“THERE’S NOTHING THEY WON’T DO to raise the standard of BOREDOM.” When I was living in San Francisco during the 1990s, this sentence caught my eye as I passed a flyer stapled to a telephone pole. Printed on yellow paper, the flyer contained two rectangular comic panels. In the first, a short-haired woman in mod ’60s attire walks through a boutique, grimacing as she says the line. A sidebar to the panel read, “IN OUR SPECTACULAR SOCIETY WHERE ALL YOU CAN SEE IS THINGS AND THEIR PRICE…,” leading one’s eye to the second panel, where a bar at top continued, “IDEOLOGY TRIES TO INTEGRATE EVEN THE MOST RADICAL ACTS.” On the right side of the second panel, two straight-looking adults dance what appears to be the twist. The man says, “How right you are to steal books! Culture is everybody’s birthright.” His partner, triumphant, declares, “Maybe you can get the hippies, baby. But you can’t get us.” The short-haired woman, now in facial close-up at left, responds indignantly: “CULTURE? UGH! The ideal commodity—the one which helps sell all the others! No wonder you want us all to go for it!”
This, of course, was a Situationist détournement—a subversive, deadpan repurposing of pop-cultural detritus to radical political ends. At the time, its message seemed both dated (the decade of the early ’80s to the early ’90s was the last era when strains of American pop culture— hardcore punk, political rap, Riot Grrrl—seemed genuinely oppositional to mainstream consumer culture) and prescient (one could already see these underground styles being coopted by corporations and sold back to us as “rebellion”—MTV’s Alternative Nation, Urban Outfitters, Subaru Impreza = punk rock, etc.). By the late ’90s, this recuperation process was complete, to the point where the tribally tattooed, heavily pierced dude sitting next to you on the train might be as rapacious a capitalist as Peter Thiel. At that point, it became unfashionable, even within ostensibly underground precincts, to fault anyone for their market ambitions. “Selling out,” once an unpardonable countercultural sin, became “cashing in,” resulting in, among other jarring tableaux, former Riot Grrrl Carrie Brownstein starring in an American Express ad. Maybe you can get the hippies, baby….
After roughly twenty years of this, during which the economy crashed to its lowest depths since the Great Depression and a vain, idiotic real-estate developer–cum–reality-TV star was elected president, it appears the time is right yet again for what paranoid right-wingers call “cultural Marxism,” a long dormant tradition that includes, among other efforts, the Frankfurt School’s postwar critique of the “culture industry,” Guy Debord and the Situationist International’s campaign against the spectacular nature of modern life in the form of Debord’s The Society of the Spectacle (1967), and various disruptive activities (including détournement), critical theory generally, Stewart Home’s The Assault on Culture (1988) and Greil Marcus’s Lipstick Traces (1989), both histories of counterculture, Joe Carducci’s puritanical, peerlessly intolerant antipop rant Rock and the Pop Narcotic (1991), the original late ’80s–early ’90s run of The Baffler and its editor Thomas Frank’s The Conquest of Cool (1997), and most recently, Ian Svenonius’s Censorship Now!! (2015), a scattershot screed of quasi-communist scolding, delivered with tongue firmly in cheek, that makes this aging GenXer weep with joy (even as I find much of it ridiculous, even dangerous).
Svenonius, the other Ian of Washington, DC’s ’80s punk scene, who has fronted numerous bands (Nation of Ulysses, The Make-Up, Weird War, Chain and the Gang) and written other essays and books, while also hosting Soft Focus, an online talk show, has walked a very fine line for a very long time. On one level, he’s a zero-tolerance high priest of anticommercialism (much like his DC counterpart, Fugazi’s Ian MacKaye); on another, he’s a louche, ironic, thrift-store fashion plate, inspired as much by ’60s bubblegum (particularly French yé-yé) as ’60s radicalism. Imagine if radical separatist feminists like Mary Daly and Andrea Dworkin were half kidding, or if Serge Gainsbourg were a critical theorist, and you might begin to grok the rarefied row Svenonius has hoed for nearly thirty years.
Ian Svenonius performs at the Whitney Museum of American Art, April 14, 2017. Photo: Filip Wolak.
For this year’s Whitney Biennial, the artist Frances Stark painted eight spreads from Censorship Now!! (rendered as giant “pages” of painted text), and recommended that the museum host a performative lecture by Svenonius as a supplementary event. Called “On Re-Education,” and structured like a rock setlist, the lecture involved Svenonius—in a black vinyl suit with black rubber nubbins, white shirt, and skinny black tie—playing quiet, ironic electric guitar solos over rudimentary drum loops while testifying on topics from the book in a mannered, talk-singing style. He was introduced with the line, “Either you’ve never heard of him, or you regard him with messianic fervor,” and the full-house audience seemed to agree; it was a very friendly room. Svenonius had a slight lisp and was simultaneously abject and charming, resembling the Kinks’ Ray Davies with dyed black hair.
As he semi-rapped passages from Censorship Now!! over self-generated, purposely dinky music, Svenonius exhorted the crowd to “turn the radio and TV off,” to accept “re-education to get rid of false consciousness, which is caused by the homicidal condition called capitalism,” and to vote for him so he can “have his finger on the button (I need a button).” He had helpers distribute an absurd nondisclosure agreement to audience members, as well as lapel buttons reading “I Survived Re-Education Camp.” Despite working a shtick that owes much to the ’60s and ’70s, Svenonius ranted extensively about the dire sociopolitical effects of marijuana (apparently to blame for the “nonsense logic we live in today”), claiming that the legalization trend was responsible for the 2016 election result: “Trump voters pulled the lever in a psychotic pique of resentment on their way to Ben & Jerry’s.” “Pot was OK for ‘all you need is love’ hippies; it was weaker then,” he concluded, “but not for today’s paranoid, Alex Jones–watching libertarians. It seems irresponsible for Bob Dylan to continue to insist that ‘everybody must get stoned.’ ” In his (consciously?) awkward, amateurish delivery and crackpot theorizing, Svenonius recalled the diversionary weirdos populating Richard Linklater’s Slacker (1991); linking Smurfs to Hindu deities in the service of some grand, if daft, conspiracy theory is closely analogous to the completely baked (though not stoned) theses Svenonius regularly puts forward without warning or explanation.
Among many other deliciously unsupportable allegations, Censorship Now!! includes the following observations: “the music on the radio… is the thrown voice of Wall Street.”; “the twist was a revolutionary force in breaking apart social units and enforcing individualist ideology”; “all this shaving [of facial and body hair] had another function[:] to enforce insensitivity, militarism, and a brutal machinist ideology.”; “the yuppie aesthetic of connoisseurship has infiltrated everywhere and now there is only—for many of us—either luxury gelato or food made of chemical waste. Ikea, Martha Stewart, and Whole Foods make yuppiedom no longer a chic and extravagant choice but an enforced mode.”; “just as the aristocracy had employed priests to explain their own divine right, the bourgeoisie invented their own magical imp, called ‘the artist,’ to explain and celebrate their own rise to power. It’s not a coincidence that ‘artist’ sounds very much like ‘atheist’; the artist was invented as a gladiator to kill the old god for his paymaster.”
Addressing the book’s titular imperative, Svenonius writes, “[W]e need a guerrilla censorship which uses all the cruel tools of a revolution. Pain, terror, absolute mercilessness; not to placate some hypocrite Christian morality or idiotic social code but to stomp out the grotesque subliminal mind control and hate speech of modern culture, media, news, politics, and art.” Despite its ominous Stalinist resonance, Svenonius’s plea for censorship essentially boils down to “corporations aren’t people / money isn’t speech.” His Adorno by way of Maximumrocknroll stance also means “censor all commercial crap and the cultural institutions that rationalize and abet it,” which puts him at odds with prevailing modes of pop-cultural reception. If contemporary pop is finally revealed to be a mass mind-control operation, as Svenonius believes it is, a great deal of pop criticism from the past decade will be instantly vacated, dismissed as the automatic writing of unwitting corporate stooges, intended to kill the old god for their paymaster.
So, not exactly the Unabomber Manifesto, but then, what is? Svenonius means it, man, even as he’s willing to allow a magical imp to appropriate his textual work and hang it in a group show sponsored by Tiffany & Co., J.P. Morgan, and Sotheby’s. He is simply carrying on the punk tradition, which he characterizes as a “psychotic, sci-fi-cartoon, cul-de-sac version of leftism” developed in response to the “ex-hippies’ reminiscences of sixties street fighting, narcotic bravado, and bohemian politics.” He doesn’t urge us to steal his book, but to buy it (and his other books) and hide them in public libraries. After all, culture is everybody’s birthright.
Left: Open Engagement Team Latham Zearfoss, Alex Winters, Crystal Baxley and Jen Delos Reyes. Photo: Mollie Nye. Right: Children’s Museum of the Arts’ Barbara Hunt McLanahan, Creative Capital’s Lisa Dent and Institute of Contemporary Art’s Amy Sadao during Open Engagement “Whose Museum? Our Museum. How Contemporary Art Museums Can Create Justice” panel.
WHAT IS YOUR REVOLUTION? The icebreaker question, raised by Field Foundation president Angelique Power during last week’s “Practicing Utopia Over Breakfast” program, gets at the aim of this year’s art and social practice Open Engagement conference: critically examining and supporting social justice–oriented art-making and administration. The forward-thinking morning event took place at Tricia Van Eyck’s 6018North, a dilapidated mansion brimming with art installations in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood, just one of the over twenty locations throughout Chicago—“our beautiful, scarred, complicated city,” Power called it—engaged by the itinerant Open Engagement conference, now in its ninth year.
The following morning, I found myself in a more harrowing context: lying on the floor of the University of Illinois Chicago’s Blackbox Theater in a chokehold with Jorge Rojas, Utah Museum of Fine Arts director of education and engagement. Far from antagonistic, the confrontation was structured as part of artist Shaun Leonardo’s “I Can’t Breathe” self-defense workshop. Conceived just months after the murder of Eric Garner by NYPD officer Daniel Pantaleo, Leonardo’s instructive workshop provided hands-on techniques to protect oneself against violence and to resist arrest. Dozens of participants paired off, switching roles between aggressor and defendant; the final stance found Leonardo instructing us on how to tuck our chins to allow for breathing while in the same chokehold position that took Garner’s life as he gasped for air. As we practiced the defense maneuvers, Leonardo read from Nina Simone and concluded with Garner’s last words, speaking the refrain “I Can’t Breathe” eleven times. “It’s about locating it somewhere else,” Leonardo said of his workshop, which shifted the ubiquitous video of Garner suffocating into a space of tense, physical experience.
Left: MCA Chicago chief curator Michael Darling in front of Barbara Morgan photography of Merce Cunningham performing Root of an Unfocus, 1944. Right: Curator Risa Puleo and Gallerist Anastasia Karpova Tinari with Deana Lawson photograph. (Photo: Rhona Hoffman)
Theaster Gates, whose creative project speaks volumes to the potential of socially engaged art, also discussed location and trauma in the wake of police brutality during a keynote conversation. In a forthright dialogue with Open Engagement Chicago curators Romi Crawford and Lisa Yun Lee, Gates spoke about being approached by Samaria Rice to relocate the Cleveland gazebo in which her twelve-year-old son Tamir Rice was fatally shot by Cuyahoga County sheriff Timothy Loehmann. When the city looked to remove it, eradicating any material trace of the site of urban trauma, Ms. Rice reached out, and Gates responded. With Ms. Rice’s blessing, he arranged for the gazebo’s deinstallation and transport to his studio in Chicago’s South Side, where it remains as he and his collaborators carefully consider next steps with Ms. Rice.
The conversation took place within the impressive Stony Island Arts Bank on Chicago’s South Side, which had remained vacant for decades until its rehabilitation by Gates and his nonprofit Rebuild Foundation. The bank now holds the Johnson Publishing Library, Frankie Knuckles vinyl collection, and other cultural archives of the black experience and more. Gates spoke candidly about the limitations of his relationship to the gazebo as a “complicated, loaded object that is distinctly not about art,” while Lisa Lee pointed out that Ms. Rice perhaps wanted to have the structure considered by the radical imagination of an artist. When the conversation turned to the contours of Gates’s restorative project on the South Side and how it exists between his practices of urban planning, ceramics, and religious studies, Gates concluded emphatically, “As artists, sometimes we need to know a little bit more than how to make a fucking pot.”
Lee directs the School of Art & Art History at the University of Illinois at Chicago, the headquarters of this year’s Open Engagement, and she emphasized the centrality of care communities: “It’s about practitioners coming together, saying we believe in socially engaged practices and in one another to ask the questions creating critical inquiry and care.” Consciousness-raising and movement building were paired with supportive uplift throughout, including a “Sappho & Sweat” embodied movement seminar with Chani Bockwinkel involving somatics, poetry, and aerobics, as well as a “Beauty Breaks: On Tender Resistance” workshop for people of color based in meditation and writing exercises with Sojourner Zenobia Wright, Jade Perry, and Amina Ross.
Left: Artist Brendan Fernandes and friend with work by Elijah Burgher at Western Exhibitions. Right: Western Exhibitions’ Scott Speh with work by Elijah Burgher.
Gates’s conversation was followed by the rousing JOY party, presented by Party Noire, and each subsequent Open Engagement evening featured queer-inclusive nightlife parties centering on communities of color across Chicago, including TRQPiTECA (wth DJs CQQCHIFRUIT and La Spacer) at Co-Prosperity Sphere and Slo ‘Mo at Reunion. Spearheaded by Latham Zearfoss, these considered nightlife contexts were “guided by the belief that transformative acts of change are deeply indebted to these marginal spaces of collective joy.”
While “self-care” is a buzzword of late, artist Marisa Morán Jahn advocates for the rights of domestic-care workers who aid others, including nanny, elderly and disability care services, housekeeping and more. Her keynote conversation with MacArthur Fellow Ai-jen Poo highlighted domestic workers as among America’s fastest-growing workforce, yet one of its most overlooked and undervalued labor economies, excluded from the federal 1938 Fair Labor Standards Act. Jahn’s social practice centers on the CareForce, a “superhero team behind every individual who needs care,” which she creatively imagines alongside domestic workers themselves.
Jahn’s wide-ranging presence throughout Open Engagement combined art and advocacy within and beyond gallery walls, exemplifying the possibilities of art as social practice. Her collaborative animations, policy posters, and outreach materials—all designed as know-your-rights tools—were on view in the illuminating Columbia College Chicago exhibition “Revolution at Point Zero: Feminist Social Practice,” curated by Neysa Page-Lieberman and Melissa Hilliard Potter, which “position[s] the feminist art movement as the progenitor of contemporary socially-engaged art.” Meanwhile, parked outside the gallery was the CareForce One, a souped-up car that functions as a mobile studio for distribution of advocacy material to caregivers at worker centers, bus stops, and other public places. Finally, the tireless Jahn concluded her weekend at the progressive Jane Addams Hull-House Museum, where bilingual tours of worker’s-rights issues were followed by the CareForce Disco. Jahn collaborated with domestic workers to choreograph the participatory dance, narrating actions such as sweeping and voting in a powerful display of collectivized efforts toward sustainable-care solutions. Coincidentally, Illinois is the seventh and most recent state to pass a Domestic Workers Bill of Rights, ensuring minimum wage, protection against sexual harassment, and more.
Left: Mallory Nezam and De Andrea Nichols with image of Mirror Casket, 2014, a sculpture and tactical performance created by Nichols, Nezam, Marcis Curtis, Sophie Lipman, Damon Davis, Elizabeth Vega and Derek Laney in response to Michael Brown's death in Ferguson, MO. Right: Images of the tactical performance of Mirror Casket, 2014, during protests. Mirror Casket is a sculpture and tactical performance created by De Andrea Nichols, Mallory Nezam, Marcis Curtis, Sophie Lipman, Damon Davis, Elizabeth Vega and Derek Laney in response to Michael Brown's death in Ferguson, MO.
Imperatives for progress were considered across the conference, with much transparency about access and the difficulty of transforming institutions. A lack of staff diversity within museums and cultural organizations was a major topic. Surveys cited included a 2013 Americans for the Arts study stating 86 percent of executives at local arts agencies were white, as well as a more recent 2015 Department of Cultural Affairs initiative noting 74 percent of senior staff at NYC cultural groups were white.
For “Whose Museum? Our Museum. How Contemporary Art Museums Can Create Justice,” Amy Sadao (ICA Philadelphia), Barbara Hunt McLanahan (Children’s Museum of Art, NY), and Lisa Dent (Creative Capital) talked openly about committing to diverse hiring practices, mentorship, and professional development with the solution-based aim of breaking down barriers. Dent was reminded of a conversation with Arthur Jafa, in which the filmmaker spoke about the “discriminatory” collecting practices of museums, which seems to have extended into hiring practices. In another useful conversation, speakers from the MASS Action (Museum as Site for Social Action) project provided resources for further reference around these issues, including museumhue.com, museumsandrace.org, visitorsofcolor.tumblr.com, #museumsrespondtoferguson, and #museumworkersspeak.
“Within the last ten years, it seems there has been much evolution within the field of social practice and individuated artist practices,” said Romi Crawford, and indeed, looking at Open Engagement and Theaster Gates’s contributions over the past decade, it’s hard to disagree. “It’s now about remaining open and receptive to those adaptations.” Looking to the future, the Open Engagement team—founder and director Jen Delos Reyes, Crystal Baxley, Latham Zearfoss, and Alex Winters—outlined Sustainability as the theme for the 2018 edition, to be held at the Queens Museum in New York. Beyond that, a question remained for the conference and the field: Who is going to support socially engaged work in the years to come? Open Engagement’s artist-led ethos sets it apart as a valuable coming-together and context for social engagement. Yet, as Coya Paz said during the Funding Social Justice conversation, “Social value is not social change. We are trying to think radically and comprehensively about social change here, and that is often not a cute conversation you can Instagram.”
MY FIRST DAY IN DALLAS, I revisited the mall of my childhood. Collector Nancy Nasher was my tour guide. This was her home, or rather ours: Northpark Center, the luxury retail property her parents, Raymond and Patsy Nasher, founded in the 1990s and subsequently filled with art. With a parade of collectors, dealers and artist in tow, we began with a spikey, fire-engine red sculpture by Mark di Suvero. We continued past Ivan Navarro’s water towers (a recent addition that I caught at Madison Square Park) as well as several Anthony Caro sculptures, which Nasher pointed out with special affection, adding that Caro is the “most important British sculptor.” It’s only the shiny Anish Kapoor in the Louis Vuitton boutique that surprises me, although I’d be hesitant to call either Kapoor or Caro the most important.
Private tours are a staple at the Dallas Art Week rodeo. The Karpidas and the Rachofskys tend to host visitors offsite, but I always look forward to the junket to Marguerite Hoffman’s collection in the suburbs. Hannah Hoffman, her daughter, gave the walkthrough this year, her first time participating as a dealer. “Family friends keep coming up to congratulate me,” she said standing in front of a favorite Frank Stella. Would the local support translate into sales? “I hope so!”
Left: Dealers Barry Whistler and Dolly Geary. Right: Dealer Hannah Hoffman.
The bronze-ish Stella came to mind when looking at Pia Camil’s slatted wood works at Dallas Contemporary. Historically, Dallas Art Week has predominantly run blockbuster shows of the white and male. But this year, Contemporary senior curator Justine Ludwig bucked tradition with the pairing of Camil and Ambreen Butt. I stopped by the museum on Wednesday afternoon to see the installation in progress. When I arrived, pieces of Camil’s Divisor Pirata were already flying overhead. Ludwig pointed at the MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN items woven into the found T-shirt tapestries. “It’s about the details,” she says. “Not about beating you over the head.”
I spotted Gagosian’s Andisheh Avini at the Power Station opening for Steven Parrino later that night, but never again. The entire gallery team appeared absent from a fair, despite the collective anticipation swirling around the brand name. When I peered into the unmanned booth on Thursday morning, I met artist Maneesh Raj Madahar. He invited me to sit on the floor, as he had during the five-month-long run of Dallas Chalet, artist Piero Golia’s secret 2015 show at Nasher Sculpture Center. He explained that it’s a solo booth dedicated to remnants of the show. The paintings are scraps from a banner that had read: THAT’S ALL FOLKS.
The press conference is a Dallas Art Fair ritual, but everyone seemed keener to attend than usual. Perhaps because the Dallas Museum of Art’s dedicated acquisition fund doubled this year, from $50k to $100k. The winners were announced by DMA senior curator Gavin Delahunty, who heads up the jury alongside dedicated patrons like Gowri and Alex Sharma. With their new purse, the group picked out work by Justin Adian, Katherine Bradford, Matthew Wong, Summer Wheat, and Derek Fordjour. When I ran into Delahunty at Jessica Silverman’s booth, I told him that a boardroom debate over what to buy reminds me of an art-world version of 12 Angry Men, Reginald Rose’s 1954 courtroom drama. He shrugged and said, “It’s not like that. They keep us fed.”
Left: Collector Jimmie Johnson and dealer Chandra Johnson. Right: Artist Paul Manes and Barbara Rose.
I returned to the fair in the evening and spent several hours looking for George W. Bush. The President-turned-painter had RSVP’d for the opening gala, but it turned out that a last-minute engagement kept him away. The show went on without him, as it had for the past nine years, under the direction of its two cofounders: dealer Chris Byrne and developer John Sugrue. I spotted them by the entrance shaking hands with art advisor John Runyon, another Dallas pioneer.
I also bumped into art historian Barbara Rose. What did she think of the spectacle? “This is a fair for collectors, not investors,” she said. “Ninety percent of it is real. There aren’t the acres of brand names at astronomical prices you normally see at the endlessly proliferating art fairs.” She was happy to speak on Christopher Le Brun and Ed Moses, whose paintings she’d curated for Albertz Benda’s booth.
Ludwig spared me the walk to the afterparty. We parked in front of Forty Five Ten, a recently completed department store. The event was on the top floor, where Juergen Teller had installed several large portraits, including one of Kim Kardashian climbing—or perhaps descending—a hill. Marcel Duchamp’s staircase translated for the era of Bravo and E!.
Neither the former POTUS nor Kardashian was in attendance, but Teller was. I found him at the bar drinking champagne with ice. “It’s called a piscine,” he said. “The French do it.”
The crown jewels of Dallas are Tex-Mex and steak, but everyone kept asking for barbecue recommendations. You heard it here first: Don’t do that. I’d skip the sushi too, but beggars can’t be choosers. At the afterparty, I found myself eating nigiri, watching the naturally and not-so-naturally beautiful people dance. Kardashian’s ass loomed behind them like the moon.
DOES ANYONE REMEMBER when the social fabric of contemporary art had just a few threads, nearly all sewn in New York? When the same handful of people showed up for every opening at the few galleries worthy of the name? When everyone knew everyone else from the same bars and nightclubs (or beds)?
Last week, London felt a bit like that. It was just after Easter, before Art Brussels and Gallery Weekend Berlin. People were conserving themselves for the Frieze New York-Venice Biennale-Documenta 14-Skulptur Projekte Münster-Art Basel gauntlet ahead. The city was quiet. Prime tables at popular bistros like Noble Rot in Bloomsbury were a snap to obtain. It proved an opportune time for out-of-towners to take the stage.
One was Martine Syms, the “conceptual entrepreneur” from Los Angeles. The night before the April 19 opening of her 2015 video installation, A Pilot for a Show About Nowhere, at the Camden Arts Centre, collector Valeria Napoleone held a dinner for Syms and the Contemporary Art Society, which bought the work, in her Kensington Palace Gardens home.
Syms is getting to be a familiar face here. Londoners first got acquainted just a year ago, when the not-quite-thirty-year-old artist had a solo outing at the ICA, organized by its recently departed curator Matt Williams. Now she was back to accompany “Pilot” for the Contemporary Art Society, which, through the platform Valeria Napoleone XX, is buying work by women for the collections of regional institutions lacking the financial clout. CAS director Caroline Douglas explained how it worked at the dinner, also attended by a supportive flock from Camden, 2016 Turner Prize finalist Anthea Hamilton and Williams, who sat with 2016 Boss Prize finalist Nicole Wermers.
On those days, museums felt almost like one of the private clubs that rule London’s social life—especially the one that kind of is. That would be the Newport Street Gallery, established two years ago by Damien Hirst to mount exhibitions drawn from the three thousand-plus works in the Muderme Collection, all belonging to him.
The contemporary Renaissance man—artist, publisher, restaurateur, collector—had just returned from Venice and, depending on your degree of snobbery, the triumph or disaster of his multipart “Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable.” That gave him a day or two to oversee the installation of “Ornamental Hysteria,” the title he chose for the first retrospective in the UK for the work of his surfing pal, Ashley Bickerton.
“Thinking I could do Venice and this show back-to-back was totally mental,” he noted, during the NPSG’s ultraexclusive, Wednesday night preview for fifty or sixty invited guests—a welcome change, perhaps, from Hirst’s previous week’s spectacle on the Grand Canal.
He was relaxed and happy throughout this family-sized affair, which featured Hirst’s mother, architect David Adjaye, onetime bassist for the Clash Paul Simenon, former YBA teacher Sir Michael Craig-Martin, and a reunion of YBA compatriots Gary Hume, Angela Bulloch, and Tim Noble. “But,” Hirst added, “I think this is the best show I ever did here.”
It looked amazing in the white-on-white cubes of the half-block long building in Vauxhall, once a South Bank scene-painting shop for West End theaters. The former neo-geo star was excited. If he has been exhibiting regularly in New York over the twenty-five years since he pulled a Gauguin and set up in Bali, London hasn’t seen him since 2009, the year of his last show at White Cube, which no longer represents him.
“Can you believe it?” Bickerton said. “It took Damien to realize my first solo museum show ever!” To celebrate, he’d brought his wife and teenage son from Bali, along with a whole new body of work as the show’s finale. They were sculptural “Wall-Wall” grid paintings of Dayglo rocks, raucous paintings of his signature Blue Man, a life-size mermaid riding a carved wooden boat and carrying a hammerhead trophy, and cabinets containing beachcombed flotsam arranged behind beautifully etched glass. Life in the Pacific clearly has inspired him.
“I think the new ‘Susies’ look even better than the originals,” said dealer David Maupin of raft-like, encased assemblages approximating the artist’s body and framed by large, colorful pontoons with the name, “Susie,” writ large on the sides.
Left: Curator Jeanne Graff and MAMCO director Lionel Bovier. Right: Contemporary Art Society director Caroline Douglas and Camden Arts Center development chief Neil Debnam.
One standout gallery, quickly dubbed “the shark room,” was designed and installed by Hirst, a past master of shark art. Bickerton’s sculptures are not stuffed so much as irradiated by bright color and hang from the cathedral-high ceiling by fishing line strung over the grotesque “5 Snake Heads,” from 2009. The green heads, which contort Bickerton’s face into Messerchmittesque expressions, top wormlike spears that curl towards the ceiling.
Dinner was upstairs in Pharmacy 2, the museum’s Hirst-designed, Mark Hix–helmed restaurant. The menu included delicious salads and thick slabs of perfectly cooked steak. “This is the best table,” Bickerton crowed. “It’s the monkey table,” he added. “All artists.” He’d done the placement, with Hirst at the head, between musician Anthony Genn and Hume, and himself at the other end, between Jim Lambie and Noble.
“I think Ashley’s in his Marlon Brando phase,” Genn observed, correctly. With his silvery hair and pattern-on-pattern jacket, shirt, and tie, Bickerton looked very Mutiny on the Bounty.
His dealer from Gajah Gallery in Singapore was at another table, as were his old friend from Hawaii, filmmaker Roddy Bogawa, and longtime Hirst business associates Hugh Allan and Harlan Miller. The latter entertained diners with a few Richard Prince–like jokes. (“Doctor, what should I do about these yellow teeth?” Simple. “Wear brown shoes.”)
Left: Journalist Georgina Adam and collector Anna Yang. Right: Curator Matt Williams, Nissa Matthew, and Nicole Wermers.
Bickerton didn’t wait for a toast. “I’ll do the Oscar thing and thank God first, who’s sitting right there,” he said, raising his glass to Hirst. “Showing with a gallery is one thing. This is different. Working with Damien is like sambaing with a psychopath. It’s transporting.”
Hirst didn’t attend the following night’s private view, which was populated mostly by young people, artists Eddie Peake and Celia Hempton among them. “I’m like a fanboy,” Peake told Bickerton, who was hosting a reception for friends in a private room. “I love your work.” Hempton was turned on by Bickerton’s surreal play with the beautiful and the grotesque. They bought the Hirst-designed catalogue.
The afterparty was at the Groucho Club, scene of many a past debauch. First, however, I joined Peake and Hempton for dinner at nearby Dean Street, and when we reached the Groucho’s door, Bickerton was just leaving. “Something evil just went down in there,” he said, declining to elaborate. “But go on up. It’s fun.”
The following day was the Queen’s ninety-first birthday, a good sign for Bickerton. Whatever else London does, it definitely champions longevity.
“SÃO PAULO IS WHAT WOULD HAPPEN if New York threw up on LA,” Alex Cuadros wrote in last year’s Brazillionaires, about the meteoric rise and fall of the country’s rich from the aughts to the 2016 Rio Olympics. I thought of the line often during this year’s Sp-Arte, while overlooking Paulista Avenue and the Lina Bo Bardi–designed Museu de Arte de São Paulo from the perch of an Airbnb in Oscar Niemeyer’s Edifício Copan downtown. Twisting the comparison could work for politics, too. Look at the crisis in Brazil last year in a funhouse mirror, and one might see something similar to the US at present; to put it bluntly, America in 2017 is sort of like what would happen if 2016 Brazil threw up on it. Dissolving the ministry of culture, abetting cries of prosecuting the former president, closing doors to refugees: The unelected interim—now permanent—president of Brazil, Michel Temer, checked off all three last year. And the uncertainty fostered by the sudden change of leadership—the president’s name literally translates as “to fear”—has become the norm.
Last year, Sp-Arte opened days before the impeachment vote on former president Dilma Rousseff, and in the midst of the Zika crisis, and tensions ran high. (The Bienal, held in the same Niemeyer-designed pavilion as the fair, attracted protests.) This year, one got a glimpse of what normalization looks like through the glimmer of an art fair.
“People are paralyzed,” Sp-Arte founder and director Fernanda Feitosa said of the current moment, at a meet and greet with press at her house. “I hope the fair will help them come out of their, eh, shyness,” adding, “I think we can’t wait for a good time. It’s the time we have.” Would collectors be wary? “Not more or less than any collector based in London last year, or New York now,” she offered. Point taken.
Left: Dealer Jacqueline Martins. Right: Pivô artistic director Fernanda Brenner.
For the dealers’ sakes, there was optimism: While last year the Brazilian real hovered close to a four-to-one exchange rate with the dollar, this year it settled closer to three-to-one. And despite the anxiety, the city’s art world welcomes much that is new. There’s Japan House, a recently inaugurated sparkling cultural center on the city’s main drag helmed by Marcelo Dantas. Respected outfits are regenerating, too. Jaqueline Martins moved to a multilevel space in the Centro a few months ago, and the nonprofit Pivô recently completed a renovation of an event space above the exhibition hall and twelve artist studios. And top dealers continue to expand abroad: Mendes Wood DM now has locations in New York and Brussels, while Nara Roesler recently moved its New York location to the Upper East Side and will also inaugurate a new space in Rio.
On Tuesday, when the Jardins dealers participated in a gallery night, Roesler opened a pair of shows by Daniel Buren and Daniel Senise. “Brazilians aren’t really into asking questions,” Daniel Roesler said of the exhibition talk held before the opening. Does that extend to governments? He laughed. The night also saw about a dozen other openings, such as site-specific installation work by Bosco Sodi at Luciana Brito and Paulo Nazareth’s examination of cultural appropriation in everyday Brazilian commodities at Mendes Wood DM.
The fair opened for VIPs on Wednesday––by nightfall, lines of cars choked Parque Ibirapuera, and a steady stream of crowds entered the pavilion. I noted the sickly sweet paintings of Pedro Caetano at both SP’s Luciana Caravello and Rio’s Galeria Cavalo. Popsicle canvases made ghoulish faces, and a pink pastel painting announced BRAZILIAN LATIN ART 20% OFF! BLOW JOB INCLUDED. Here’s some 2017 millennial pink I can get behind, more like cotton candy around a razor blade.
FREEDOM CANNOT BE SIMULATED said a T-shirt. The Rirkrit Tiravanija installation at Galerie Neugerriemschneider began to pop up on fairgoers backs by afternoon. “The city is destroyed,” curator Pablo León de la Barra said about Rio, wearing the T-shirt at a party that night at the home of Pedro Mendes and Matthew Wood.
“I’m trying to get in the right mood,” said artist Roberto Winter, holding a drink.
“That’s a great philosophy for life,” said gallery director Renato Silva.
In São Paulo, people complain how traffic trumps time. Though outside New York, where isn’t that true anymore? Ditto the art world’s glut of events, as Sp-Arte this year wedged itself snugly alongside Dallas Art Contemporary, Milan design week, and Documenta 14 in Athens, with dealers and artists racing between time zones, all before a summer of nonstop parading.
“It’s an art-world eclipse,” Michael Wellen of Tate Modern noted Thursday night on his way to the annual dinner party at Feitosa’s home.
In the backyard of the chicly minimalist compound, amid circles wielding champagne and caipirinhas, John Kunemund of Alexander Gray confided, “I tell everyone every year: If I were rich, I’d want to be São Paulo rich.” São Paulo is home to nearly all of the country’s art culture as well as its billionaires.
Left: Artist Bosco Sodi. Right: Artist Marcos Chaves with dealers Gabriela Moraes and Daniel Roesler.
“They still let me in town so I guess it went well,” said Pinacoteca’s new director Jochen Volz, joking about his recent Bienal.
At Pina, Ana Maria Tavares has a survey of decades of work that takes over most of the building, even the corridors. “I grew up with dictatorship,” Tavares said during a walkthrough of the show, which deals with questions of, in her words, “what happened to our utopian ideas.”
Even if the fair itself had lost some of its steam by the weekend, it always delivers on parties. Collector Fabio Faisal’s annual Friday rager at his Jardins home, cohosted with Jacaranda magazine, began hours earlier than in previous years, though by 1 AM I caught sight of a coat dangling off what I was told was a sculpture by Tunga.
A harsh snapshot of the current moment arrived with the new show at Videobrasil, centered around Miguel Rio Branco’s 1980s film featured in the exhibition “Nada levarei quando morrer, aqueles que me devem cobrarei no inferno” (When I Die I Will Take Nothing, Those Who Owe Me I Will Charge in Hell). “What’s a nice way of saying this,” curator Gabriel Bogossian mused about the show’s more explicit conceit: “victims of economic growth.” Contemporary works included Virginia de Medeiros 2015 paean to Rio’s red-light district, which was uprooted during the port revival project for the Olympics.
Left: Artist Ana Mara Tavares and curator Fernanda Pitta. Right: Dealer John Kunemund.
The Mendes Wood DM party at its new Centro bar Lourdes bled well into the fair’s final day, so I took a break to see Era O Hotel Cambridge. Eliane Caffé’s docufiction film focuses on a housing occupation in São Paulo’s city center in an abandoned hotel, where squatters, many of whom are refugees, live cooperatively. The occupation also became the site of an artist residency last year of which Medeiros was a participant.
“I’m a refugee from Palestine in Brazil,” one resident says during a meeting to discuss the occupation’s then-jeopardized status. (It has since been legalized.) “You are refugees from Brazil in Brazil.” I hope the film sees a US release: It is a strong reminder that São Paulo’s present is vitally important—in the US, and everywhere.
LET’S SAY YOU LIVE IN TWO DIFFERENT PLACES. Maybe you were born in one city and live in another. One is cold, orderly, efficient, and peaceful; the other is hot, chaotic, wildly corrupt, and untenable. You endlessly set them in dialogue, sure that something meaningful will be made from the echo back and forth, the jagged path, and the way you move between them.
If you’re lucky, your exile is of your own choosing. You haven’t been forced out by war, disaster, or economic collapse. But in that case, you have temptations to avoid (exoticism, exploitation) and tricky questions to answer. Who are you to live here, to make this place your own and create your work from it? And who are you to say that you do so from a place of love, not ambition or pity or arrogance, not from some misplaced need to affirm your position or legitimize your politics?
Thirty-six hours after arriving in Athens on Thursday morning for the opening days of Documenta 14, I lost my train of thought.
I was squeezed in by a majestic view of the Acropolis lit up against the nighttime sky on one side and a roomful of loud people on the other, shouting above the din, all of us brought together, in theory, by the quieter act of looking, by the promise to listen and learn. We were expending nervous energy everywhere.
The night before, I’d found myself at a calmer table, listening to the artist Amar Kanwar as he told five of us about living in one city, one neighborhood even, and barely ever leaving. It was a wonder to us all, that willful stillness, which also permeates Kanwar’s astonishing new film, Such a Morning, commissioned for Documenta 14, that tells the story of a man losing his sight and retreating from the world. None of us had a clue how to live this way. Writer and novelist Shumon Basar and curator Natasha Ginwala, one of five curatorial advisors on the Documenta team, joked about who was more perfectly opposite. Both are nominally based in Berlin, but neither of them can sit still.
Now it was Friday night, at a dinner on Avissinia’s Square hosted by the Breeder, one of the powerhouse galleries on the Athenian art scene, celebrating three of its artists in Documenta (Andreas Angelidakis, Maria Hassabi, and Angelo Plessas) as well as the opening of a new show at the gallery curated by Milovan Farronato. I was having the same conversation on repeat, meeting a Greek DJ just returned from Detroit, an Iranian artist raised in Switzerland, an Egyptian from Assiut who had lived in Athens for twenty years, an architect from Thessaloniki who lived all over Europe before returning somewhat reluctantly to practice in Athens, myriad South Asians in Dubai, New Yorkers in Istanbul, countless Athenians in London, artists from everywhere now in Berlin, and curators who think nothing of flying from London to Mumbai for lunch with an artist who is eccentric, and demanding.
Sitting across from me was an affable Greek hotelier who divides his time between Athens and Crete (loves one, hates the other). He looked at me with a gap-toothed grin and laughed. “Yeah, you’re fucked,” he said, sliding his hand through the air. “Whichever city you choose,” he stopped and shook his head vigorously. “You’re fucked either way.”
And so it is, perhaps more delicately, with Documenta 14. Kassel feels betrayed, Athens invaded. Artistic director Adam Szymczyk has described his edition as a divided self, a theater and its double, an apparition, a phantom, an exhibition intent on unsettling its own format, emphasizing repetition and the retake. What is poetic in these formulations has been largely overlooked. Szymczyk must have some personal stake in this—his wife, the choreographer Alexandra Bachzetsis, is Greek (also Swiss), and Athens isn’t exactly new to him. And a divided Documenta stands repeatedly and in so many ways not for the crisis of Europe but for the body that is both, the identity that is mixed, the history that is messed up and complicated by too many things tangled together.
Left: Artist Aboubakar Fofana with Documenta 14 curatorial advisor Marina Fokidis, founder of Kunsthalle Athena and South as a State of Mind. Right: Locus Athens cofounder Maria-Thalia Carras with artist Cevdet Erek.
At an earlier dinner, thrown by Hans Ulrich Obrist to mark the opening of his Maria Lassnig show at the Municipal Gallery of Athens, I had a chance to catch up with Sylvia Kouvali—and to meet one of her artists, the very funny painter Apostolos Georgiou. Born in Athens, Kouvali opened her Rodeo Gallery in Istanbul a decade ago. For a time, it was split between there and London. I hadn’t seen her since she closed the space in Istanbul. I asked Kouvali if she missed it. “The things I miss aren’t there,” she told me. “The things I miss aren’t anywhere.”
The great Alexandrian writer André Aciman, an expert in melancholic exile, calls those absences shadow cities. And to extend his logic, the current edition of Documenta isn’t only about Athens and Kassel but about everything Athens has been, including, currently, a shadow of itself, and the burden of all the past Documentas in Kassel—including the prior one, which featured programing if not the full-blown exhibition in foreign cities such as Cairo and Kabul. Perhaps what’s at stake isn’t one city or the other but us, spectators and participants, and what we might constitute together.
By staging Documenta in exile, and promising to return it home later, Szymczyk has walked into a familiar set of roles: dodgy foreigner, eccentric expat, probable spy. It doesn’t help that he is impossibly tall but impish, a waif of a man with funny hair. Local critics have jumped all over his air of suspicion. Their responses to the arrival of the Documenta enterprise range from the humorous (scratching out the first letter of the title so it reads “Earning from Athens” instead of “Learning from Athens”) to the hyperbolic and insane (“FUCK DOCUMENTA. FUCK ADAM SZYMCZYK AND ANYONE WHO SUPPORTS THIS BULLSHIT IN A LAND WHERE UNFOLDS A GENOCIDE. DOCUMENTA IS A FORM OF COLONIALISM AND ANYONE WHO SUPPORTS IT MAKES MONEY FROM NAZISM. END OF STORY.”) Szymczyk’s intentions may be forever misrepresented. But he and Team Documenta have also produced so much verbiage about what they’re doing that it’s no wonder so much of it ends up sounding tone-deaf to local history or insensitive to local politics, those of a highly factional Athenian art scene included.
Left: Documenta 14 curator at large Bonaventure Soh Bejeng Ndikung with artist and radio journalist Tito Valery. Right: Artists Nikolas Ventourakis and Panos Tsagaris.
Witness the press conference, which opened at noon on Thursday in the white gleaming concert hall that many regard as a neoliberal dream palace, an emblem of all that has been stolen from the common Greek people to enrich the elite. The curtain was raised to reveal a crowd mirroring the crowd. The team of artists and curators and staff is huge. About a dozen of them speechified for a full two hours before opening to questions from the audience.
That’s when I scootched in. A reporter from the Wall Street Journal wanted to know: Isn’t the agreement among finance ministers nearly signed? Hasn’t the crisis that brought you here ended? Don’t you risk calcifying it in place? Aren’t you, in essence, already passé? Journalists from South America and West Africa wanted to understand how their regions were being represented and what Documenta could do for them. The artist Thierry Geoffroy, who might be the first proper gadfly of the biennial era—he always wears a blue UN helmet because, as he explains, arms manufacturing is big business in Kassel and he is afraid—said that Szymczyk had become a phenomenon like Mother Theresa. Then Geoffroy asked Team Documenta, pretty directly, if they had developed a mechanism for internal critique, to question whether or not what they were doing was actually working.
Dieter Roelstraete, one of Documenta 14’s seven curators, cracked a few jokes. Hendrik Folkerts, another curator, insisted over and over: “We don’t have fixed opinions. We don’t speak with one voice.” Bonaventure Soh Bejeng Ndikung, a curator at large who worked on an extensive radio project, picked up that idea and ran with it: “What we are really trying to do is figure out a way to live together.” Rhetorical yes, but true as well.
Left: Artist Bouchra Khalili. Right: Artist Nevin Aladag with graphic designer Ludovic Balland and Portikus curator Fabian Schöneich.
After the press conference, I was swept by hunger to a garden restaurant next door to the concert hall, crammed with the Documenta melee. It was my good fortune to find a seat under the not-too-blazing sun next to the artists Lala Rukh and Gauri Gill, who are showing two of the exhibition’s most striking projects. Lala Rukh’s installation, on a lower floor of the architectural marvel that is the Athens Conservatoire, moves from older calligraphic drawings to a beautiful, moody animation based on subtle changes to fixed musical patterns that have no notational system.
Four of Gill’s mesmerizing series of black-and-white photographs are installed in the incredible Epigraphic Museum, the oldest (and perhaps only) museum of writing in the world. Also at our table was Naeem Mohaiemen, who is showing a gorgeous feature-length film, Tripoli Cancelled, about a man stranded in the Athens airport, specifically the Ellinikon terminal designed by Eero Saarinen, which closed in 2001, was later used for refugee housing, and has since been sold off for real-estate development. The artist Nikhil Chopra arrived and split off with Mohaiemen for the kind of intense talk among artists for which Documenta might best be known, and loved.
Then the dealer Umer Butt arrived complaining bitterly about the lack of wall texts, or any explanatory texts at all. (He represents Lala Rukh at his gallery, Grey Noise, in Dubai.) I thought he was being a drama queen, but I later realized he was right. For all the talk of the press conference, for all the published material, and despite a great little booklet offering concise histories of the venues, there really is nothing that does the same for the artists and their works. (Communication about the event to the city is so bad that the director of a prominent Athens gallery whispered to me one morning: “Even the local hipsters aren’t going to see Documenta for themselves.”)
Naturally, Shumon Basar was restless, so we set off to make sense of it all. As we were leaving, who should roll up in a van with a driver but Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, curator of the previous Documenta. She humored me with an air kiss. Then she turned on us.
“Where is it?” she asked sharply.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, Carolyn, this is a restaurant, lunch, sociability!” I chirped.
“No! There is work here! You missed it!”
I blinked. Thirty seconds of small talk and she was scolding us.
“We’ll come back.”
“Oh, yeah, you’ll come back.”
I realized that Christov-Bakargiev reminds me of my mother. I also realized that this was going to be yet another exhibition in the treasure-hunt style, with more than 160 artists scattered across more than forty venues, and all of us, insufferable, crumpled, and occasionally rude, guided by spare maps and limited time.
A few days later, I did, in fact, come back to see how Abounaddara’s videos were placed in the nearby Museum of Anti-Dictatorial and Democratic Resistance. They weren’t there, or they had been moved somewhere else, but given that anyone with a decent internet connection can watch any of the work made by the anonymous collective of Syrian filmmakers at any time, the point seemed more about getting us there.
Left: Marfa’ Projects founder Joumana Asseily with Protocinema founder Mari Spirito. Right: Documenta 14 curator Dieter Roelstraete.
Before traveling to Athens, I had spoken with a curator I admire who also divides her time between cities: one in the Middle East, the other in Europe. She wasn’t sure she would make the trip. Honestly, the heyday of Documenta was during our parents’ generation. We grew up with the mythology, possibly false, that Documenta was where artists would do their best work, where they’d push themselves and use the time—five years!—to take risks. She worried that this edition would be too much like a kunsthalle show.
In a way, she was right. Szymzcyk’s show is definitely too big. There is too much packed in. There are loads of archival presentations, so many books in glass boxes—useless. There’s a thread of works approaching Hitler with loud, brassy humor, which seemed in poor taste. (Do I really need to imagine myself in the position of Eva Braun being fucked in pornographic detail by Hitler? I do not.)
But I came away with a surprisingly long list of artists who I think have done some of the best work of their lives for this Documenta, including Kanwar and Mohaiemen, as well as Banu Cennetoğlu, Bouchra Khalili, Mounira al-Solh, and Angelo Plessas. The Nigerian artist Emeka Ogboh’s installation in the amphitheater of the conservatory, matching the ticker tape of a stock exchange to hauntingly funereal vocals, is something I won’t soon forget. The room of more than one hundred folk-history paintings by Tshibumba Kanda-Matulu is a wonder. I’m dying to know more about the painters Ganesh Haloi and Sedje Hémon and the wild embroideries of Britta Marakatt-Labba.
Of course, whether the show or the works are any good is almost beside the point. The split between Athens and Kassel will remain the most distinctive thing about this edition. Maybe the question to ask is whether Documenta-in-exile does any harm. For sure it isn’t going to solve Greece’s unsustainable economic settlement. “People who are totally honest go off the books because the tax situation is impossible,” a photographer from a family of Athenian architects told me one day. “Let’s say a freelance designer makes 6,000 euros a year. Then he’ll have to pay 7,500 euros in taxes? It makes no sense.” Ask anyone and they will tell you the refugee crisis is nothing new. It’s now a deluge but it’s been a flood for years, even decades. The presence in Greek politics of ultranationalist, fascist, even explicitly neo-Nazi parties like Golden Dawn is also nothing new, just emboldened by the current climate.
Left: Artist Yiannis Papadopoulos with Yuli Karatsiki of the Kalfayan Galleries. Right: Curator Tarek Abou El-Fetouh.
Athens is a city blasted by graffiti, some of it exuberant, much of it angry. It felt more explosive to me than anywhere I’ve been in the Middle East. “Suicide rates among men are through the roof, ” I was told, repeatedly. Was any of that destructive energy channeled by Documenta? Perhaps as critique. But it’s hard to say what an anarchist response would really look like. If Documenta’s harshest critics were to make an exhibition of their own, or propose a different model of politically useful artmaking altogether, what would it include that Documenta has missed, or refused? Maybe the most damning thing that can be said is that Documenta risks replacing tough, real politics on the ground with the fake politics that inform the global art world.
But I don’t really buy it, just as I don’t buy the statement made by Abounaddara’s spokesperson, Charif Kiwan, at the end of the press conference about how artists are artisans and how artists have failed. At that dinner on Thursday night, Amar Kanwar told a story about being a young man hired to film a charismatic politician and community leader who was sure he was going to be killed. He was, more quickly than he thought. Kanwar recalled his slogan. Your struggle alone is not enough. You have to construct and create something new from your struggle.
Such a Morning does that, as do several of this Documenta’s best works. The one that does it most fully, in my mind, is Bouchra Khalili’s The Tempest Society. A sixty-minute film in Arabic and Greek, it tells a meticulously composed, uncompromising, and highly emotional story about the struggle for equality, linking Al-Assifa, a Parisian theater troupe that lasted for just six years in the 1970s, to a hunger strike among North African factory workers in Thessaloniki, the referendum protests on Athens’s Syntagma Square, and a group of Syrian children who formed another theater troupe, mirroring Al-Assifa, while waiting to find out if they could go to school in Greece. “We were not interested in art,” says Malek, one of Khalili’s characters. “We just wanted to turn sadness into beauty.”
This Documenta might do that, as a gift, which is not an unproblematic gesture. But if the goal is indeed justice, then participants and spectators might start, in the spirit of Khalili’s film, by viewing each other, and the exhibitions in Athens and Kassel, as equals.
Left: Natasha Hoare and Samuel Saelemakers of the Witte de With. Right: Documenta 14 curatorial advisor Natasha Ginwala with writer and novelist Shumon Basar.