paris

Camille Henrot, “Robinson Crusoé,” Daniel Defoë, 2012, mixed media. Installation view. From the series “Est-il possible d’être révolutionnaire et d’aimer les fleurs?” (Is It Possible to Be a Revolutionary and Like Flowers?), 2011–12.

Camille Henrot

Kamel Mennour | Rue Saint-André des Arts

Camille Henrot, “Robinson Crusoé,” Daniel Defoë, 2012, mixed media. Installation view. From the series “Est-il possible d’être révolutionnaire et d’aimer les fleurs?” (Is It Possible to Be a Revolutionary and Like Flowers?), 2011–12.

It’s a strange phenomenon that has been around since the 1970s, the decade of the famous Carnation Revolution that overturned Salazar in Portugal: flowers and their very specific language serving as emblems for revolutions. There was the Rose Revolution in Georgia in 2003, the Tulip Revolution in Kyrgyzstan in 2005, and, more recently, the Jasmine Revolution, which, after a month of protests in Tunisia that were bloodily repressed, eventually brought about the downfall of Ben Ali and inspired the revolt of the Arab world in its wake. A number of artists in recent years have seized upon this collision with a highly poetic coefficient: artist Alexandre Périgot, for instance, with his Jardin Révolutionnaire avec moins de couleurs et plus de fleurs (Revolutionary Garden with Less Colors and More Flowers, 2010); Yto Barrada, who once envisioned creating a floral calendar; and now

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