paris

Claude Lévêque

Galerie de Paris

In the middle of the gallery stood a kind of shelter or rectangular cell made of unpainted cinderblocks, with a very narrow opening with just enough room for a mattress, lying on the floor and spray-painted in silver. Four radios that didn’t seem to be working right formed a square of broadcast static, and everything was bathed in harsh light.

For a long time, Claude Lévêque’s work was attributed to the French mania for introspection, psychologizing, and nostalgic recollection. This was akin to an attempt to hide his luminous violence, which, to put it succinctly, is closer to the sensibility of Jean Genet, Samuel Beckett, and Heiner Muller than to that of Marcel Proust or Francois Truffaut: closer to Chris Burden, the Clash, and the Bérurier Noir (the French rock group) than to Boltanski and Louise Bourgeois. I don’t see any autobiographic fetishism in Lévêque’s work, either of lost

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