LEAVING A MORE RADICAL TRACE
by Christina-Marie Lümen, 2024
Alizée Gazeau’s artistic practice is based on techniques of printing and re-collage. Her often large-scale paintings are created by placing nets formerly used for fishing on the canvas and imbuing it with paint. Once dried, the net is taken away while the imprint remains on the surface.
Structures like skin, reptiles in particular, parchment, maps, landscapes. The paintings seem to contain ages, adding an explicit element of time to the works and their reception. One may get lost – caught – in them. The material and its visual quality are essential to the work; however, it gets abstracted through the process and opens gateways to other worlds.
For Gazeau, the physical aspect is central to her practice: the wet nets imbued with colour are heavy, she moves and tears them around, ribs the canvas with paint to arrive at the point when the positioning and density seem right. It is a process of intuitive choice, deliberate actions and sensual decisions.
This movement between control and letting go forms a fundamental part in Gazeau’s work. Her paintings, in particular, are an exploration of the decisive power of the sensual: how far can I take it; how far can it take me? The medium in form of canvas, wood, and paint, becomes a third on which this game is manifested.
Subsequently, the works have an essentially physical effect: The eye follows the traces and marks, and this movement immediately takes over to the body. The size of the canvas adds up to this effect; often presented unframed, the lengths of canvas – shawls – seem to invite and wrap the viewer. Her paintings, as Gazeau describes it, experiment with a sense of depth to create an immersive experience. The feeling of immersion is created both through the size of and movement on the canvas by which the surface seems to dissolve.1
The images contain stories, tales of ships and animals, sea routes and deserts, ashes and hieroglyphs. Gazeau is a storyteller. In her conversation, writing, and painting, the artist transforms episodes into an engaging narrative. Just as she wants to feel – perhaps desperately –, vis-à-vis a world increasingly losing its sensual affect, she wants the viewer to feel.
The artist completed a double degree in art history and philosophy before concentrating on her artistic practice. Her studies focused on the Romantic notion of the Sublime and the relation between nature and abstraction. One of her academic writings evaluates Hans Hartung’s depictions of meteorological phenomena as a Romantic attempt to feel nature, instead of simply observing it.2 The text reads like an anticipation of her own work: Gazeau describes Hartung’s artistic development as instinctive and natural, his practice as a search through trial and error, resulting in astonishment and constant surprise.3 Similarly, Gazeau’ practice is intuitive and stands in close relation with its material and technique. The works embody – quite literally – natural processes, bear and are traces of something which happened before. The material, next to its spatial existence, takes on a temporal and subsequently spiritual layer.
Transformation. The artist repeatedly refers to water in her work. Next to the material references in form of the nets and the water used during the process of painting, Gazeau emphasizes its conceptual dimension as an idea of fluidity. This fluidity, as the artist points out, is characteristic of the present as a moment of and in transformation. Her works flow between solid and soft, monumental and intimate, precise and vague. Ultimately, they might transform the viewer.
The idea of transformation is also central to Gazeau’s sculptures. The artist combines saddles and glass buoys into abstracted, aesthetic objects. The decontextualization rips away the original function of the objects, emphasizing their formal aspects instead. The shapes recall butterflies, breasts, and blossoms. The sculptures manifest an idea of metamorphosis; tools becoming animals and flowers, male (saddle) becoming female (womb, butterfly), the profane becoming sacred.
Starting the body of work, Gazeau was “intrigued by how the quality and meaning of an object could be shifted simply by looking at it from a different perspective.”4 The approach and aesthetic refer to Surrealism and the objet trouvé. The objects pose somewhere between Louise Bourgeois and Meret Oppenheimer, combining ideas of the female and motherhood with a mysterious vein. After living and working in Paris for most of her life, Gazeau moved to Berlin in 2020. With the move, as the artist states, her work got more conceptual and layered. When the intuitive was formerly directed towards a primarily visual result, it is now being employed in a more deliberate and reflective manner. The artist introduces French poetics into German concept; or vice versa.
The opposition points to the one between control and letting go, the moment of transformation and fluidity. In her writing, the artist repeatedly investigated the concept of the Sublime. If for the Romantics, the Sublime arose from the experience of escaping danger and pain in a natural environment, Gazeau describes it as the distance between oneself and one’s fear towards the catastrophe. Through her work, Gazeau aims to deconstruct this sense of the Sublime and the fear within. She perceives her practice rather as a conversation, a reducing of distances by going beyond.
“We tell artists to think and feel for us. We need art to understand our present; and to help us accept the mystery.”
In a technological environment, Gazeau thus proposes a New, Post Sublime. Natures, as she sees it, is not the relevant reference for humankind anymore. Instead, she offers visual stories to feel; contemporary metamorphoses of material, cartographies of time. The act is comforting as a mother, playful as a child, sincere as a scholar – sensual traces, ambiguously beautiful and strangely familiar.
1. The author investigated the concept of immersion in relation to the reception of painting; the text will be published in spring 2024.
2. Alizée Gazeau: Hans Hartung. Les œuvres météorologiques, des instants romantiques ?, under the supervision of Emmanuel Pernoud, Paris I, 2014.
3. See Gazeau, Hans Hartung. Les œuvres météorologiques, pp. 6 ff.
4. Unpublished conversation between Alizée Gazeau and the author in December 2023.
AN END TO A SENTENCE
a conversation between Alizée Gazeau and Lisa Deml, Häutung, 2023
Lisa Deml: The impression that settled on my mind when I first came to see this series of painting in your studio was that of maturity. To me, these paintings are a very clear and condensed expression of different lines of thought and experimentation that you have been following for several years. They seem to have grown through practice and now coincide with your first solo exhibition. How is this exhibition situated in your artistic development, what does it mean to mark this point in time?
Alizée Gazeau: I consider this exhibition as an opportunity to end a first sentence. I invoke the notion of a sentence, but you could also say it marks the end of a first journey. My work is concerned with process itself and I have the feeling that I could develop the same idea further indefinitely. In this sense, the exhibition at gr_und is also a challenge for me to put an end to this process. Even though I would never say that this process is finished, I have reached a point when I can let it settle down and let go. When the work enters into an exhibition space, it does not belong to me anymore, it is not about me anymore—the work has to speak for itself, as Louise Bourgeois would insist. She says that an artwork has nothing to do with the artist; it has to stand for itself. I find this credo helpful to navigate the tension between the intimacy inherent in artworks and the extrovert nature of exhibitions.
This is not only your first solo exhibition but also the first time that you work in painting and to this scale. How did you arrive at this discipline and format of 200 x 300 cm? Would you say that it is the result of a measure of trust and confidence you have gained in the process?
I felt the need to not only engage the hand and the eye in the work process but to involve the whole body. It is a very physical process as I work on the floor and pull and place the hammock and the net on the canvas. And it is not only a physical experience for me in the production process but also for the viewer in front of the paintings. I wanted the paintings to be bigger than us, so that they create an immersive sensation that exceeds the human body.
Given the expansive format of these paintings, how do you approach the canvas to begin with?
The paintings make me as much as I make them. It is a conversation between me and the various materials involved in the process, the canvas, the net, the hammock, colour and water. With these components, I create an environment, a framework within which the painting can emerge. Of course, the work process is different with every painting, there are different layers and rhythms at play each time. But what characterises my process is that I organise a situation on canvas and then leave the studio while the painting takes form. I return to it when everything has dried and I can remove the hammock and net to discover how they have impressed themselves on the surface. I very much enjoy this moment of revelation because it is often surprising. It is almost like a laboratory where I arrange the experimental setup and observe how it develops on its own. It is a delicate balance between controlling and letting go. While the first part of the work process is determined by my decisions and choices, the second part is beyond my command. So, even though this series of works are undeniably paintings, I would not call myself a painter.
What I find remarkable about your artistic practice is that all the components and materials that are involved in the production process retain a certain degree of agency and autonomy. This becomes most pronounced in the way in which you interact with the surface of the canvas. I know that you have given much thought to the notion of the surface—could you talk about what the surface is to you?
Of course, factually, paintings are two-dimensional, they have a flat surface. But I try to expand this understanding and to experiment with a sense of depth in my paintings. I want to create a sensation of the paintings coming towards you as you face them and dive into them. To me, this is also a reflection on what it takes to be an artist. At some point, I questioned myself and whether I am ready to be an artist or not. And an answer to this question is related to being ready to dive, to venture beyond the surface, and to confront memories and feelings of doubt and darkness. Producing these paintings was an almost physical experience of diving in and resurfacing to catch my breath. I think of these paintings as permeable surfaces. In a metaphorical way, they are questioning the idea of the skin, which is exposing you to the world at the same time as it is protecting you from it. To some extent, producing and showing paintings could be considered a healing process, not only for the artist but also for the people seeing them, as an instance of taking care.
As you mentioned the idea of the skin, this takes us to the title of the exhibition —Häutung. This notion of skinning seems to resonate on so many levels with your artistic practice, with the paintings themselves and their aesthetic impression, as well as with your work process and development as an artist. How do you relate the idea of Häutung to your practice?
As my work is concerned with the process itself, it is strongly connected to the concept of metamorphosis. For me, the process of printing relates to a continuous struggle to come to terms with the perpetual evolution and movement in which we are all implicated. Printing or imprinting are ancestral practices, ways to experience or own existence, for instance through handprints in stone or fossils. I had already produced prints with different found objects from the environment when I found the fishing net. It reminded me of fish skin itself—an interesting paradox, that the net mimics that which it is supposed to catch. The hammock is also a curious object that is allowing us to lie down and rest in nature, precisely by protecting us from the natural ground. Eventually, I moved away from natural elements towards tools that humans produced in order to enter into a conversation with what is called “nature”. In many ways, this is very similar to artistic practice, and to my artistic practice in particular. Both the hammock and the net are permeable and ambivalent between controlling or letting go. And once I have printed them on canvas, they become something else altogether and take on a second life.
The paintings offer a very immersive experience. Initially, I thought of them as cartographies but, rather than looking onto a landscape from above, they seem to draw one into the landscape, into a submerged perspective. Agnes Martin once said that, to her, painting was like going into the field of vision, as you would cross an empty beach to look at the ocean. I consider this to be a very fitting description of these paintings, an invitation to look beyond them.
This is one of my favourite quotes of Agnes Martin and it resonates strongly with me. Of course, the paintings have a physicality and presence but I hope that they, in a way, disappear behind themselves. Each painting holds a space that not only unfolds spatially but also temporally. Perhaps it is for this reason that I always work in series, to express a certain rhythm, a perpetual movement or evolution. While each painting is a work in and of itself, it is also part of a larger whole, of a score or sentence. In the exhibition at gr_und, I will continuously change the composition and chronology of the paintings so that the viewing experience will be different at every visit to the gallery. In this respect, my curatorial approach correlates with my artistic practice as they are both concerned with the process itself and with keeping this process alive. This might come out of a fear of completion and stasis, but I want to think of it as an openness towards fluidity. To me, fluidity is a good word to indicate a method of working rooted in humility, in acceptance of incompleteness, and a sense of reverence for the material at hand, for the unfolding process, for the shared space, and for the other artists and their work. Fluidity as a working method is especially important in collaborative projects, and the experience of curating the group show Off Water was exemplary in this respect. It felt very rewarding to work with all these artists, all women artists, I should say.
As I understand it, the notion of fluidity that you suggest is correlated with a tendency towards permeability. Would you agree?
Certainly. However, it is not only a poetic concept but born out of necessity, too. Over the last few years, as I have been developing my working method, I realised that it is impossible for me to control the entire production process. I had to allow myself, after setting the framework for production in the studio and performing my part, to give in to the process and leave the painting as it was taking form. This is where my sense of humility and reverence for the material and process comes from and, at the same time, where I arrived at a form of liberation or emancipation in my working method. I freed myself from any expectations I might have had towards the working method and developed a production process that most closely aligns with my perception of these paintings. For the first time, I feel that the way I am working corresponds with the ideas I am thinking through. And perhaps this is where the impression of maturity arises that you mentioned at the beginning.
In the exhibition at gr_und, you not only present this series of largescale paintings but also two sculptures and a textile work that you bring together in a material assemblage. In contrast to the paintings in whose expansiveness one can get lost, these sculptural pieces are very condensed and highly plastic.
In fact, the two sculptures are saddles that I found at a stable. Similar to the fishing net and the hammock, the saddle is a tool produced by humans in order to communicate with nature. The saddles were lying upside down on the floor of the stable and I was surprised to find that they looked like flowers or vulvas. Even though the common notion of horse riding and the dimension of power and control associated with it are rather masculine, when turned upside down I found the saddles to be very feminine objects. I was intrigued by how the quality and meaning of an object could be shifted simply by looking at it from a different perspective. The same shift happens when an object enters an art space where the saddles are now installed on a wall as art pieces. Strictly speaking, they are not sculptures because I did not produce them but they become sculptural through their exhibition. And I present them in an assemblage with a piece of fabric that I found on the street when I first moved to Berlin. I cut it in rhombus-shaped pieces echoing the pattern of the fishing net and the hammock and sowed it back together. The rhombus is a symbol for femininity in many cultures as well as the basic form of a mandorla which is used in Christian iconography to frame religious figures. As part of the exhibition, the fabric with its rhombic pattern might be associated with a cocoon or discarded skin. But it is very important for me that each piece in the exhibition is open to manifold interpretations and invokes different associations that are all valid.
I cannot help but think of Louise Bourgeois again, not only her insistence on the autonomy of the artwork in interpretation but also her process of doing, undoing, and redoing that you have just described. The fact that this work of doing, undoing, and redoing is never done, that there is never a moment of completion—does that not feel exhausting?
It is exhausting and yet essential that there is something that remains unresolved and that drives the process onward through continuous questions. To evoke Agnes Martin’s words again, she defines the artist as someone who wants to quit everyday but continues anyway. It is exhausting at the same time as it is healing. There are these moments when I return to the studio and remove the nets from the painting to see how it has taken form—and to find that something has happened that resembles an answer or an end to a sentence.
HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE
Joséphine Dupuy Chavannat, Heureux qui comme Ulysse, 2018
Une fenêtre ouverte sur la mer, un horizon au loin qui se dessine au moment où une ile émerge des flots. Ulysse. Dix ans d'errance pour atteindre sa partie. Dix ans de pleurs, d'espoir et d'aventures. Alizée Gazeau retrace le périple d'Ulysse, dont l'odyssée ne peut se lire sans l'omniprésence de la mer. Espace poétique, Ulysse la traverse pour se rendre vers un au-delà. Bouleversé, malmené, mais aussi transporté par les courants, l'état mental de l'Inventif se transpose au gré des états de l'eau. Oscillant entre les flots tourbillonnants, tels des champs de batailles, et le calme saisissant et serein des eaux marines, Ulysse est paradoxalement hanté et impatient par l'idée du retour. L'artiste interprète la polyphonie de la mer par l'intermédiaire de formes et de couleurs qui se répètent inlassablement d'un tableau à l'autre. On y retrouve ainsi l'île, le vaisseau, l'oubli, la patrie... comme on rencontre certains vers homériques d'un chant à l'autre, notamment le déchirant « Nous reprimes alors la mer avec tristesse » qui rythme sans relâche le récit. Alizée Gazeau capture ces éléments de l'épopée, les assemble et les éclate. Ils semblent alors suspendus sur la toile. Pourtant fixés à leur support, ils sont attirés par l'espace de la fenêtre qui s'ouvre sur une potentielle recomposition, un destin qui ne serait pas figé. Ensorcelé par son désir de retour, captivé par un horizon encore incertain, Ulysse tente, malgré les aléas des dieux, d'être maître du sort de la fin de sa vie. Composer les éléments avec maîtrise et liberté, voilà ce qui pourrait être le fil conducteur de cette série. Etape par étape, ile après ile, Ulysse reconquiert son royaume. Itape par étape, forme après forme, l'artiste révèle ce qui, pour elle, relève du processus créatif. Les draps tâchés de peinture et de térébenthine apposés sur la toile sont une manière pour l'artiste de sanctifier ce parcours initiatique. Elle ne se cache pas de ce qui relève de l'intime du peintre, comme le héros odysséen ne se cache pas de ses pleurs. Les formes associées aux éléments du récit, des larmes à l'oiseau, revêtissent progressivement une fonction musicale, si l'on entend l'Odyssée comme un chant homérique conté oralement, des aèdes antiques à Monteverdi. Les lignes d'horizon se transforment peu à peu en partition, alors que chaque élément pictural s'apparente aux notes d'une portée qui ne demande qu'à être activée par un ou plusieurs musiciens. Et s'il s'agit d'interpréter graphiquement le chant d'Homère, il est aussi profondément question, comme l'entend Gilles Deleuze, de «capter des forces», de poser un accord, chercher un équilibre pictural, musical, chromatique et poétique...
LEAVING A MORE RADICAL TRACE
by Christina-Marie Lümen, 2024
Alizée Gazeau’s artistic practice is based on techniques of printing and re-collage. Her often large-scale paintings are created by placing nets formerly used for fishing on the canvas and imbuing it with paint. Once dried, the net is taken away while the imprint remains on the surface.
Structures like skin, reptiles in particular, parchment, maps, landscapes. The paintings seem to contain ages, adding an explicit element of time to the works and their reception. One may get lost – caught – in them. The material and its visual quality are essential to the work; however, it gets abstracted through the process and opens gateways to other worlds.
For Gazeau, the physical aspect is central to her practice: the wet nets imbued with colour are heavy, she moves and tears them around, ribs the canvas with paint to arrive at the point when the positioning and density seem right. It is a process of intuitive choice, deliberate actions and sensual decisions.
This movement between control and letting go forms a fundamental part in Gazeau’s work. Her paintings, in particular, are an exploration of the decisive power of the sensual: how far can I take it; how far can it take me? The medium in form of canvas, wood, and paint, becomes a third on which this game is manifested.
Subsequently, the works have an essentially physical effect: The eye follows the traces and marks, and this movement immediately takes over to the body. The size of the canvas adds up to this effect; often presented unframed, the lengths of canvas – shawls – seem to invite and wrap the viewer. Her paintings, as Gazeau describes it, experiment with a sense of depth to create an immersive experience. The feeling of immersion is created both through the size of and movement on the canvas by which the surface seems to dissolve.1
The images contain stories, tales of ships and animals, sea routes and deserts, ashes and hieroglyphs. Gazeau is a storyteller. In her conversation, writing, and painting, the artist transforms episodes into an engaging narrative. Just as she wants to feel – perhaps desperately –, vis-à-vis a world increasingly losing its sensual affect, she wants the viewer to feel.
The artist completed a double degree in art history and philosophy before concentrating on her artistic practice. Her studies focused on the Romantic notion of the Sublime and the relation between nature and abstraction. One of her academic writings evaluates Hans Hartung’s depictions of meteorological phenomena as a Romantic attempt to feel nature, instead of simply observing it.2 The text reads like an anticipation of her own work: Gazeau describes Hartung’s artistic development as instinctive and natural, his practice as a search through trial and error, resulting in astonishment and constant surprise.3 Similarly, Gazeau’ practice is intuitive and stands in close relation with its material and technique. The works embody – quite literally – natural processes, bear and are traces of something which happened before. The material, next to its spatial existence, takes on a temporal and subsequently spiritual layer.
Transformation. The artist repeatedly refers to water in her work. Next to the material references in form of the nets and the water used during the process of painting, Gazeau emphasizes its conceptual dimension as an idea of fluidity. This fluidity, as the artist points out, is characteristic of the present as a moment of and in transformation. Her works flow between solid and soft, monumental and intimate, precise and vague. Ultimately, they might transform the viewer.
The idea of transformation is also central to Gazeau’s sculptures. The artist combines saddles and glass buoys into abstracted, aesthetic objects. The decontextualization rips away the original function of the objects, emphasizing their formal aspects instead. The shapes recall butterflies, breasts, and blossoms. The sculptures manifest an idea of metamorphosis; tools becoming animals and flowers, male (saddle) becoming female (womb, butterfly), the profane becoming sacred.
Starting the body of work, Gazeau was “intrigued by how the quality and meaning of an object could be shifted simply by looking at it from a different perspective.”4 The approach and aesthetic refer to Surrealism and the objet trouvé. The objects pose somewhere between Louise Bourgeois and Meret Oppenheimer, combining ideas of the female and motherhood with a mysterious vein. After living and working in Paris for most of her life, Gazeau moved to Berlin in 2020. With the move, as the artist states, her work got more conceptual and layered. When the intuitive was formerly directed towards a primarily visual result, it is now being employed in a more deliberate and reflective manner. The artist introduces French poetics into German concept; or vice versa.
The opposition points to the one between control and letting go, the moment of transformation and fluidity. In her writing, the artist repeatedly investigated the concept of the Sublime. If for the Romantics, the Sublime arose from the experience of escaping danger and pain in a natural environment, Gazeau describes it as the distance between oneself and one’s fear towards the catastrophe. Through her work, Gazeau aims to deconstruct this sense of the Sublime and the fear within. She perceives her practice rather as a conversation, a reducing of distances by going beyond.
“We tell artists to think and feel for us. We need art to understand our present; and to help us accept the mystery.”
In a technological environment, Gazeau thus proposes a New, Post Sublime. Natures, as she sees it, is not the relevant reference for humankind anymore. Instead, she offers visual stories to feel; contemporary metamorphoses of material, cartographies of time. The act is comforting as a mother, playful as a child, sincere as a scholar – sensual traces, ambiguously beautiful and strangely familiar.
1. The author investigated the concept of immersion in relation to the reception of painting; the text will be published in spring 2024.
2. Alizée Gazeau: Hans Hartung. Les œuvres météorologiques, des instants romantiques ?, under the supervision of Emmanuel Pernoud, Paris I, 2014.
3. See Gazeau, Hans Hartung. Les œuvres météorologiques, pp. 6 ff.
4. Unpublished conversation between Alizée Gazeau and the author in December 2023.
AN END TO A SENTENCE
a conversation between Alizée Gazeau and Lisa Deml, Häutung, 2023
Lisa Deml: The impression that settled on my mind when I first came to see this series of painting in your studio was that of maturity. To me, these paintings are a very clear and condensed expression of different lines of thought and experimentation that you have been following for several years. They seem to have grown through practice and now coincide with your first solo exhibition. How is this exhibition situated in your artistic development, what does it mean to mark this point in time?
Alizée Gazeau: I consider this exhibition as an opportunity to end a first sentence. I invoke the notion of a sentence, but you could also say it marks the end of a first journey. My work is concerned with process itself and I have the feeling that I could develop the same idea further indefinitely. In this sense, the exhibition at gr_und is also a challenge for me to put an end to this process. Even though I would never say that this process is finished, I have reached a point when I can let it settle down and let go. When the work enters into an exhibition space, it does not belong to me anymore, it is not about me anymore—the work has to speak for itself, as Louise Bourgeois would insist. She says that an artwork has nothing to do with the artist; it has to stand for itself. I find this credo helpful to navigate the tension between the intimacy inherent in artworks and the extrovert nature of exhibitions.
This is not only your first solo exhibition but also the first time that you work in painting and to this scale. How did you arrive at this discipline and format of 200 x 300 cm? Would you say that it is the result of a measure of trust and confidence you have gained in the process?
I felt the need to not only engage the hand and the eye in the work process but to involve the whole body. It is a very physical process as I work on the floor and pull and place the hammock and the net on the canvas. And it is not only a physical experience for me in the production process but also for the viewer in front of the paintings. I wanted the paintings to be bigger than us, so that they create an immersive sensation that exceeds the human body.
Given the expansive format of these paintings, how do you approach the canvas to begin with?
The paintings make me as much as I make them. It is a conversation between me and the various materials involved in the process, the canvas, the net, the hammock, colour and water. With these components, I create an environment, a framework within which the painting can emerge. Of course, the work process is different with every painting, there are different layers and rhythms at play each time. But what characterises my process is that I organise a situation on canvas and then leave the studio while the painting takes form. I return to it when everything has dried and I can remove the hammock and net to discover how they have impressed themselves on the surface. I very much enjoy this moment of revelation because it is often surprising. It is almost like a laboratory where I arrange the experimental setup and observe how it develops on its own. It is a delicate balance between controlling and letting go. While the first part of the work process is determined by my decisions and choices, the second part is beyond my command. So, even though this series of works are undeniably paintings, I would not call myself a painter.
What I find remarkable about your artistic practice is that all the components and materials that are involved in the production process retain a certain degree of agency and autonomy. This becomes most pronounced in the way in which you interact with the surface of the canvas. I know that you have given much thought to the notion of the surface—could you talk about what the surface is to you?
Of course, factually, paintings are two-dimensional, they have a flat surface. But I try to expand this understanding and to experiment with a sense of depth in my paintings. I want to create a sensation of the paintings coming towards you as you face them and dive into them. To me, this is also a reflection on what it takes to be an artist. At some point, I questioned myself and whether I am ready to be an artist or not. And an answer to this question is related to being ready to dive, to venture beyond the surface, and to confront memories and feelings of doubt and darkness. Producing these paintings was an almost physical experience of diving in and resurfacing to catch my breath. I think of these paintings as permeable surfaces. In a metaphorical way, they are questioning the idea of the skin, which is exposing you to the world at the same time as it is protecting you from it. To some extent, producing and showing paintings could be considered a healing process, not only for the artist but also for the people seeing them, as an instance of taking care.
As you mentioned the idea of the skin, this takes us to the title of the exhibition —Häutung. This notion of skinning seems to resonate on so many levels with your artistic practice, with the paintings themselves and their aesthetic impression, as well as with your work process and development as an artist. How do you relate the idea of Häutung to your practice?
As my work is concerned with the process itself, it is strongly connected to the concept of metamorphosis. For me, the process of printing relates to a continuous struggle to come to terms with the perpetual evolution and movement in which we are all implicated. Printing or imprinting are ancestral practices, ways to experience or own existence, for instance through handprints in stone or fossils. I had already produced prints with different found objects from the environment when I found the fishing net. It reminded me of fish skin itself—an interesting paradox, that the net mimics that which it is supposed to catch. The hammock is also a curious object that is allowing us to lie down and rest in nature, precisely by protecting us from the natural ground. Eventually, I moved away from natural elements towards tools that humans produced in order to enter into a conversation with what is called “nature”. In many ways, this is very similar to artistic practice, and to my artistic practice in particular. Both the hammock and the net are permeable and ambivalent between controlling or letting go. And once I have printed them on canvas, they become something else altogether and take on a second life.
The paintings offer a very immersive experience. Initially, I thought of them as cartographies but, rather than looking onto a landscape from above, they seem to draw one into the landscape, into a submerged perspective. Agnes Martin once said that, to her, painting was like going into the field of vision, as you would cross an empty beach to look at the ocean. I consider this to be a very fitting description of these paintings, an invitation to look beyond them.
This is one of my favourite quotes of Agnes Martin and it resonates strongly with me. Of course, the paintings have a physicality and presence but I hope that they, in a way, disappear behind themselves. Each painting holds a space that not only unfolds spatially but also temporally. Perhaps it is for this reason that I always work in series, to express a certain rhythm, a perpetual movement or evolution. While each painting is a work in and of itself, it is also part of a larger whole, of a score or sentence. In the exhibition at gr_und, I will continuously change the composition and chronology of the paintings so that the viewing experience will be different at every visit to the gallery. In this respect, my curatorial approach correlates with my artistic practice as they are both concerned with the process itself and with keeping this process alive. This might come out of a fear of completion and stasis, but I want to think of it as an openness towards fluidity. To me, fluidity is a good word to indicate a method of working rooted in humility, in acceptance of incompleteness, and a sense of reverence for the material at hand, for the unfolding process, for the shared space, and for the other artists and their work. Fluidity as a working method is especially important in collaborative projects, and the experience of curating the group show Off Water was exemplary in this respect. It felt very rewarding to work with all these artists, all women artists, I should say.
As I understand it, the notion of fluidity that you suggest is correlated with a tendency towards permeability. Would you agree?
Certainly. However, it is not only a poetic concept but born out of necessity, too. Over the last few years, as I have been developing my working method, I realised that it is impossible for me to control the entire production process. I had to allow myself, after setting the framework for production in the studio and performing my part, to give in to the process and leave the painting as it was taking form. This is where my sense of humility and reverence for the material and process comes from and, at the same time, where I arrived at a form of liberation or emancipation in my working method. I freed myself from any expectations I might have had towards the working method and developed a production process that most closely aligns with my perception of these paintings. For the first time, I feel that the way I am working corresponds with the ideas I am thinking through. And perhaps this is where the impression of maturity arises that you mentioned at the beginning.
In the exhibition at gr_und, you not only present this series of largescale paintings but also two sculptures and a textile work that you bring together in a material assemblage. In contrast to the paintings in whose expansiveness one can get lost, these sculptural pieces are very condensed and highly plastic.
In fact, the two sculptures are saddles that I found at a stable. Similar to the fishing net and the hammock, the saddle is a tool produced by humans in order to communicate with nature. The saddles were lying upside down on the floor of the stable and I was surprised to find that they looked like flowers or vulvas. Even though the common notion of horse riding and the dimension of power and control associated with it are rather masculine, when turned upside down I found the saddles to be very feminine objects. I was intrigued by how the quality and meaning of an object could be shifted simply by looking at it from a different perspective. The same shift happens when an object enters an art space where the saddles are now installed on a wall as art pieces. Strictly speaking, they are not sculptures because I did not produce them but they become sculptural through their exhibition. And I present them in an assemblage with a piece of fabric that I found on the street when I first moved to Berlin. I cut it in rhombus-shaped pieces echoing the pattern of the fishing net and the hammock and sowed it back together. The rhombus is a symbol for femininity in many cultures as well as the basic form of a mandorla which is used in Christian iconography to frame religious figures. As part of the exhibition, the fabric with its rhombic pattern might be associated with a cocoon or discarded skin. But it is very important for me that each piece in the exhibition is open to manifold interpretations and invokes different associations that are all valid.
I cannot help but think of Louise Bourgeois again, not only her insistence on the autonomy of the artwork in interpretation but also her process of doing, undoing, and redoing that you have just described. The fact that this work of doing, undoing, and redoing is never done, that there is never a moment of completion—does that not feel exhausting?
It is exhausting and yet essential that there is something that remains unresolved and that drives the process onward through continuous questions. To evoke Agnes Martin’s words again, she defines the artist as someone who wants to quit everyday but continues anyway. It is exhausting at the same time as it is healing. There are these moments when I return to the studio and remove the nets from the painting to see how it has taken form—and to find that something has happened that resembles an answer or an end to a sentence.
HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE
Joséphine Dupuy Chavannat, Heureux qui comme Ulysse, 2018
Une fenêtre ouverte sur la mer, un horizon au loin qui se dessine au moment où une ile émerge des flots. Ulysse. Dix ans d'errance pour atteindre sa partie. Dix ans de pleurs, d'espoir et d'aventures. Alizée Gazeau retrace le périple d'Ulysse, dont l'odyssée ne peut se lire sans l'omniprésence de la mer. Espace poétique, Ulysse la traverse pour se rendre vers un au-delà. Bouleversé, malmené, mais aussi transporté par les courants, l'état mental de l'Inventif se transpose au gré des états de l'eau. Oscillant entre les flots tourbillonnants, tels des champs de batailles, et le calme saisissant et serein des eaux marines, Ulysse est paradoxalement hanté et impatient par l'idée du retour. L'artiste interprète la polyphonie de la mer par l'intermédiaire de formes et de couleurs qui se répètent inlassablement d'un tableau à l'autre. On y retrouve ainsi l'île, le vaisseau, l'oubli, la patrie... comme on rencontre certains vers homériques d'un chant à l'autre, notamment le déchirant « Nous reprimes alors la mer avec tristesse » qui rythme sans relâche le récit. Alizée Gazeau capture ces éléments de l'épopée, les assemble et les éclate. Ils semblent alors suspendus sur la toile. Pourtant fixés à leur support, ils sont attirés par l'espace de la fenêtre qui s'ouvre sur une potentielle recomposition, un destin qui ne serait pas figé. Ensorcelé par son désir de retour, captivé par un horizon encore incertain, Ulysse tente, malgré les aléas des dieux, d'être maître du sort de la fin de sa vie. Composer les éléments avec maîtrise et liberté, voilà ce qui pourrait être le fil conducteur de cette série. Etape par étape, ile après ile, Ulysse reconquiert son royaume. Itape par étape, forme après forme, l'artiste révèle ce qui, pour elle, relève du processus créatif. Les draps tâchés de peinture et de térébenthine apposés sur la toile sont une manière pour l'artiste de sanctifier ce parcours initiatique. Elle ne se cache pas de ce qui relève de l'intime du peintre, comme le héros odysséen ne se cache pas de ses pleurs. Les formes associées aux éléments du récit, des larmes à l'oiseau, revêtissent progressivement une fonction musicale, si l'on entend l'Odyssée comme un chant homérique conté oralement, des aèdes antiques à Monteverdi. Les lignes d'horizon se transforment peu à peu en partition, alors que chaque élément pictural s'apparente aux notes d'une portée qui ne demande qu'à être activée par un ou plusieurs musiciens. Et s'il s'agit d'interpréter graphiquement le chant d'Homère, il est aussi profondément question, comme l'entend Gilles Deleuze, de «capter des forces», de poser un accord, chercher un équilibre pictural, musical, chromatique et poétique...