, can have universal significance?
I'd like to return to the figure of Maria Theodora, who appears as the central thread in your work, appearing very early on. You speak of a missing link. There's that famous photograph of Maria Theodora, about which Larisa Dryansky quotes Barthes, explaining that you're searching through hundreds of portraits to reconstruct the true face of this person. It's funny, because in the short film of Batavia 1996 (1996) She reminds me of the figure of the vice-consul's wife in Marguerite Duras's work, a ghostly silhouette. What identity are you looking for in that character?
Maria Theodora It holds an important place in my work because I realized that through this research, many questions were raised. The starting point is an old photograph of an ancestor, Maria Theodora. She is wearing a European dress, but she has an Asian face; the photograph is somewhat incongruous, a little strange, a hybrid. I went to Indonesia, following in her footsteps and those of her mother, of Indonesian origin, of whom we have no trace except her first name. I obtained this photograph from my mother; it's part of the family mythology, the heritage with its surrounding stories: she is the mother of my mother's grandfather, the daughter of an Indonesian woman. So it was traceable; we know the lineage. But there are "missing links" in this genealogy: Maria Theodora's mother, who remains a mystery, but also her granddaughter Corona, my grandmother: She died quite young, in tragic circumstances linked to the post-war context. She knew Maria Theodora, her grandmother, and I could have asked her questions if she had lived longer.
I went to Indonesia, to Java and Sumatra, and did some research with a copy of the photograph. Mixed-race couples faced a very difficult situation at the time, and there are no written records, or almost none. I couldn't find the information I was hoping for, and I began to question the image. I felt a great deal of frustration; I immersed myself in this image, projecting myself into it, as if into Barthes's "The Dark Room" (which I didn't know at the time). At one point, I thought: this is what I can base my work on: what does this image tell us? Ultimately, the only information I had about Maria Theodora's origins, about her Indonesian mother, was her family resemblance, her Asian appearance, her similarity to her mother. To better understand the image, I decided to recreate it: to recreate a 19th-century image using methods very similar to those of the time, with a 6x6 analog camera. But with contemporary people—a mix of memory, past and present—and with today's Indonesia, a multicultural society that was a dictatorship at the time, there was a difficult relationship with power. The relationship with white people was also somewhat complicated, as they were perceived as the descendants of the colonial powers.
So I decided to recreate this photo with very different women in the absurd hope of finding her again: Maria Theodora, like an impossible casting call. As if by photographing enough people I might stumble upon my ancestor or a descendant of my ancestor. It's a question of memory. I had told the models, who were looking at the photo as I photographed them, the story of Maria Theodora; they were truly captivated. to embody it. Upon returning to France and Germany, I did the same thing with European women. Then I made the prints myself in the darkroom, placing a negative on top with the original photograph underneath, instead of photographic paper, and trying to find the same scale based on the hands and the triangle between the eyes and mouth. At one point, I saw the dots of the fabric in the new photograph overlap the dots of the old fabric, like moiré; the pattern of the reproduced dress was exactly the same. The two photographs, the one from 1860 and the one from 1996, overlapped quite precisely. I feel that through the past, the present, and this reconstruction of the past, I touched another era through the image, like a time machine. Photography was the medium that allowed me to connect with this other era.
The other part you don't know about is the book, which includes a general explanatory text, the photos, my travel notes, and her journal, but which is written by me. So, I really immersed myself in the photography to reach another era. A process of identification. As if I had stepped through this image, like Alice through the looking glass, or Orpheus in Cocteau's film, or like in that strange movie. Mulholland Drive by David Lynch. A "journey through appearances" to connect with another time, another life. Memory is truly important because it allows us to better understand the present and perhaps make more conscious decisions for the future.
When you exhibit the portraits, do you show the original or do you leave it to the viewer to form their own image of Maria Theodora based on the 120 portraits they see in front of them?
There's the series and the original photograph, but the other elements—the video and the book—aren't necessarily on display. I never considered not showing it; it's part of it. It's hanging to the side, and the others continue, a bit like a kind of army surrounding it, an army of shadows.
Regarding the history of heroes in Türkiye (Hero of the Dardanelles, 2012), there, the sculpture was not shown because everyone knew it, photos of the sculptures in other countries where the myth is not part of the collective memory were added.
When working on the theme of memory, the theme of death is inevitably present. From your very first works, such as the Paper napkins (1988-1990), death is hidden, but it is already there. In your most recent works, death is found in the reflection of your eye (Augenblick, (2014), and you quote Musset, "Every true glance is a desire." What is your relationship with death?
Death is nothing more than the end of life; it's not more spectacular than that. Then there's a pictorial genre, the memento mori, in reaction to vanity. One of the great eras of vanity was the Baroque, whose incredible splendor can be compared to today, where, faced with accumulated wealth, there are people struggling to make ends meet. Perhaps we are in a new era of the Baroque where the memento mori is once again an important subject (for example, in the work of Damien Hirst). But for me, there's also another starting point: AIDS. In the 1980s, it was a disease that was completely untreatable and extremely associated with homosexuals, before we realized that everyone was affected and that it was also transmitted through other means, but this generated a lot of stigma. In our circle of friends, people contracted it and died, others are HIV-positive but still resisting. So death was present in a rather dramatic way, because it was linked to sexuality; it's Eros and Thanatos coming together in a completely grotesque and cynical way.
I'm German, and in German culture there's a tradition of representing death, for example through the Dance of Death or the Expressionists. So, in a way, it's also a pictorial reference. Representing death with a skull or a skeleton is very literal, but this pictorial reference allows me to show something that's difficult to show otherwise: the finiteness of time. Death doesn't frighten me at all; no more worries, headaches, or agonizing over it!
Moreover, you even take the opposite stance to vanities and memento mori with your work. Vivendi Memento (1992) where you repurpose the porcelain medallions from tombstones. There is a sense of a desire to de-dramatize death.
This work was done at a time when I was invited by Christian Boltanski to an exhibition at the Saint Eustache parish, which was involved in raising awareness about AIDS, just as a very good friend had died. It was a real contrast, I thought to myself: damn it, life goes on! It's very strange, I went to the funeral home and showed them some photos, saying: look, I want medallions with these. They dragged their feet with the production, I didn't understand why. The first ceramicist refused to do the work because he couldn't find the face. Indeed, there wasn't one; the photo showed details of reflections on the water, it's very zoomed in, it's cosmic. I wanted people to feel something concrete, shadow, light, and matter without being able to place it. The ceramicist was completely lost. I had to go see a second ceramicist! I called it Vivendi Memento, Life goes on and every little moment of life is worth living.
The image of death in my work is more present in this sense: we are not eternal, every moment counts – and that is perhaps also why I agreed to share a moment with you!
What role does religion play in your work? Indeed, one can find the Golem, drawn from Jewish mythology, or even a Angel detector (1992-1995). In general, how do you view religion and spirituality through your work?
First of all, let me be very clear: I'm not religious at all. I believe in life; we're here, and we have to do something while we're here. I'm very scientific about all of this: we're on Earth endowed with consciousness and intelligence, and with that, we have to do the best we can. Does life have meaning? Yes, the meaning we try to give it. But in itself, no, there's no Supreme Being giving meaning to nature; it's we who give it meaning. Goethe expresses this very well in his poem The divine. There are works that refer to myths or cultural or religious images that are alive in Europe, Judeo-Christian. What interests me in this is how, in different cultures, people tell their stories about life, and how they invent meaning, and what that meaning is. That's why tales and myths, religious or not, interest me as narratives that seek to give meaning to life; it's about storytelling.
You are working on the concept of the icon, a religious term that you use a lot but integrate in diverse ways with Barbie (Exhibitionist, 1990, and Crossings, 2000-2013), a boy band (Worlds Apart, 1998) or even Che Guevara (Che, 2001-2004). We find a denunciation in your work on icons; they are all laid bare, like bald movie stars (Nude, 1991-1994). They fall from their pedestal.
Yes, that's one of the mechanisms of my work. I speak of icons with religious connotations; an icon is an image that appeals to belief, representing something beyond our humble earthly existence: a god, a divinity. Indeed, I use this term ironically when I apply it to Barbie dolls; it's a dismantling of belief. It comes back to the question of how far we want to believe in the veracity of an image, and this notion is crystallized by icons or these objects.
You also have a strong connection to the world of fairy tales; you mention Grimm's "The Ducats That Fell From the Sky" or Andersen's "The Emperor's New Clothes." Is this a source of inspiration? What symbols do you find in them? What attracts you to fairy tales?
This is the storytelling, To tell stories that explain the world to us, using symbolism and interpretations that draw on psychoanalysis. I believe that the best tales are those that, in the form of a simple story with stereotypes—the king, the people—tell emblematic stories that explain something to us about power, transcending our place in the world, about love, about misunderstandings, like this text about shadows on my website.
The figure of the Golem in your work reminded me of the novel by Gustave Meyrink, who writes in The Golem (1915): «"All of life is nothing but questions that have taken shape, questions that carry within them the seeds of their answers, and answers that are pregnant with questions. Anyone who sees anything else in it is a fool."»
I love it! It's really great. I think we should be wary of anyone who thinks they have all the answers. People claiming to have simple answers to complex questions are like the Pied Pipers of Hamelin who will kidnap little children and take them to hell. That perfectly sums up how I feel and what I'm trying to explore in my work.
To get back to the Golem, what interests me is that it's a creation of humankind, one that surpasses humanity and will become monstrous. It's a myth we're currently living through; humankind, with technology and an economy that has become the sole rule governing human and environmental relationships, is sawing off the branch it's sitting on. Perhaps we should consider a more modest, sustainable, and precisely... tender with what surrounds us. We are in an invader's, imperialist attitude. There are real problems with climate change, with real repercussions for our survival, for example. What interests me in myths is the human tendency to want to push the boundaries of what is technically possible without respect for others in the broadest sense.
It is true that in the legend of the Golem there is this aspect of the monstrous figure that disappears, of which no one is aware until the moment when it finally reappears, but then it is too late to react.
When you're an artist, when you create things that have meaning, you have a responsibility. Generally, as human beings, we have responsibilities. In my work for the Prefect Erignac Square (Paris, 2004) where I had put quotes on public benches, several of these phrases echo responsibility. «"Each person is solely responsible for everyone else."» or «"A nation without memory has no future."», These are phrases I came across while talking with the Erignac family. In their little notebook, I read one sentence after another and found myself relating to them. There were many reflections on others, dialogue, responsibility, with a certain modesty as well, and humor.
I would like to share a moment with you, without words, with the Angel detector (1992-1995). This work is a collaboration with Jason Karaïndros. It's a detector that lights up when an angel passes by. We've shown this detector in very different contexts: exhibitions, conferences, schools, in France, Germany, Greece, Tunisia, Japan… It would be fantastic in a public space too… We worked on it for a year with an electronics engineer, Walter Goettmann, to get the system working, since it functions in reverse of conventional electronic circuits. Furthermore, the microphone could hear its own operation, like one can hear their own heartbeat. We had to find an operating threshold, and we can make it more or less sensitive. It has its own unique character.
The three of them fell silent. After a moment's hesitation, the lightbulb of Angel detector lights up gently.
Last question: what is a question that you were not asked but that you would have liked to hear?
(After a moment of reflection) …it's difficult and linked to the way the art market works. I'm 50, and my perspective on time and on my own work changes; my point of view shifts. Until now, I always looked ahead, and now I think, I've done all this, and what more can I possibly do? The finiteness of time becomes increasingly pronounced with age. You realize that no moment repeats itself, that no opportunity ever presents itself again. The question I ask myself is: what have I managed to accomplish? Not much. There are 100,000,000 other entries on Google, and we are marginal artists, nonexistent in the art market and therefore practically invisible within the art world. It's a real blow to self-esteem because we're worthless in the eyes of the market and the economy: we're worthless, so our work is worthless? The question I'm asking you is: what is this type of work worth?
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