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No Problem: Cologne/New York 1984-1989 David Zwirner Books

“At least until the beginning of this century, there were always special relationships between certain cities.”

Thus Diedrich Diederichsen poses the issue in his contribution to No Problem: Cologne/New York 1984-1989, the recently published catalogue to the exhibition last spring at David Zwirner, New York, sounding more or less certain that such creative inter-city special relationships belong to a past both recent and irretrievably lost, replaced, one presumes, by the diffusion and monotony of art fairs and jpegs. Nostalgia wafts through the book. It is captured by Diederichsen’s title, “Before Globalization,” and more pensively, if less succinctly, in certain passages from the second essay, by Bob Nickas, which finds him wistful, wonderstruck, and ruminating on the nature of history, of time itself: “Even as we bend the shape of time, eternity may be difficult to fathom. Having no beginning or end, there are only contours to be mapped. As an ongoing process of expansion and contraction, an overlay and succession that continually eludes fixed coordinates, our map is always in a state of unfolding.” Indeed.

Philosophizing aside, the texts straddle history and memoir, and the nostalgia is that of the participant observer, affecting not only critic and curator but dealer as well. “This exhibition is of personal significance to me,” Zwirner was quoted as saying in the show’s press release, “as I grew up in Cologne above my father’s gallery and was very much inspired by the creative and collaborative spirit of this particular generation of artists, gallerists, curators, and critics.” Each of the three — Zwirner, Nickas, and Diederichsen — searches these six years of re-materialization (to borrow a phrase from Nickas) both for what has been lost and for the faint beginnings of the conditions of art today.

For Zwirner, writing in the forward, this is a story of institutions, markets and business models, of “a younger generation of gallerists” — Gisela Capitain, Max Hetzler, Monika Sprüth — who were “committed to their artists and realized that with an accelerating art market, productive career management demanded allegiances in New York” — Metro Pictures, Mary Boone, Barbara Gladstone — “point[ing] forward to the interconnected, global art world that is today taken for granted.” Diederichsen’s essay focuses on the shift in the center of gravity from Düsseldorf to Cologne at the beginning of the ’80s, the brief flourishing of the scene there — it’s preoccupations and parties — before things moved to Berlin by the mid-90s, and a bit on New York as seen from Cologne. For him, the key transformations of that decade, in Cologne as elsewhere, were, “the reconstruction or reintroduction of the artwork as a portable art-dealer-friendly object with a mimetic relationship to everyday culture and everyday life, and the spectacular presence of the artist as a component of the informal dimension of the art world.” Nickas, whose piece covers New York, is far less concerned with the specificities of place and periodization. Instead he provides a digressive appreciation and recollection of art in the ’80s — at times insightful, frequently rambling, and, in the final analysis, a morality tale in which that decade marked death rattle of significance in art, “perhaps the last period in which artists, critics, and curators, the exhibitions and the writing around art, led the way and were of consequence.”

The book is predictably attractive, with crisp reproductions and installation photographs supplemented by grainy documentary images of the work as it was originally installed and reproduced ephemera. There are numerous pictures of artists hanging out and Kippenberger acting out. A museum quality exhibition that sprawled through three Zwirner addresses on 19th and 20th streets, much of the work is great and much of it familiar. The story they’re trying to tell — that of the “influences, affinities, and dialogues” between artists in these two cities, the special relationship — never really comes into focus. From the Germans we get almost exclusively paintings — many sloppy and sardonic — those of the Junge Wilde and the circle around Kippenberger: Walter Dahn, Jiří Georg Dokoupil, Werner Büttner and Albert Oehlen. One notable exception, Rosemarie Trockel, is unfortunately represented by only two pieces. The work out of New York, by contrast, is mostly cool, appropriative or rigorous, that of Pictures Generation artists and their immediate successors. The big New York exception, George Condo, did go to Cologne and seems to have felt a real sense of kinship with his equivalents there, but this hardly constitutes a special relationship worth building an exhibition around. Further muddying the waters, a quarter of the works in the show come from artists who did not live in either New York or Cologne — Mike Kelley, Raymond Pettibon, Fischli and Weiss and Franz West. Though they all exhibited in one or both of the cities between 1984-1989, such criteria verge on incoherence. I guess you had to be there.

by Eli Diner

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Holly Herndon’s Platform

“It wasn’t like Snowden happened and then I wrote ‘Home,’” says producer Holly Herndon from her own abode in Los Angeles. She’s just off a flight from a show in Chicago, spending her first night in her new house, on the phone and in her pajamas while being interviewed about her second album, Platform.

“It was just more like a slow burn of realization. I just started to research it more and understand it more — and understand the extent to which it was happening. I think it just finally sank in.” By “it,” the producer — who releases her second full-length through RVNG Intl and 4AD on May 19 — means the culture of spying that the networked world routinely engages in and endures, often without realizing it. Because of global social media and governmental surveillance, the concept of privacy has changed radically over the past couple of decades, and Herndon’s music explores this explicitly. “It’s something that people in music really hate, or are almost allergic to — that if you theorize something, or if you talk about something, it takes away from the emotionality of the thing. It’s like music should just be felt with the heart or in some kind of emotional way, and I think that that’s really odd.” In “Home,” ghostly vocals contemplate surveillance (“I know that you know me / better than I know me”) amid a wash of whirring, racing, scuttling rhythms.

For her latest music video, “Interference,” Herndon and her collaborator-partner Mat Dryhurst worked with progressive graphic design agency Metahaven. It features mostly achromatic tones occasionally punctured by a blank red screen here, a full-color forearm there. The figure of Herndon herself appears from behind a tattered white flag as clattering sonic clusters swirl across cut and glitched vocal samples. A rarely heard word surfaces within the sound and is met with the video’s barely visible text that reads “EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE.” It’s an equally aesthetic and unsettling experience. “I don’t believe in this strange separation of the soul and the mind,” says Herndon, speaking about what some might perceive as her overthinking of content and the privileged place of ideology in her music. “I think if something’s intellectually interesting then that can make something all the more emotional. I don’t understand this weird separation that music often has, where people get really upset by that idea.”

“Systemic inequality, surveillance states and neo-feudalism” are just some of the heady themes mentioned in the press release for Herndon’s Platform. They are addressed explicitly in track titles like “Unequal,” “DOA” (as in, “distributed autonomous organization”) and the creepy ASMR audio of “Lonely At The Top.” Here, artist and Berlin Community Radio presenter Claire Tolan whispers, “You’re so special, in so many ways,” in a track that’s without sound save for the soothing affirmations of the artist and the rubbing, massaging, salivating foley of bodies in motion. This is just one of several contributions to Platform by other artists working across disciplines, including New York-based composer and performer Colin Self, soprano Amanda DeBoer and Berlin-based Finnish production duo Amnesia Scanner. Herndon wants to be totally open about these contributions, with a transparent attitude that she says is all too rare. “Especially in music, you often have the ‘lone genius’ or the ‘lone icon,’ and it’s actually very rarely accurate. Usually there are a lot of behind-the-scenes people who aren’t being recognized,” Herndon says with a laugh. “So I don’t even know how radically different the process even is. It’s just more about being honest and open about how that process is working; working with people that aren’t necessarily musicians bringing in their ideas to the work.” Those ideas don’t only include Tolan’s work with the perceptual phenomenon of autonomous sensory meridian response on “Lonely at the Top,” but also an eight-channel ambisonic piece with performance artist Cuauhtémoc Peranda in “DOA” and Spencer Longo’s word sculptures in “Locker Leak.” Herndon explains that these contributions have “changed the approach toward lyric writing, or toward conceptual ideas around certain tracks, so I think about it more in those terms. As more a kind of decentralization or something, or a less hierarchical approach.”

Of course, ideas of “decentralized” and “nonhierarchical” structures are central to discussions of the internet, which is at the heart of Herndon’s concerns about global communication and networked technologies. They’re macro-events that have enormous consequences at the micro-level, and it’s a song like “Home” that situates both perspectives squarely within our relationships to our own networked devices. “I was really trying to get to that hyper-personal, almost domestic feeling that you have with your laptop,” Herndon says about “Chorus,” Platform’s lead single released last year. “Then with ‘Home,’ you could see it as break-up song. Where I’m like, ‘How could you do this to me!?’ But of course, we didn’t actually break up. It’s complicated.”

by Steph Kretowicz

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Florence Derieux on FRAC Champagne-Ardenne / Reims

On June 25, FRAC Champagne-Ardenne celebrates the relaunch of its in situ program after a two-year hiatus. The opening event is the first solo show in a French institution of American artist Lisa Oppenheim. Flash Art met with FRAC Champagne-Ardenne director Florence Derieux.

Before we get into the exciting grand reopening, I wanted to ask you: how do you feel the French social environment has changed after recent political events such as the Charlie Hebdo attack?

Depending on where one stands in society the perception might probably be different, but no one around me thinks that anything has changed. Those massacres were pure acts of terrorism and, as such, aimed at destabilizing the system by creating terror and division within the population.

What happened in the aftermath of those massacres is still unclear. But a recent poll brings extremely interesting elements of thought and analysis. For instance, the study shows that the “tolerance curve” has been going upward for a year, and that the tragic events that occurred in Paris at the beginning of January didn’t change this. It explains that more than half of the French population resists xenophobic messages, no matter what the context is. On the other hand, this report reveals that the number of anti-Muslim acts that have been identified during the sole month of January 2015 was as numerous as throughout 2014. France is a very paradoxical country, which makes everything difficult to understand.

Do you still feel a reaction and therefore a consequence in France? And if so, how?

Because we had elections a few weeks ago, and will have regional elections at the end of this year, the National Front entirely dominates the media right now. It basically plays the role of the tree that hides the forest, which is particularly problematic in the current context, precisely when France would need to discuss and renew its vision on so many issues. But the debate doesn’t take place. There is no space for it. Physically and intellectually. What I perceive is that the population deeply resents the fact that they’ve been, over the years, dispossessed of pretty much everything that constituted their lives.

And how does this affect contemporary art?

This situation generates a climate of anticipation of worst-case scenarios and self-censorship, which has already affected too many contemporary art institutions lately. Some politicians have in fact used the progression of the National Front to impose their personal views on several artistic programs around the country, arguing that they were “too elitist” or “not popular enough.”

Do you have a sense that this sabbatical will have been good for FRAC Champagne-Ardenne? What public reactions do you foresee?

During the renovation of the FRAC we developed a two-year program of collaborations and offsite projects with artists, professionals and different partners, in France and abroad. It’s been a period of experimentation for our institution, during which we explored different ways of working with artists, with the public and with other institutions. For example, we developed with Firstsite, in Colchester (UK), a very unique form of collaboration: the FRAC researched and curated an important retrospective of the work of Agnes Denes, which was exhibited there. The show was jointly financed and organized by the two institutions.

The FRAC entirely produced the installation that Antoine Catala presented in the context of the 12th Lyon Biennial. Additionally, in May 2014, we presented Catala’s first solo show in Italy, at Peep Hole, in Milan. Also we co-organized an important exhibition of the FRAC’s collection with the Museo Marino Marini in Florence.

Locally, we’ve simultaneously multiplied our efforts at communicating on our exhibitions in France and abroad in order to promote the FRAC to an even higher level and over a greater area within the region itself. And on the occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of the FRAC, Champagne Pommery invited us to curate the exhibition they organize every year in Reims in their spectacular cellars. Today, we’re well aware of a very vivid anticipation of the reopening of the FRAC on the part of the local public, but also from our national and international audience.

FRAC Champagne-Ardenne will reopen with Lisa Oppenheim. Tell me more about this first show.

This exhibition is Oppenheim’s first solo exhibition in France. During that closing period, she researched the history of the institution and its exhibition program. And she decided to create a new series of photographs in relation to a series of works that were made and shown by Ann Craven during her residency at the FRAC in 2008. We’re also producing her new film, Hereditary Language, which gives its title to the show. It is structured around an eponymous sound piece by Les Levine, in which children are talking about their anxieties about life, and the future.

Where will you take FRAC Champagne-Ardenne next?

I recently realized that I’m only working in the art world when I work outside of the institution, but at the FRAC, I’m fully involved in politics! What I mean is that most of the time, I’m not a member of the art world, but I administrate a public institution, meaning that I’m basically trying to convince everyone to take part in a collective story — a very real fiction! How can we maintain public institutions and make them stay relevant in the current context is what is constantly on my mind. What has now truly changed is that we cohabitate with the Euro-American campus of Sciences Po. I hope that in the years to come we will develop a specific project together with them. This is what seems to be the most exciting perspective for an institution such as ours.

by Gea Politi

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Isabella Bortolozzi / Berlin

Most success stories begin with a formative event that becomes an integral part of the mythology surrounding them. For Isabella Bortolozzi, it was an encounter as a young child with a painting belonging to her father’s collection. From that beginning, her fascination and obsession grew until she finally decided to surrender and open a gallery in 2004.

Before moving to Berlin, you had a previous career as a translator. How did the gallery come about?

You are right! I didn’t study fine arts, and I worked for many years as a translator. My father was a collector of mainly paintings from the 17th and 18th century. After he passed away when I was in my twenties, I tried to document and archive his collection: this was my first encounter with art, as before I had just been observing him from afar. Retracing his collecting paths and all the stories related to the works he acquired over a lifetime (he was born in 1914) had a strong impact on me. The anecdote you refer to is accurate: I grew up in a hotel, and my father locked away a painting, which was supposed to be a Delacroix, because of its strong subject (it was an erotic/pornographic painting). I was supposed to see it only after my becoming of age (which of course didn’t happen).

When I moved the gallery to Schoenberg, the opening show was titled “Neolitic Porns.” My friend Henrik Olesen, who knew the story, encouraged me to show it, as it didn’t matter if it’s not a real Delacroix. We showed it with Paul Thek’s painting Neolithic Porn (1979–80). This gave us the idea for the title, which became plural: a mix between an orgy and a very sentimental show, which was basically a porn show.

Why did you decide to open a gallery in Berlin, and how has it changed over the last ten years?

It’s always hard to define what are the motivations for living in any given place. Regarding Berlin specifically, it wasn’t calculated — nothing I do is calculated in that sense — but it was a combination of curiosity and rootlessness, which I consider two very important drives. What attracted dealers I have no idea! The change that has taken place over the last ten years is a facsimile of change in the global art market. Let’s not be romantic: Berlin is a city like any other, but a little less driven, unfortunately.

Your first show in Berlin was by the Slovak artist Július Koller. The glass door to your newly opened gallery featured a big, hand-painted question mark. How do you think this exhibition set the tone for the ones that came afterward?

When I met Koller in Bratislava and invited him to do a show with me in Berlin, I asked him to just put a question mark in the gallery, to write it on the floor or where he wanted because the question mark had been his symbol. I liked the idea of opening the gallery with a question mark. My program is consciously selfish: it’s driven by my desires. And my desire is to question, and to question my desires, or the suspicion of taste.

You seem to stay in constant dialogue with a younger generation of artists such as Ed Atkins and Calla Henkel & Max Pitegoff. How do you decide to take on a young artist?

This sense of wanting to allow the flow of the now to invade and even to risk its diversionary seduction, to allow this seduction, and to enter into it, as opposed to defending or promoting illusionary values — this is what defines the contemporary, for better or worse. That’s the place I want to be, the place I work from.

Your gallery is part of a generation of dealers who opened shop in the 00s and both enjoyed the years of the boom as much as you suffered the financial crisis of 2008. Has it been a rollercoaster?

When I opened my gallery, like anyone else starting out, it was never a question of boom or bust, but more of “must or dust.” I didn’t care about, nor was I interested in the ups and downs other people’s stock. I was more interested in the local, the popular front of friends and fellow thinkers, nothing more. The rise and fall of certain values, the inflation and deflation of the market, from hot to cold, from in to out, this moves according to laws in which I have no interest, and over which no artist can have control, despite certain illusions to the contrary.

How do you see your role as a dealer?

The role of a dealer is to remain open at all times to the unknown, and to create the conditions in which others can share this opportunity. That is to say, I clear a space for the emergence of something new. Nothing else matters.

by Marta Fontolan

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Anton Belov on the Garage Museum / Moscow

Designed by Rem Koolhaas’s OMA, the new Garage Museum of Contemporary Art will open in June 2015. Flash Art spoke with museum director Anton Belov about the role of the Garage in contemporary Russia’s cultural landscape.

How do you become an influential contemporary art center in a city like Moscow?

In general, there is much work to do in developing museums specialized in contemporary art in Moscow. In my opinion, this is the reason why the Garage Museum plays such a unique and important role. We inspire people and invite them to engage with the museum: to take part in our exhibitions, education programs, publishing program and other activities. We focus a great deal of energy on developing our team. I believe that our staff and guides can inspire visitors. The Garage Museum is a very young institution with a lot of young people working here, so we really can bring new energy and fresh ideas to the Moscow art world.

I am interested in how the Garage Museum is perceived in Moscow. Do people see contemporary art as a challenge?

There are many people whom I meet regularly at the Garage Museum, not only because they are coming to see our shows, but because they are taking our educational courses, coming to our library, visiting our café and having a nice lunch. Our number of visitors is growing every week. And, most importantly, people are really enjoying the art.

Since the very opening, the museum has been an “island of tolerance” in Moscow. We are happy that the museum helps popularize ideas of freedom and new ways of thinking about and exploring Moscow. The city is changing — new parks and new public spaces have begun to appear. I think it is really inspiring, and, in my opinion, even other museums — like the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, the Tretyakov Gallery, the Moscow Museum of Modern Art, the Multimedia Art Museum — are now also starting to change their approach in working with people and presenting their exhibitions and education programs.

As you probably know, in 2013 Germano Celant curated for Fondazione Prada a show inspired by Harald Szeemann’s “When Attitudes Become Form.” Would you ever consider this approach — revisiting a previously conceived exhibition?

It is really important to us at the Garage Museum to reinvestigate and reconnect to the histories of Russian contemporary art because there is really very little known. We have started a number of initiatives, like the three-year research project into the century-long history of performance in Russia, which recently resulted in the first major exhibition and book. At the same time, we have developed various exhibitions and books looking back at the 1990s, which was a crucial time of changing all the systems in the country. We made a big project in collaboration with the Ekaterina Foundation, called “Reconstruction,” that was an exhibition in two parts looking at Moscow artistic life in the 1990s, when so-called unofficial art surfaced. Now we are working on a book called Exhibit Russia, which is looking back at twenty exhibitions that happened in Russia or abroad between 1986 and 1996, which were the first to put Russian contemporary art in an international context.

Are you going to invite guest curators from abroad as well?

We have a strong history of working with guest curators, like Klaus Biesenbach and Roselee Goldberg, when Garage first opened. In the last couple of years we have also worked with international advisors such as Hans Ulrich Obrist. But it has also been important to develop our core team, so we started working with Kate Fowle as our chief curator, who has been developing the curatorial team. They now initiate the program, including education, publishing, conferences, research and, of course, exhibitions. They also determine the collaborations with guest curators. Right now we are working on an exhibition of Louise Bourgeois with the Haus der Kunst in Munich.

At the same time we are working with numerous curators and artists in our Field Research program, which is a think tank and production house with emphasis on primary research. Generated by the interests of artists, curators and writers working around the world, the program gives new perspective on overlooked or little-known events, philosophies, places or people relating to Russian culture. So, for example, we’re working with curators Koyo Kouoh and Rasha Salti on researching African and Arab filmmakers who were trained in Moscow during the 1960s to the 1990s.

What can we expect from the museum’s grand opening?

That there will be much celebrating in June! There will be a big program of events and activities for families, the art community in Moscow and our international guests. We’ll open with five exhibitions that will feature Russian and international artists, including a major project by Rirkrit Tiravanija, installations by Yayoi Kusama, a new, monumental site-specific work by Erik Bulatov, as well as displays from our archive and Field Research program.

From the outside, it seems like the political situation in the country could influence the culture. How is the Garage Museum dealing with current politics? Do you have any restrictions in terms of artistic choice?

I think that for Russia this moment is a very good one to build cultural bridges working with artists and curators who are interested in different points of view. We are a privately funded, publicly minded institution, which is quite unique in Russia and enables us to develop an independent perspective on what a cultural institution can be. Our exhibitions always explore the social, political and cultural context of Moscow and Russia in some way. The current show, “Grammar of Freedom / Five Lessons: Works from the Arteast 2000+ Collection,” for example, looks back at a range of art practices that share a common struggle for artistic and individual liberties during the socialist regimes of the former Yugoslavia and USSR, as well as other Eastern and Central European countries.

Importantly though, we do not present art as a political statement. Instead we provide a context for a range of practices and give our visitors the possibility to have their own opinion. Every visitor can choose his own position and opinion about exhibition. If we are talking about a current political situation, of course it doesn’t support our international connections, and sometimes it is hard to procure loans for our exhibitions. But I want to mark that we really feel support from international institutions. We are very proud that the most important museums in the world are working with Garage and are interested in collaboration.

by Gea Politi

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Nathalie Du Pasquier: Don’t Take These Drawings Seriously Powerhouse Books / New York

Nathalie Du Pasquier arrived in Milan in the late 1970s. Before that, after leaving her hometown of Bordeaux, she spent a year in francophone Africa, living in Gabon for a while and traveling through Mali and Niger.

Her quirky persona quickly adapted to the city’s creative milieu, and in 1981 Du Pasquier appears in the first group portrait of Memphis, the Milanese design brand founded by Ettore Sottsass; when the photograph was taken she was only twenty-four years old, and one of only two women in the group. For Memphis, Du Pasquier designed mainly textiles, carpets and patterned laminates, but also furniture and objects. In Barbara Radice’s 1984 monograph on Memphis, the author describes Du Pasquier as “a kind of natural decorative genius — anarchic, highly sensitive, wild, abstruse, capable of turning out extraordinary drawings at the frantic pace of a computer.” Indeed, her patterns are synonymous with Memphis’s visual syncretism, and probably the whole 1980s aesthetic.

PowerHouse Books recently published Don’t Take These Drawings Seriously. 1981–87, a compilation of Du Pasquier’s unpublished drawings produced during the Memphis years. “These drawings were influenced by Memphis, and Memphis was influenced by them. But the book isn’t about Memphis, it is about Nathalie,” says the volume’s editor and designer, Omar Sosa, also the co-founder of the cult interior design magazine Apartamento. “When you see traces of those drawings in Nathalie’s current work, you are not seeing the influence of Memphis, you are seeing the signature of Nathalie.” Du Pasquier and Sosa carefully selected each of the drawings in the book over the course of two years, in a Dropbox-supported dialogue between the former’s studio in Milan and the latter’s in Barcelona. They decided to organize them into sections according to the size of the items depicted, from the smallest to the biggest — from drawings of jewelry and watches to urban cityscapes, with clothes, vases, carpets, clocks, beds, cabinets and interior environments in between. “It made sense to do it by size,” continues Sosa, “because Nathalie designed a whole world, from a little ring to a whole city. And when it is drawn, a little ring has a lot in common with a big city.”

It’s almost impossible to describe Du Pasquier’s “world,” especially without resorting to the rhetoric of postmodernism: her designs are exotic and futuristic, aggressive and gentle, acidic and sharp. Don’t Take These Drawings Seriously introduces them as the outcome of a tireless daily practice that Du Pasquier pursued on a small desk, in the intimacy of her bedroom, in the flat on Milan’s Corso Garibaldi that she shared with her life companion, fellow Memphis designer George Sowden. “None of the furniture I was designing could have ever fit in that apartment,” writes Du Pasquier in the book. “I could dream of a room completely furnished with my pieces and it was already the beginning of a new way of life. A life with different rituals.” It’s hard to imagine that those “sassy” furnishings were once pastel sketches crammed into half-filled sketchbooks, or that those iconic patterns were felt pen graphics doomed to fade. “I never produced so many things,” Du Pasquier reveals in the interview with Emily King that closes the book. “I have a few pieces of fabric, a couple of objects and so on, but my work was really drawing.”

In a thoughtful introduction to the collection titled “The Surface,” Du Pasquier provides the reader with a theoretical framework for retroactively understanding her naive-yet-cunning drawings. She confides that “the ‘decorated surface’ is low-tech. It is an inexpensive way of bringing elements to a project that come from other spheres, and that has always been an extra reason for my obsession with them.” Dispersed along the drawings is an extensive selection of patterns that Du Pasquier designed in the 1980s as her main source of income. “I suppose these surfaces came from a mixture of what I had seen in Africa and what I was discovering in Milan — the modernity of my own culture, which I had never previously been in contact with consciously.” Applied to textiles, finishes, carpets and so on, Du Pasquier’s patterns would carry “an important decor, a decor that could change [a] room.”

Since 1987, Du Pasquier’s daily occupation has been painting. The everyday objects that fill her studio, organized in carefully assembled constructions, are the subjects of her canvases. This painting practice still informs her fascination for surfaces, the layering of “bodies” in space, transparency and reflection. They reveal a clear, progressive evolution — for Du Pasquier almost a fulfillment of her research — from the 1980s drawings. As such, the paintings constitute another chapter, and could indeed fill other books, no doubt as worthy as the one highlighted here.

by Michele D’Aurizio

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