Ian Svenonius has been a lead vocalist and songwriter in bands for over twenty-four years, including the Nation of Ulysses, the Make-Up, and Chain & the Gang. Based in Washington, DC, he published The Psychic Soviet (Drag City) in 2006, and hosted a talk show for VBS.tv titled Soft Focus from 2007 to 2010. His new book, Supernatural Strategies for Making a Rock’n’Roll Group, was published by Akashic this month, and serves as part warning, part manual, and part spiritual dérive for anyone looking to take up musical instruments in the interest of forming a rock ’n’ roll group.
THE APPROACH FOR THE BOOK was that I, along with my research team, had to have a long séance with multiple dead rock stars making appearances, because they’re the only people who don’t have vested interests in the material world. They could say anything they wanted about their former compatriots. Living rock musicians are very political; they’re too invested in appearances and they can’t tell the truth. Ultimately, a band isn’t the personal lives of the people in it. The group is what the group did—the live music, the picturesotherwise it’s pretty dull. Or a lie.
I’m really interested in the nonephemeral manifestations of a band. Most of my possessions are worthless scraps of paper, but at least they’re physical materializations of moments and groups I’ve been in. There’s a chapter in the book about this, where the ghosts we interviewed discuss the importance of the record cover. It’s not just nostalgia—in the 45 era, bands had no public face, but when they’re given faces through the album cover, that’s when you see them becoming more ideological—in other words, that’s when the meaning develops beyond sonic excitement. Without the cover, despite their best efforts, bands can’t have meaning. That’s why, with the Internet, they don’t have meaning anymore. They are fighting for their lives for any shred of meaning. The material aspect of a band actually happened organically, because a record company could make more money with a big cover, and you have to fill it with something—words or pictures. Form follows function.
When you talk about the genealogy of rock ’n’ roll, everyone’s really striving to give credit to where credit is due—that is, to bluesmen. So there’s this whole idea of cultural thievery surrounding the origins of rock ’n’ roll. But that’s adjourned, because the bluesmen were all stealing from each other. So as soon as music is put out in the air, it belongs to everybody. It’s just like visual art, fashion, or illustration. As soon as some new style comes about, within fifteen minutes the advertising world is already running with it. And it’s the same with musical styles. So this cultural guilt that we have about rock ’n’ roll, it’s not misplaced, because it’s a legitimate thing to be concerned about—it’s legitimate to think about exploitation and culture and what music or art means for particular cultures. But I think it’s simplifying rock ’n’ roll to say that it’s just blues music. Rock ’n’ roll is an immediate art form, like performance art. There’s something about a particular kind of underground that closes its doors to the rest of the world that is actually very valuable. It gives you a sense of what you’re doing, otherwise, you’re lost in a void, and you’re just pissing in the ocean.
For Americans, alienation is the state of grace. Our alienation is what we cling to. And that’s how you know that you’re talking to a real American. It’s that whole outsider thing. Politics don’t speak to us. We are singular, and our art is mystical. Abstract Expressionism was supposed to be intrinsically American, right? But rock ’n’ roll is really the true American export. Abstract Expressionism was one version of that, and rock ’n’ roll really finishes the sentence. It’s not only alienated expression, it’s total social alienation. That’s our claim to fame. That’s what we’ve given the world.
In the USA, everything has to be monetized. Things get a lot of respect if they make a lot of money. So unless you’re fantastically successful, your contribution is considered shit. Cultural workers occupy a weird niche under capitalism—your work is considered play, but at the same time it has this kind of mystical value. You’re kind of envied and loathed by normal workers and the professional class.
You become what you hate. If you look at America, it’s obsessed with totalitarianism. It hates totalitarianism—all the Soviet stuff. But ultimately, the thing that destroyed the Soviet Union, or coincided with the destruction of the Soviet Union, was the beginning of the Internet. And what is the Internet? It’s more Big Brother than the Soviets could ever have dreamed: Wikipedia is the single source of all information, and then there’s Facebook. They are more nefarious than anything that could have existed under communism.
Claude Wampler, N’a pas un gramme de charisme. (Not an ounce of charisma.), 2013, digital collage.
Claude Wampler is a New York–based artist who investigates the boundaries of spectatorship in the visual and performing arts. Here, she discusses the impetuses behind her latest work, N’a pas un gramme de charisme., (Not an ounce of charisma.), which she created in collaboration with Amelia Saul, Antonius Wiriadjaja, and John Tremblay. N’a pas un gramme de charisme. will be presented at the Kitchen in New York from January 31 to February 3, 2013.
I’M A VISUAL ARTIST, but I also work in the field of performance. I always consider myself a visual artist because it is all visual art in the end. I find that using the terms performance art or performance artist immediately evokes something for the audience that is very different than what I’m making or what I want to be seen as making. It’s not that I don’t like performance art. I do. I have a great deal of respect for it, but it seems to have this sort of stupefying effect on the viewer as soon as they categorize the work as such. The audience often rely heavily on what they believe they’re going to be consuming and they will see the work through the lens of the medium that they assume it inhabits. In some ways this is great for an artist because he or she can use it to the advantage of the work. But it has a limiting effect on how people view the piece or the pace with which they view it. It also affects how flexible the audience can be while watching a work unfold. For instance, how is a piece different if it’s called “dance” versus “sculpture”?
More and more institutions are showing performance and highlighting these questions. For Sarah Michelson to win the Bucksbaum Award last year, for example, is significant, and that means something has shifted. But I’m not sure if that’s trickled down to the audience yet. I’m still very interested in the boundaries of these categories—by putting sculpture in museums and then putting performance around that sculpture, for instance—because people don’t really expect or suspect the person next to them to be part of the work. Similarly, I’ll do something like that with a performance, in which people assume the focus is on the stage and that’s where they’re supposed to look: The lights go out, they stare forward for however long the piece is, and then they clap and leave. That relationship to the work is very clear. Here, an audience knows how to behave; there is a choreographed or rehearsed conduct. They are often extremely obedient, which is a little scary to me, but it’s also very useful because it creates a field for disruption, where artists can play with their willingness.
I’m also interested in the durational work of theater—that it has a beginning, middle, and end. I enjoy these boundaries because I know that it’s quite possible for a work to be endless. N’a pas un gramme de charisme. began a long time ago and it doesn’t end on February 3; it just keeps going. I’ve always worked with this kind of ambiguity: Instead of having a curtain call at the end of the show, I’ve emailed the audience two weeks later with the curtain call, which could include people they didn’t expect to be in the show—like the person sitting next to them. N’a pas un gramme de charisme. is part of this territory. It extends the time of the work beyond what happens at the Kitchen. I might find that the audience has no appetite for this—that really the liveness is what it’s all about and beyond that it’s just a bunch of MP3s and little video clips that people don’t really care about. I don’t know; I’m still figuring that out.
I found the title when I was reading a review of a performance in a French magazine. I came across that sentence describing the actress in the film, and I thought, “Oh my God, that’s so beautiful. If I could only achieve ‘Not one gram of charisma.’ What does that even look like?” I find some performances today on a death march toward excitement. It’s always a one-upmanship of how hard you can work your dancers before they collapse of exhaustion or how much artwork can we stuff in one space or how much can be endured; how many people can you stare at for months on end? It’s all about charisma and people’s personal abilities to capture the attention of audiences. What if I have no charisma? What if I sit there and no one wants to even look at my face? I think that’s what the show is. It’s a contrary reaction to the total hysteria of the performance art world right now and that demand for the next big thing that someone’s going to do. I think audiences really want somebody to entertain them and make them feel special. I want to refuse this demand. Although, it is true that I am making work and it is going to be dramatic and I can’t help that.
From her feted Technicolor paintings of copulating couples to more recent canvases of her aging nude body, the feminist critique in Joan Semmel’s five-decade career of self-exposure has always been blunt, unwavering. Born in 1932 in the Bronx, Semmel moved to Madrid in the 1960s and then back to New York in the 1970s, where she turned from abstraction to figuration—specifically to a non-idealized, non-narrative self-portraiture based on pictures taken from her own perspective. Now a professor emeritus of painting at Rutgers University, Semmel has shown her work in numerous solo and group exhibitions, including “Shifting the Gaze” at the Jewish Museum in 2010, “Solitaire: Lee Lozano, Sylvia Plimack Mangold, Joan Semmel” at the Wexner Center for the Arts in 2008, and the decisive 2007 touring exhibition “WACK! Art and the Feminist Movement,” which began at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles.
Semmel’s latest show, “A Lucid Eye,” runs at the Bronx Museum from January 24 to June 9, 2013. The exhibition, curated by Antonio Sergio Bessa, includes twenty-seven of Semmel’s self-portraits from the past six years. She will also have a solo exhibition of new work at Alexander Gray Associates in New York from April 17 to May 25, 2013. Here she discusses showing her paintings in her home borough as well as what it has meant to be an “outsider” for so many years.
Interview with Joan Semmel.
John Torreano, Dark Matters Collide with Doradus, 2012, acrylic paint, gems, and wood balls on plywood panels, 7 x 7’’.
John Torreano is a New York–based artist and curator. He has taught in New York University’s studio art program since 1992. Torreano’s “Dark Matters Everywhere: Paintings, Prints & Sculpture” spans over twenty years of his gem-based works and is on view at Carl Solway Gallery in Cincinnati through March 23, 2013.
BEFORE THERE WERE GEMS ON MY PAINTINGS, there were dots. At the time I was working in the style of lyrical abstraction and wanted to push against Greenberg’s idea of painting’s essentialism. I was painting dots to create additional illusions of space, to emphasize contradictory aspects within the work. The dots looked like stars, but I thought of them in a formalist sense, like shapes in an amorphous, chemical space. Larry Aldrichwho actually coined the term lyrical abstractionsaw these works and hated them! He said, “John, you make these beautiful paintings, and then you put these dots on them. It’s like pimples on an adolescent boy!” Eventually I got rid of almost everything except the dot. By the early 1970s, I had replaced the dots with gems.
I should specify that I use the terms jewels and gems interchangeably and that both words refer to different kinds of plastic and glass. In 1972, I was an artist-in-residence at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and was making plaques by stretching felt over plywood. I liked the material contrasts between the glass jewels and the felt. I was distributing the gems in random patterns across the plaques. And that was what did it for me—that was the spark! Unfortunately, most of those Art Institute works are now gone, though I believe Lynda Benglis and Jennifer Bartlett have one and maybe Joel Shapiro.
The column paintings emerged from a desire to get more space in the studio by making “thin” paintings. At that time I was making paintings that had giant quarter-round moldings on the edges. The molding served to bulge the painting out toward the viewer, like an expanding universe. I wanted the gems front and center. When I envisioned the idea for the column paintings it was, “Oh, I’ll just eliminate the canvas and join the two-quarter rounds together to make a half round column.” I liked the column shape for painting because it was another way of attacking the idea of painting as a window that contained information—or painting as a container of meaning—and put it into a more transactional space. The rounded surface bulged out toward the viewer from the wall in a 180-degree curve from the wall, which in essence meant each person in the room could have an equal transactional relationship with painting. With these “paintings” there could be no hierarchical point of view. There was a 180-degree equality for the viewers. Yet, at the same time, each viewer’s location was marked particular by the specific reflectivity of the gems.
When Lynda Benglis first saw the columns she said, “Well John, you’re really making crosses because of your Catholicity. Why don’t you just make crosses?” Her comment caused an epiphany. I thought, Oh my God, she’s right! I had always viewed my use of the gems through a highly intellectualized, highly formalized framework and all of a sudden I was challenged to think of them in terms of content. Suddenly the inlaid gems in the columns could reference the syphilitic wounds of Christ, as in Matthias Grünewald’s fourteenth-century Isenheim Altarpiece, and the sparkles from the gems were like vigil lights, and so on. I had to own these iconic readings. From that point on I began to see form and content as inextricable—you can’t have one without the other. I took up Lynda’s challenge and made a whole series of crosses, which were controversial in themselves.
Tracey Emin, I Don’t Believe in Love but I Believe in You, 2012, neon, dimensions variable.
In the second segment of this two-part interview conducted during Art Basel Miami Beach, Tracey Emin addresses the fictions of being an art celebrity. Her first interview delved into her new self-portraits, which are drawn from photographs, not memory. Emin’s first solo museum exhibition in the US will open in December 2013 at the Museum of Contemporary Art North Miami.
I HAVE A FANTASY DREAM PERSON. He’s a writer—a novelist. He dresses like a writer would, with cozy clothes. And he works out every day. He’s fit. He can walk for miles and he’s not vain. He absolutely adores me. He’s really pleased that I like traveling and gallivanting too. See, he doesn’t like going out; he can’t because he has to write all the time. When I come in at 2 AM and I’m really drunk, he makes sure that I get to bed (he was still up, working of course). He makes sure I have a glass of water and some aspirin. Then when I dream and wake up in the middle of the night, he writes down my dream so I don’t forget it. In the morning, he wakes me up and asks me, “So what happened last night? Did you have a good time?” And I tell him what happened.
I was in a group show called “Brilliant!” at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis in 1995. They had placed my tent, Everyone I Have Ever Slept With, 1963–95, in a really shitty place. When we had to put down what we wanted for our artwork, I had written one thing: It had to be somewhere quiet. People were supposed to go inside the tent and read the hand-stitched names of all the people I had ever slept with. But instead, they put my work in a tiny space in the middle of four people’s sound pieces. I complained but they said there was nowhere else it was going to go and that that was the end of it. And I wasn’t the only one. Gillian Wearing insisted on having a projector but instead was given a monitor on the stairs. I had nothing I wanted.
But don’t feel sorry for me. I got my tent and dragged it out of the museum, down the escalator, and out the front door. It was mine and I owned it. There was nothing they could do about it. In response, they said that with my attitude, I would never show in a museum in America again. This was in 1995. Ironically, I haven’t had one since, until now. There just isn’t room in America for the celebrity artist. You had Andy Warhol. You had Jeff Koons, even though he decided to back off from the spotlight. Richard Prince backed off too. They all backed off. No one wanted to do it. No one could go after Warhol. That’s America’s ceiling.
In Britain, we never had that. By the time art happened twenty years ago in Britain, there wasn’t a place to put it. America had had art magazines since the 1950s. We only had Frieze and small columns in The Times, Art Review, and The Guardian. We didn’t fit in. We exploded from those pages into the mainstream. We went onto the news coverage and the front pages. We were the first generation of British artists to live our lives by doing it. If I were to die today, it would be front-page news in England. Even the fashion magazines loved us. We were the people being photographed, the young things. It was us, Kate Moss, the bands, and all those other models. It was like a wild happening.
The night before my tent was destroyed in a fire in 2004, thirteen children had been killed in Afghanistan by a bomb in their school. I was asked to remake my tent. But I had forgotten about it. Something more important was happening. It wouldn’t have been the same if I had remade it. It wouldn’t have had the smell.
In my house in France, I have a lake that’s only there from November to March. When I’m there in the summer by myself, it’s a dry bowl and then the rest of the time it’s filled with water. I never see it full. I began writing a book about it called The Vanishing Lake. You can just see this lofty figure there when the lake is wet and when the lake is gone. This woman lives in this house on her own, with her memories. It doesn’t matter what’s real in it. The 2002 Thames and Hudson book The Art of Tracey Emin is so factually incorrect. The events that take place in my book are just as imaginary, like the main character screaming, “You never loved me!” at her lover. But I don’t know what the male character’s name is yet. George? He could be American, my fantasy dream person. I never really thought about that before.
Alexandre Singh is an artist and writer based in New York. For “The Pledge,” Singh has photocopied hundreds of drawings and found images, framing and connecting each across the gallery with lines of hand-drawn pencil dots. The exhibition is based on a series of interviews Singh conducted with scientists, artists, writers, curators, and filmmakers in 2011, each of which is included in Palais de Tokyo’s Palais Magazine #14, as part of a special issue created by Singh. “The Pledge” opens January 17, 2013, at the Drawing Center in New York and runs through March 13. It is Singh’s first solo museum exhibition in the United States.
AS AN ARTIST I HAVE THE LIBERTY TO CHEAT. Every interview is essentially a fiction—including this one you’re reading right now. Yet every editor, as they’re willfully jumbling up and rearranging their interviewee’s words, feels a constant compulsion to not stray too far from what was really said. I don’t have that. So much of this workbased on interviews with curator Marc-Olivier Wahler, filmmaker Michel Gondry, neurobiologist Leah Kelly, screenwriter Danny Rubin, artist Simon Fujiwara, theater director Alfredo Arias, and critic Donatien Grauis instead about trying to find a way to express the very essence of their ideas. Cheating makes this a whole lot easier—I can take Gondry and put him in a bizarre dream taking place on a TGV train with Pablo Picasso sitting right across from us. I can place my subject in a dozen different places all at once, the kind of magic you can’t do in real life. Everything in these phantasmagoric worlds exists only to amplify the interviewees’ own ideas.
The title of this exhibition is taken from a 1995 novel about two illusionists named The Prestige by the British science fiction author Christopher Priest, later adapted for film in 2006 by Christopher Nolan. In both the book and film, it’s explained that a magic trick consists of three parts: The Pledge, in which the magician presents you with an ordinary situation or object; The Turn, wherein the magician transforms that same object, or quite often makes it disappear; but the trick can’t end here—the viewer demands resolution—if you saw your assistant in half, you can’t just leave her like thathence the third part: The Prestige. It’s that pleasurable moment of resolution when the assistant is put back together again and the crowd roars: “Bravo!”
A lot of my work involves the mechanisms of storytelling. How is it that one comes to understand a world, be it real or fictional? What I like about the notion of The Pledge in a magic trick is that it implies an insidious corruption. One takes it as a given that the first things you see are true. The spectator then closely observes everything that follows, anticipating the trick. But they’ve already missed it. You see the whole premise was a lie.
The way we think isn’t linear; nor is it completely rhizomatic. I’d say it’s rhapsodic, which is to say that you have a story or a progression of multiple ideas with many little cul-de-sacs and digressions—and then there are digressions within the digressions. Eventually you always get back to the main thrust of the tale, even if that main thrust is made up of three of four concurrent ideas.
I grew up reading Time-Life encyclopedias. They had such a positive, almost naively utopian view of society, progress, and technological change that I think has completely disappeared in our time. Many of the images in the show are constructed out of photocopies from those same encyclopedias. There are also a lot of images derived from Flickr and Google Images, and books from the New York Public Library. My process involves a constant back and forth between analog and digital—photocopying and collaging, and then maybe scanning back in and further manipulating, reprinting and again drawing in or collaging. Everything is black-and-white, which serves to decontextualize each image from its original source and historical period.
I think throughout the twentieth century we tended to overvalue what’s new about modernity. In reality, we exist in all eras at the same time; we’re constantly interfacing with the past. There’s a short essay by Borges called “Kafka and His Precursors”: Rereading Kafka one day, Borges is struck by all these stories from the past that now seem so Kafkaesque. This is of course because now he has the lens of Kafka through which to reinterpret these writers. Borges implies that every new artist causes the past to become deeper and richer. The past isn’t a dead, fixed place but one to which we’re constantly looking back to, discovering things, seeing things anew. I think that’s liberating.
Left: Spread from LIFE Magazine Vol 56, no. 26 (June 1964). Paul Welch, “Homosexuality in America.” Photo: Bill Eppridge. Right: Nayland Blake installing “FREE!LOVE!TOOL!BOX!,” 2012–13.
Nayland Blake is an artist, teacher, activist, writer, and kink enthusiast who explores the ways in which artmaking and community construction can mutually inform each other. His latest show, “FREE!LOVE!TOOL!BOX!,” is on view at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco through January 27, 2013. Blake will also have a solo exhibition at Matthew Marks Gallery in New York from February 2 to April 19, 2013.
I HAD BEEN READING the historian Gayle Rubin and I ran across these descriptions of the Tool Box, which was a San Francisco leather bar that opened in 1962. The Tool Box was not only San Francisco’s first gay-owned leather bar, but was also featured in a June 1964 article in LIFE titled “Homosexuality in America.” This was the first major magazine article to talk about homosexuals and depict leathermen in three cities: New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. The story that the article tells about San Francisco concerns the Tool Box and the Mattachine Society—a homophile group that began in 1950 and worked for the acceptance of homosexuals within American society. That story in many ways was the start of a gay migration to San Francisco. It became a contributing factor to the queer culture in San Francisco becoming even more concentrated. The Tool Box was torn down in the late 1960s as part of San Francisco’s SoMa redevelopment plan. The Yerba Buena Center is part of the final portion of that redevelopment plan.
For my show at Yerba Buena, I wanted to look at the city in the early ’60s as well as a period in the early ’90s, a time when I lived in San Francisco, as eras in which there was an invention of a new kind of gay or queer identity based around spaces, bars, and clubs. The 1990s were a time of liberation––post–Queer Nation, but before there was investment in the gay marriage and the gay military model. That’s something that gained force in the late ’90s through the 2000s and, to my mind, hijacked the activist moment that was interesting and inventive about rethinking ideas around gender and sexuality. The idea was to take that space in Yerba Buena and reactivate it—to make it less of a showcase for my work and more of a platform for people to come together to think about these ideas of liberation by hosting workshops, lectures, and informal classes.
As an artist, I am most excited not by those moments of definition but by those moments that lack definition. To me the best thing about a movement like Occupy is the refusal of a narrative and a goal. That’s what these two previous moments felt like. I wanted to construct a space that is a great party celebrating creativity and also one that offers an examination of these previous eras, suggesting therein that institutions can learn from leather bars. Recently I have been spending a lot more time in the kink and BDSM worlds than I have been spending in the art world. This is in part because I feel there is a kind of creativity going on in those spheres that is coupled with the knowledge that there is never going to be a “valid” career in them. Furthermore, the audiences are also participants.
One of my pet theories is that there was a situation in the mid-’60s into the mid-’70s where there was a rise of bodily based performance art and at the same time there was an increase in consciousness raising, discussion, and organization among sexual minorities. These are two groups of people who were doing the same thing, often literally. And what happened was that an idea became popular, one stemming from people like Norman O. Brown who said that transformations in the consciousness of bodily expression could result in transformations in societal structures. The civil rights model that mainstream gay activism has been engaged with in recent years doesn’t buy into this notion, however. It doesn’t want to transform society. It just wants to ensure equal access to all of the benefits to the current society. To me, the amazing potential of art—and this is where I see my relationship to Beuys—is that transforming society and art consciousness can provide us with different sorts of models for social organization.
We continually need to ask ourselves what we mean by “success.” I feel like part of the interest that people have in this activist moment from the 1960s is tied to this index of success. If your index of success is finding romance, finding someone to be with, or just having someone excited about doing something, then you are fortunate. Throughout history, making art has been about visualizing and creating community. I suggest that if we are going to talk about activating spaces, let’s actually talk about it instead of these twee notions of interactivity.
Candice Breitz, The Rehearsal, 2012, six-channel video installation, color, sound.
Candice Breitz is an artist whose practice delves into the nature of identity production through the circuits of mass media. Here she discusses her video trilogy The Woods, which comprises The Audition, The Rehearsal, and The Interview, works that were shot respectively in Los Angeles, Mumbai, and Lagos in 2012. They are on view in “Candice Breitz: The Character” until March 11, 2013 at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image in Melbourne.
I HOPED THAT THE WOODS, as a title, might evoke the fictional space of fairy tales and folklore, a space in which morals and norms are passed on to children via entertaining stories. But the title also quite literally takes what the three film industries that were my point of focus—Hollywood, Bollywood, and Nollywood—nominally have in common, to hold the three works together as a trilogy. The three chapters in the trilogy all incorporate child actors or actors who are known for performing childhood.
When I came up with the first tentative concept for the trilogy in 2008, I didn’t know exactly where I was headed. I was at the end of a very isolated editing process, having just completed Him + Her, a found-footage installation that kept me in editing quarantine for three years. Having spent more than a decade thinking about the affective resonance and social impact of mass entertainment—predominantly of the American variety—I was a little Hollywooded out. I was feeling fatigued by the standard blockbuster fare of the Western mainstream that had been my point of departure for quite some time, but also a little bored with my own circulation—as an artist traveling to install exhibitions or shoot new work—between a variety of predictable art contexts.
Along with considering new contexts, I was specifically interested in working with children. Children are always understudies in a sense, observing and aping adults—and the culture of adults—to model themselves into social beings. I’m interested in what might be understood, for example, about the mechanics of walking when you watch a young child put on a parent’s shoes and stumble across the room, or about the theatricality of self-presentation when you watch a young child apply makeup in imitation of an adult, or about the structure of language when you listen to a young child repeating phrases or sentences borrowed from an adult or older sibling: the thousands of tiny acts of mimicry that accumulate into selfhood.
In the case of The Audition and The Rehearsal, the idea was to let kids try on the kinds of voices and roles that would usually belong to adults. The fact that the kids are not always able to smoothly pull off the adult opinions that they parrot, not always able to convincingly master the nuances of a particular phrase or line, creates an opportunity, I think, to observe the labor that is involved in playing a role, the grinding of gears that occurs as an actor turns on for the camera, assuming a different posture or gaze to create a character, attempting to turn off his or her self. I wanted to capture these mechanics, the moments in which actors shift into and fall out of character, points of tension between the staged naturalism of a convincingly portrayed character and the supposed naturalism of the self that bleeds through as the character slips away. Adult actors would have been far more adept at masking this labor, at rendering it invisible. Whereas The Audition and The Rehearsal involve children trying on adulthood, the two Nollywood stars who appear in The Interview—Chinedu Ikedieze and Osita Iheme—are full-fledged professionals. This last chapter of the trilogy mimics the approach of an actual celebrity interview, the twist being that the showbiz success of the two adult interviewees is based on the pair having stripping away their adulthood to become children for the camera repeatedly over a decade.
The three works in the trilogy all in some way return to the interview scenario. The interview is assumed to be a platform that allows the self to reveal itself, to show its truth, which is why I was interested in threading interview conventions through the three chapters in the trilogy. An interview is expected to portray its subject without artifice, without contrivance, which is really not possible. The performance of a self is every bit as contrived and subject to the forces of convention, in my opinion, as an actor’s on-screen performance of a character. Maintaining a sense of selfhood means constantly reflecting or responding to other versions of selfhood that are being performed in close or distant proximity—in much the same way that actors must calibrate their performances in response to those of their on-screen counterparts. While for each of us—depending on the particular constraints of the context in which we enact individuality—there may be some conscious shaping of our roles, the role that any self plays is to a large extent shaped by forces that we can not steer, and to a large extent unfolds unconsciously.