A million ways to say no

Transcription

magazine / archive / Matias Faldbakken | MOUSSE CONTEMPORARY ART MAGAZINE
11/25/11 12:59 PM
Matias Faldbakken, Untitled (Canvas #24), 2008
STANDARD (OSLO), Oslo
A million ways
to say no
by Luigi Fassi
Having emerged on the European scene in 2001 with his controversial novel The Coka Hola Company,
the first part of a ferocious trilogy about the public and private vices of Scandinavian society entitled
“Scandinavian Misantrophy”, Matias Faldbakken is now split between the international popularity of his
writing and the hermetic nature of his contemporary artwork. An innovative heir of Situationist
extremism, the Norwegian artist expresses a desire for rebellion as a total, dissolutive negation, combining
pop culture and nihilism, anarchy and conceptual precision.
http://www.moussemagazine.it/articolo.mm?id=10
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Let's start off by talking about your background. You gained international
recognition first as a novelist and writer and only afterwards as a visual artist,
although the two activities seem to be thematically related to each other in
your work. Did that happen by chance or did you simply start writing before
making art?
I studied fine art (at the Academy of Fine Art, Bergen, Norway and
Städelschule in Frankfurt am Main) but after finishing my education I was
completely disillusioned with working as an artist. Many of my art ideas were
language-based and I decided to knit them together into a narrative, then tried
to have it published by a mainstream publishing house. I had the idea that I
had more freedom to combine artsy elements with entertainment in a literary
format. And I guessed that the distribution was better and the audience more
heterogeneous when it came to literature. The book was eventually published
and I became known as a writer.
I'm interested in knowing how you deal with the discrepancy between your
books and your visual art. Your pieces as a visual artist are often hermetic and
require some background about your work to get into them, while the
narrative of your books opens up a direct critique of society that is accessible
to everyone. Do you try to follow different critical paths when writing and
making art, or do you just consider them two different expressions of the same
discourse?
Both my art practice and my writing have been about negation and negativistic
strategies: hate, misanthropy and so on. My books are deliberately easy to read
and entertaining, whereas my art is, as you say, more hermetic and mute. I
think one of the qualities of visual art is to be a public concern and at the same
time more or less inaccessible to the general public. I have an equal interest in
entertainment's ability to enter the public imagination on a bigger scale. I use
my books to "popularize" some of my ideas, to see how they float in the
marketplace, and I use my art more as a tool for doing silent, negativistic
gestures without any intention of convincing, impressing or communicating
with an audience.
Due to the translations your books have had in recent years, I would imagine
you have received a lot of feedback, not only from critics but also from
normal readers of different ages and educational backgrounds. I'm curious
whether the same thing has happened in the art world, and which of the two
systems (literature/visual art) you have felt more challenged and inspired by
up till now.
If I get feedback in connection to my art it is always through other artists,
professionals or institutions (by getting invited to a show and so forth). The
feedback on my literature is much more extensive and more varied; I get to
read everything from hate blogs to fan mail from teenagers. There is also a
certain academic interest in my books, several papers and dissertations have
been written about them and so on. But as I said, I don't make visual art with
the same intentions as I have when I write - although the same themes run
through both fields. There are a lot of advantages with being in the more
withdrawn place of visual art and a lot of disadvantages with having your
product and ideas spread all over the place - and that is why I am doing both.
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It's quite interesting this way in which you split up your activity for two
different sorts of audiences with different expectations and levels of
investment. It seems to me that today there is a clear gap between artists
engaged in real critical practices and artists trying instead to unsettle and
disrupt the dominant meanings in very predictable ways which turn out to be
just a reaffirmation of the same discourse they were apparently struggling
against. How concerned are you with these issues?
I have the feeling, in part because of what you said earlier, that being engaged
on a more popular level as a writer helps you keep your critical practice
grounded in a truly genuine and authentic terrain.
Artistic or activistic provocation was kind of a theme for me in my first two
novels. The books talk about provocation as a tool and at the same time they
are tongue-in-cheek ‘provocative' in their themes and execution, testing out
the tools they are talking about. The dialectics between unsettling "truths"
revealed by critical practice and the means for disseminating them is always
interesting. There is a discrepancy between the neurotic, self-reflective
academic/bureaucratic artist with limited selfconfidence and a lack of
audience, and the no-holds-barred and not-too-researchy show-and-mediaoriented hands-on type of artist. The difference between the two is always
funny. The art seminarist and the more public wild-card artist both seem to be
problematic figures, and art in the hands of both of them is more often than
not unlikeable. I am a fan of art's unlikeability, and that's why I borrow a bit
from both.
Matias Faldbakken, Newspaper Ad # 14, 2007
courtesy: the artist and STANDARD (OSLO), Oslo
Some critics wrote about anarchism in your work. To me it seems in some
cases you're stretching anarchism to the point where it becomes very close to
nihilism, as in One Spray Can Escapist, where the same word sprayed over
and over again on a wall becomes totally illegible, or in the Newspaper stacks
where the content is made unrecognizable through multiple scanning. In your
artist's book Not Made Visible it's clear how you're interested in articulating
your work in a way close to the Situationist approach of negating culture as
the only way to preserve its meaning. In this respect, you're dealing more with
harsh sarcasm than irony.
Indeed, my use of the term "anarchy" has been closely linked to a nihilist
fantasy of absolute freedom through total denial. Concerning the Situationists,
I am mostly interested in their strategies of withdrawal, rejection and general
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unwillingness, their distaste for everything that surrounded them. I have never
seen my work as ironic, rather sarcastic, and in relation to the books a bit
satirical perhaps. Dark and violent humour, yes. But ironic? No.
Your practice is all about linguistic tactics, disrupting the concept of the text
as a monolithic and stable whole, as when you write sentences in aluminium
electrical tape, making them become almost abstract and unrecognizable. In a
way, you've directed this practice of textual deconstruction at yourself as well,
like when you signed your first book as Abo Rasul, deleting your own
identity.
As mentioned earlier, the distinction between a language-based practice on the
one hand, and a visual, physical practice on the other has for me always been
followed by a conflict between a verbalized criticality and a more irrational
and non-verbal approach. The gesture of self-deletion is obvious when I
abstract my own verbal statements and make them illegible. I guess the space
between the stuff that makes sense and the stuff that is incomprehensible is the
space that interests me the most. The space between messages of almost
totalitarian regime simplicity and gestures of uncommunicative abstraction is
a space of potential, I think.
The sincerity of your practice to me emerges at its best in your refusal to point
to any solution or utopian direction. You don't take any precise stand. But I
wonder if you consider negation as a sort of utopian approach anyway. As
though negation could be the first step towards a possible change.
I guess my use of the word negation is partly a expressive formulation of a
worldview based on disappointment, and partly a way of believing in
maintaining potentiality through a negativistic approach. Something like my
friend Happy Tom's remodelled Obama campaign slogan: "No, we can!"
You're now exhibiting everywhere, getting more and more visibility, but
you're still based in Oslo, contributing to its emerging role as an art capital in
Europe. Have you ever felt the professional necessity to move somewhere
else? What do you think about the wave of Nordic artists who have moved to
Berlin in recent years?
To put it this way; I am not staying in Oslo for Oslo's sake. Even though there
is a scene here that is probably livelier and more internationally oriented now
than earlier, I still consider Oslo a good place to withdraw and to keep a
distance from the part of art life that I like the least; the professionalized
socialising and the businessy one-on-one interaction with other artists and
players. It's probably not an ingenious career move, but, on the other hand,
standing in the eye of the storm, waving your arms is not necessarily the final
solution either. I get to go here and there when I'm doing shows and I get my
fair share of art life then. I guess the life of the Scandinavians who have gone
to Berlin is good, probably far better than Oslo due to the cheap drinks and
lively atmosphere.
Recently you had the chance to do some significant shows in the United
States. How was it? Did you think your work was understood somehow
differently than in Europe?
I have no idea about the reception, but for me it makes sense to try and show
in an American context. A lot of my work has a Scandio-European take on
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American art and American (pop) culture. So, yes, I would really like to show
more in the States, just to learn more about the difference between an
American and a European interpretation. I'm having my first novel translated
into English now, too, and it will be funny to see how that goes. The way that
American language is working its way into Norwegian (and other Nordic or
European languages) is an underlying theme in all of the books at the
linguistic level. I'm really curious about how much of that will get lost when
translated into English.
One last thing. Does it still make sense to talk about "Nordic art", or was it
just a temporary phenomenon that inevitably had to be assimilated into the
international art system?
I've never been interested in Nordic art as a category. But I am interested in
Nordic mentalities and sensibilities and ways of life, which is partly why I'm
staying here. As I mentioned above, the American influence is very visible in
Scandinavia and at the same time we are cut off from Europe in a way. I like
the idea of Norway being isolated and at the same time without any real
identity. We just buy into whatever works for us. This duality is kind of
described in my latest novel Unfun - the setting is distinctly Norwegian but at
the same time the novel could take place anywhere.
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Matias Faldbakken, See You On The Front Page Of The Last Newspaper Those
To the top Motherfuckers Ever Print, 2005
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View of “Matias Faldbakken: Shocked into Abstraction,” 2009, National Museum of Art, Architecture, and Design, Oslo. Photo: Vegard Kleven.
Opposite page: Matias Faldbakken, Cultural Department (detail), 2006, acrylic paint on wall, dimensions variable.
1000 words
Matias Faldbakken
DIscusses “shocked into abstraction”
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Matias Faldbakken is a master
of the fine art of sucking all the air
out of the room. What room? Hard
to say exactly, but it seems to be
the space of modernity as seen
from the per spective of the
Western artist—that overworked
zone indelibly marked by issues of
abstraction not only in images and
artistic strategies but also among social and cognitive phenomena. A rich body
of literature suggests that if there is abstraction in art, it is because social
relations more generally have been rendered abstract—reduced to mere relations of exchange that are rendered increasingly obscure, thanks to the power
and fascination exerted by the mysterious phenomenon of the commodity. Or is
it because of a growing tendency toward conceptual abstraction, a tendency
related to the way in which digital technologies transform objects, experiences,
and sensations into pure information? Critical emphasis may shift a bit, depending on what type of artistic practice one is referring to, but the general idea is
that these are the basic conditions within which modern art operates, its specific space of thinking and experience.
With his exhibition “Shocked into Abstraction,” on view until September 20
at Oslo’s National Museum of Art, Architecture, and Design, and later this year at
Ikon Gallery in Birmingham, UK, Faldbakken enters this discursive space of
artistic and social abstraction from a position that can only be described as
cunningly faux-naïf. Reading like a tabloid headline, his title suggests that we
should once more identify with that historical moment when the insurmountable aporias of early modern life—the promise of progress and reason held
against the horrors of mass exploitation, violence, and rapidly increasing societal complexity—were enough to make any sane artist abandon all faith in the
ordinary business of representation.
More precisely, the title invites us to recall the German art historian Wilhelm
Worringer’s 1908 attempt to explain the stylistic tendencies of modern art in
psychological terms: In his view, artistic abstraction could only be explained by
shock, i.e., as the result of a sensual and intellectual severing of empathic
engagement with the world. Taking off from Worringer’s approach, Faldbakken’s
work in no way promotes abstraction as a viable critical artistic strategy
today. If anything, the artist presents it negatively—as a compromised, ghostly
form of hermeticism that can only be traced through a type of mind-set in
which abstraction is cognitively hardwired to impulses of violence, defilement, and transgression. This is why, with “Shocked into Abstraction,” he lets
his works remain right where the art handlers left them—a form of aggressive
nonengagement that is closer in spirit to adolescent misbehavior than to the
Zen-inspired letting go of personal taste typical of avant-garde models of
past decades. And this is also why
the various refusals to signify that
are articulated in the objects on
view—wall pieces made with packing tape; more or less illegible
tape writings on huge canvases;
silver spray-paint markings on
MDF boards or on the wall; blurred
scans of newspaper ads—are only
marginally associated with the complex languages of artistic abstraction. They
pass beyond or below the nuanced concerns of color theory and the engineering of sensation, the invention of radical form, the exploration of the properties
of media and those of various scientific, formal, and institutional languages.
In fact, it seems that what is really being evoked here is the paranoid or
nerdy mind-set of the extremist, for whom the world is reduced to a few big
categories interlinked through a simple binary logic—good and bad, us and
them, domination and subjection. What Faldbakken presents is, in other
words, the idea of an avant-garde gesture of refusal distilled to a kind of absurd
essence—an idea derived more from hearsay and Googling than from primary
sources. It is this radically reductivist and sensorially deprived version of
abstraction that is routinely subjected, by pundits and theorists alike, to a process of extrapolation that takes us beyond the increasingly indefinite contours
of “art,” so as to associate it with forms of extremism found outside the realm
of the culture industry proper. It is the us-versus-them attitude of the graffiti
vandal, the highway ghost rider driving at breakneck speed, the computer
hacker, the Taliban foot soldier scouring the streets of Kabul for illicit music
and videocassettes. These personae now appear as agonistic collaborators in
the production of artistic gestures whose main source of power is the shrunken
universe of the eternally misunderstood. Such a bleakly sardonic vision would
be very much in keeping, after all, with the sensibility of an artist who is also a
prolific writer and whose best-known literary work is a trio of novels titled
“Scandinavian Misanthropy.”
At the National Museum, the story Faldbakken tells is not about opening up
art to uncontrollable subcultural energies—to movements, groups, and perspectives traditionally excluded from the “museum” or from dominant culture.
Neither is it a celebration of the rebel, the outsider, or the bad-boy transgressor,
or of various types of attack on good form. Something about his project recalls
T. J. Clark’s dry remark, in his 1999 book Farewell to an Idea, concerning artworks that take up Georges Bataille’s concept of the informe: “They are no
kind of basis for conflict with, or criticism of, the bourgeoisie, which possesses
descriptions and practices far and away more powerful, because more differentiated, than anything modernism can come up with.” Seen as an entity,
Faldbakken’s work operates on a level where such a critique of modernism’s
september 2009
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subversive potential is already assumed—a far more perverse approach than
the informe itself. While this might appear to be a degree of capitulation bordering on nihilism, it should instead be seen as a particular kind of strategy
that is not easily transferred to the realm of good intentions. Essentially, his
works perform a repeated inscription—a sort of hyperinscription—of the very
generalities, the too big or undifferentiated concepts, that could be seen to subtend the space of modern art or “avant-garde practice.” It is, in particular, a
repeated inscription of the big concepts of depletion, loss, and negation—an
inscription of negativity spinning around itself so fast that the whole drama of the
avant-garde in the end comes down to a few tiny “cartoonish” (to use the artist’s
word) characters, as hilariously predictable in their operations as Tom and Jerry.
This, of course, is abstraction in its purest form. And nothing good, Faldbakken
To me, “Shocked into Abstraction” is sort of like an
absurdist play without exit: It’s this big production
that is all about holding back, about being almost
nonproductive. It’s my first solo museum exhibition,
so there was of course the question of how to conceive of such a show. I didn’t want it to seem like a
retrospective, but at the same time I didn’t want to
make all new works: I wanted, rather, to contextualize the new pieces by means of highlights from the
past four years. The solution, one that goes along
with the overall logic of my work, was to take seriously the generous invitation to exhibit in such a context, yet at the same time to somehow cut short the
positive vibe that comes with such an invitation by
more or less just dumping the stash—the material, the
artworks—in the museum, without much regard for
where it all would be placed or how it all would look.
Basically, I tried to let the works stand or hang where
the transportation people had placed them, as if the
premise of the exhibition were just to haul everything—the stuff from storage and the loaners and the
things from my studio—to the museum and get it in
the door. Once that was done, anything I did in the
museum space would be a bit arbitrary. This strategy
is linked to my general attempt to do things in a
really halfhearted way, to make halfheartedness the
core of my production, so to speak, as if very little
were at stake. And it is clear to me that the museum—
even if it’s a place where I might not want to spend
all my time—is the only institution that allows you
to work in such a manner. I cannot imagine any
other place where such a practice would be possible
and even appreciated. And so my work turns around
274
seems to say, can come of it. (If he recycles modernism’s obsession with negativity as a “social” universe replete with a number of familiar figures or agents,
this universe is still mainly presented to us as an aesthetic experience: the
sensation of an airless space with, as he puts it, no exit.) But this experience of
depletion, loss, and negation might give way to a form of rejection that has its
redeeming aspects. It may, for instance, produce some skepticism about certain
key mythologies of Western modernity—the self-punishing stories of a culture
formed by the losses of tradition, origin, God, meaning, man, self, community,
authenticity, connection, and so on. Ultimately, with “Shocked into Abstraction”
Faldbakken pushes us to ask whether abstraction really is the master trope of
the complex social formations named modernity—and if it is not time to invest
in a different, and more differentiated, set of descriptions.
—INA BLOM
People often tend to see all sorts
of subcultural or “underground”
fascinations or allegiances
in my work, but my approach
to such phenomena is based
on a doubt as to what the
underground could actually be.
It is hard to know what kind of
activity would be truly marginal,
what would be below zero, or
where things are really situated.
all the conflicts and ironies that come with the institutionalization of these kinds of strategies.
I think the packing-tape wall pieces are among the
most emblematic of this way of working. At first,
around 2008, they were based on the way in which
broken windows are taped together by store and
office managers: I would photograph and then remake
the kind of senseless abstractions that are created this
way. But I soon found that the link to vandalism
became too obvious, so I chose to drift into my own
kind of abstraction, just arranging strips of tape on
the wall really quickly and spontaneously. The
works are simply what you see: pieces of tape on the
wall. They are rewarding, somehow, on a visual level,
but at the same time they are completely throwaway
gestures and hard to take seriously as artworks. Still,
they get the full museum treatment when made in this
context: “We are going to measure this and describe it
and photograph it, and it will follow you for the rest
of your life.” I’m interested in almost cartoonish ideas
of abstraction and the relations between the cartoonish and the deadpan serious that you may find in, for
instance, the work of Ad Reinhardt. Or Wyndham
Lewis, for that matter. If one considers Reinhardt’s
image production as extremist, then the caricature
of the extremist is brought to the forefront in his
writing, but not necessarily in his cartoons.
Then there are the pieces that seem a bit more
worked out—the tiled walls, the kind you usually see
in subway tunnels or public restrooms, with more
or less successfully washed off graffiti markings that
can always still be seen in cracks between the tiles.
Here I wanted to make a kind of painting that was
really easy to pass by, one that signals, “Move on,
there’s nothing to see here.” A type of painting where
the quasi-vandalizing act of marking space—so prominent in so much modern painting—competes for
attention with the act of cleaning up and returning to
order, a painting that would stage some sort of collaboration between the vandal and the vandalized,
if you will. In painting, there is always the question
of what to put in and what to remove, but here it’s
as if painting were informed by a much more banal
and straightforward problem: How can we possibly
ARTFORUM
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Opposite page: Matias Faldbakken, Untitled (VHS Stack #2), 2009, VHS cassettes, dimensions variable. Photo: Vegard Kleven.
Above: View of “Matias Faldbakken: Shocked into Abstraction,” 2009, National Museum of Art, Architecture, and Design, Oslo. Photo: Vegard Kleven.
get rid of these violent markings and what they
represent? Cultural Department [2006]—a work that
replicates, directly on the wall, the splashed-paint
vandalism of the Palestinian Cultural Department’s
offices by Israeli soldiers—is a different but related
take on this theme. The Abstracted Car [2009] is
another work that places a sign of equivalence
between destruction and abstraction. However, there
is no underlying story here—just a car that has been
burned to a dysfunctional carcass and that has then
been named “abstract.” The whole point was taking
an object that would immediately have all kinds of
dramatic political connotations and then emptying
it of all such things, ending up with what is essentially a rather vapid formal gesture.
People often tend to see all sorts of subcultural or
“underground” fascinations or allegiances in my
work, but my approach to such phenomena is based
on a doubt as to what the underground could actually
be. It is hard to know what kind of activity would be
truly marginal, what would be below zero, or where
things are really situated. I think a lot of my work,
in fact, normalizes the transactions that are already
taking place between different fields. To take one
example: My video with the girl wearing sandals
whose feet pump the brake pedal of a car, Untitled
(Pedal Pumping) [2009], made with Lars Brekke, was
first placed on YouTube, where it got ten thousand
views in no time, supposedly by the car-pedal-fetishist
underground. I don’t know what you would have to
do to get ten thousand people to come and see an
abstract painting in such a short time. In the end, I’m
more interested in the mechanisms of extremism and
the homologies that might be traced between the
mute, passive, good-for-nothing artwork and the
kind of really desperate actions that are products of
various types of extremism—it is simply a more natural connection for me to make than between high
and low, above- and underground, and so on.
I guess I am trying to map out the affinity between
the exceptional and the normative—or to bring out
the interaction between the two. Art history is of
course full of various types of attempts at the extreme,
and I suppose my work turns around the tension
between extremist impulses and forms of freedom
and the control over, or musealization of, extremism
that takes place in the name of the same institution.
More specifically, you could perhaps say I work with
the highly ambivalent responses to the spectacle and
the spectacular that can be traced in and through
various cultural transactions—i.e., the many situations in which the extremist, or artistic, response
would be to try to delete or negate or subvert the
spectacular. My remake of the “educational sculpture” of the Taliban—the roadside pole around
which they had mounted videotape pulled out of
cassettes as a sort of public monument to forbidden
imagery—would be one example. I continually seek
out icons of the nonspectacular, and I am particularly
interested in the many cases in which such attacks on
the spectacle still somehow tend to end up in the
realm of the spectacle.
I know of course that I’m handling huge generalizations here, but that is somehow also the point: I
allow obscure details to become representative of
the wildest generalizations—and vice versa. This is
an aspect of the halfhearted approach that you can
also find in my writing, even though I keep that
strictly separate from my visual-art productions.
There is a point at which working with way too big
words and terms, a completely unnuanced, generalized outlook, comes to represent a particular kind
of existential conditioning—one that ultimately
results in a totally nerdy, introverted, pedantic, and
abstracted product or attitude. Maybe it is a response
to the realization that most complexes are, in the
end, too big for anyone to survey.
—Matias Faldbakken
september 2009
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Printing - Matias Faldbakken - Art in America
12/3/11 3:04 PM
Close Window
MATIAS FALDBAKKEN
5/11/10
GITI NOURBAKHSCH
APR 30 – MAY 5, 2010
by nicolas ceccaldi
In his 1961 essay "Un nouveau réalisme en sculpture," critic Pierre Restany recounted an afternoon spent in a scrap yard with his
friend the sculptor César, scrutinizing the work of an hydraulic pump as it crushed cars, ovens, trucks, and bicycles into compact
bales of folded metal. When the Viscountess of Noailles gave the sculptor her new Zil, a Soviet luxury car and the only one in Paris
at the time, he used the same technology to compress it to a fourth of its original volume. César's compressions spoke to the
expressive beauty and heavy symbolism of debris in post-industrial society; a discourse that never really gave in to the sexy,
reifying violence of the hydraulic pump.
In his exhibition "An alpha disguised as a beta," Matias Faldbakken's compressed sculptures at Giti Nourbakhsch might be the
stylistic antithesis of César's messy realism. Discharged of their function and content, empty newspaper racks are squashed
together in three bales of nine, ten and two, bending at mid-level under the tight clench of industrial straps. The sculptures are
black, silver and filiform, and seem to stumble across the ascetic gallery space like emaciated models dressed in Dior Homme:
vulnerable, but cheerfully aware of their own desirability on the luxury market.
On the opposite wall, behind a partition, 10 photocopies are framed, each showing the same newspaper photograph of five seated
men taped to a white background. Each varies minutely by cropping and the application of tape the same thrill with laconic seriality
that haunts and Faldbakken's output. On the gallery's second floor, the room was filled with a stock of white plastic bags: the first
few were framed, others overlayed and taped directly to the wall, while the rest left as a pile by the door. Each reads "THE ZZZZZ,"
printed in black Helvetica. Scribbled acronyms, obliterated words, and black marker strokes deface most bags, sketching out a
disarmingly unambiguous vernacular of nihilism: from language to chatter, chatter to babble, and babble to confusion.
Faldbakken's delivery is deliberately crude, stylized such that the installation appears to have occurred according to depressive
gravitational pull, in the same way that the news racks were carelesly dumped across the floor. The artist was once quoted
describing a feeling of being "upset because there's nothing to be upset about." When negation folds on itself, it splits and blurs and
ceases to operate dialectically, orwith clear motives. The compressed news racks could have resulted from the violence of overzealous storage-space managers, or a disgruntled caretaker. Either way, the works belong to a system of administration and
maintenance, one in which any perverted negative always a distorted positive affirmation.
find this article online: http://www.artinamericamagazine.com/reviews/matias-faldbakken/
http://www.artinamericamagazine.com/reviews/matias-faldbakken/print/
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nut Hamsun’s Hunger depicts one of modern fiction’s
most haunting portrayals of life as an artist: a nameless protagonist wanders the streets of nineteenth-century Kristiania with little to show for his creative efforts
but a dwindling pencil and a series of rejected manuscripts. As the novel (and the artist’s last candle) progresses, a position as a ship-hand becomes his last vague
hope for survival, and so the resigned artist boards the
ship, leaving his work and the distant comforts of the
city behind him as the boat casts off from the shore.
The means of subsistence and conditions of production available to artists in Norway have improved in
the hundred or so years since Hamsun wrote this novel.
And, thanks in part to the discovery of oil beneath its
North Sea, artists living in Kristiania – now Oslo – have
the broad support of a funding body unlike any outside of Scandinavia.
As in other countries in Europe, Norwegian artists
are able to apply for exhibition, publication and individual support. But the funding that artists living in
Norway receive from the Arts Council Norway is considerable even by European standards. The resources
at the Department of Culture funded Arts Council are
so large that they have formed a super-slick management team called Office for Contemporary Art (OCA)
in cooperation with the Department of Foreign affairs.
The OCA operates as something of a filter, and a PR
agency for Norwegian artists. Because of its funding
allocations and subsidy distribution for residencies and
exhibitions abroad, the OCA can act as a powerful ally
for artists who want their work to attain international
visibility. To an outsider it would appear that artists
here treat one another with relative care and respect,
SPIKE 29 — 2011
Knut Hamsuns »Hunger« zeichnet eines der bewegendsten modernen Romanporträts eines Künstlerlebens: Ein
namenloser Protagonist zieht durch Kristianias Straßen
des 19. Jahrhunderts. Mit nicht mehr als einem immer kürzer werdenden Bleistift und einer Reihe von abgelehnten
Manuskripten als Beweis für seine kreativen Anstrengungen. Je weiter der Roman voranschreitet (und die letzte
Kerze des Künstlers abbrennt), desto mehr wird ein Job
als Schiffsarbeiter zu seiner letzten Hoffnung. Also geht
der resignierende Künstler aufs Schiff und lässt sein Werk
und die Annehmlichkeiten der Stadt auf, als das Boot aus
dem Hafen läuft. Seit Hamsun vor etwa hundert Jahren
diesen Roman schrieb, haben sich die Lebens- und Produktionsbedingungen für Künstler in Norwegen verbessert. Und dank der Entdeckung von Öl in der Nordsee
bekommen in Kristiania – jetzt Oslo – lebende Künstler
so hohe finanzielle Zuwendungen wie sonst niemand
außerhalb von Skandinavien.
Wie auch in anderen europäischen Ländern können
Künstler für Ausstellungen, Publikationen und für ihre
Arbeit um Förderungen ansuchen. Aber die Fördergelder,
die in Norwegen lebende Künstler vom Arts Council Norway bekommen, sind selbst für europäische Standards sehr
hoch. Die Mittel des durch das Kulturministerium finanzierten Arts Council sind so enorm, dass es zusammen
mit dem Außenministerium ein superslickes ManagementTeam mit dem Namen Office for Contemporary Art (
OCA) gründete. Das OCA funktioniert wie ein Filter und
eine PR-Agentur für norwegische Künstler. Aufgrund seiner Verteilungspolitik der Fördergelder und Subventionen für Residencies und Ausstellungen im Ausland, kann
OCA mächtiger Verbündeter für Künstler sein, die international arbeiten wollen. Von außen wirkt es so, als ob die
Künstler hier miteinander halbwegs respektvoll umgehen.
Und es sieht so aus, als ob es von staatlicher Seite Verständnis dafür gäbe, dass ein kreatives Leben »im Gesamten« unterstützt werden muss, mit anderen Worten, dass
Künstler ein einzigartiges Set an Bedürfnissen haben, das
zuallererst verstanden werden muss, um richtig begleitet
werden zu können. Norwegen ist einer der wenigen Staaten mit einer echten sozialstaatlichen Ökonomie. Das innovative Erkennen und die Sorge um die kulturellen Bedingungen ist, was Oslo und seine Kunstszene so einzigartig
machen. Doch trotz einer Situation, die es beinahe jedem
Künstler ermöglicht, das System zu melken, bleiben die
meisten Initiativen relativ umsichtig und machen Programme, die verschiedenste Anliegen transportieren (zugegeben, können sie manchmal ziellos scheinen, und, schlimmer, darauf hinauslaufen, nur Freunde zu zeigen). Die
schönsten Beispiele – Räume wie Landings, 1857, Kunsthall Oslo und UKS – existieren nicht einfach nur, weil es
Förderung gibt, sondern weil die Umstände sie notwendig gemacht und genährt haben.
Im Vergleich zu seiner Größe hat Norwegen eine eher
kleine Bevölkerung. Das könnte der Grund dafür sein,
dass die Teilnahme am sozialen Leben eine Sache von
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and on the state side there seems to be an understanding that creative life needs to be supported in full, in
other words, that artists have a unique set of needs that
must first be understood in order for them to be properly assisted. Norway is one of the few nations to truly
practice welfare economics, and their innovative recognition of and concern with discreet cultural conditions
is what makes Oslo and its art community unique.
Despite a situation that would allow nearly every artist
who wanted to milk the system do so, most initiatives
remain relatively thoughtful, and maintain agendas
which explore various sets of concerns (admittedly,
these can at times appear unfocused and at worse lapse
into just showing friends). Their most fully realized
examples – spaces such as Landings, 1857, Kunsthall
Oslo, and UKS – don’t simply exist because funding
does, but because existing conditions have necessitated
and cultivated them. Norway has a rather low population in comparison to its land mass, and perhaps this
is why social participation seems to become a matter
of pride, a political but also a personal responsibility.
Though artist-run spaces are clearly the most plentiful
variety of organization here – with most keeping irregular hours and totally frenetic event and exhibition
schedules – there are several spaces that flout this typical arrangement, but manage to maintain an aspect of
flexibility and project-based spirit. UKS for example,
is an important association for young artists which operates thanks not only to state funding but also as a result
of members fees. It was founded by artists in 1921, long
SPIKE 29 — 2011
Stolz zu sein scheint, eine politische wie persönliche Verantwortung. Obwohl von Künstlern geführte Räume eindeutig hier am zahlreichsten sind – die meisten mit unregelmäßigen Öffnungszeiten und total wilden Event- und
Ausstellungsprogrammen –, gibt es einige, die nicht in dieses typische Bild passen, aber doch einen Geist von Flexibilität und projektorientiertem Arbeiten beibehalten.
UKS etwa ist eine wichtige Organisation für junge Künstler, die nicht nur über Subventionen, sondern auch über
Mitgliedsbeiträge finanziert wird. Es wurde 1921 von
Künstlern gegründet, lange bevor Norwegen wohlhabend
wurde, als ein Handelsplatz, an dem Kunstwerke gegen
Waren getauscht werden konnten, auch Nahrungsmittel.
Die Kunsthall Oslo bespielt einen temporären Raum im
Bezirk Bjørvika und wird von einem radikalen und unabhängigen Denken getragen.
Was ansonsten als gesetzlose, anarchische oder gegenkulturelle eigeninitiative Haltung in den nichtkommerziellen Räumen der Stadt gesehen werden könnte, verkörpert
in Wahrheit die Realisierung eines idealen Systems. Der
Preis für diesen unorthodoxen Schwenk weg von einer
eher konservativen Förderidee ist, dass das Museums- und
Galeriewesen etwas starr ist. Die meisten von ihnen zeigen ausschließlich norwegische Künstler und agieren in
einem lokalen Kontext. Eine wichtige Ausnahme stellt
die Galerie Standard (Oslo) dar, deren Leiter Eivind Furnesvik große Anstrengungen unternommen hat, die Karrieren von außergewöhnlichen Künstlern wie Gardar Eide
Einarsson, Matias Faldbakken, Oscar Tuazon oder Alex
Hubbard aufzubauen. Zusammen mit dem OCA hat Standard es geschafft, Oslo in einem internationalen Kontext
zu verankern, über den Messezirkus hinaus auch in einem
größeren kulturellen Sinn.
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before the Norway’s prosperity came into existence,
and was instituted as trading-post of sorts where works
of art could be traded for goods including food. The
Kunsthall Oslo occupies a temporary space in the city’s
Bjorvika district, and is backed by radically independent thinking. Like UKS the Kunsthall maintains exhibition spaces and public programs that generate an
invigorating and progressive artistic discourse. What
might otherwise be perceived as a kind of lawless, anarchical or counter-cultural attitude of self-initiation in
the city’s non-commercial spaces is engagement with
the realization of an ideal system. The trade off for this
unorthodox move from more conservative funding is
that museum and commercial gallery life here has
grown somewhat stilted. Most show exclusively Norwegian artists, and operate within a local context. A
decisive exception to this is the gallery Standard (Oslo),
whose owner Eivind Furnesvik has gone to great lengths
to shape the careers of several exceptional young artists,
including Gardar Eide Einarsson, Matias Faldbakken,
Oscar Tuazon and Alex Hubbard. Together with OCA,
Standard has helped locate Oslo within the international context not only through the art fair circuit but
also in a larger cultural sense. There are many scenes
in Oslo, and one of the strongest defining factors
between these has become those who choose to stay,
and those who don’t. With the exception of Matias
Faldbakken, most internationally successful Norwegian
artists have chosen to live outside Norway. Ida Ekblad
for example (who one local young artist cited as an
example that anything – including showing with three
major galleries, in London, Berlin and New York by
the age 30 without the help of a Scandinavian dealer
– is possible), currently lives in Berlin, while Gardar
Eide Einarsson divides his time between Tokyo and
New York, and Bjarne Melgaard now lives in New York.
Which brings us to a crucial point that: Oslo is far away.
Due in part to its physical remove from the European
continent Norway has developed a cultural history that
is largely apart, it has its own heroes and its own art
history. It has less ties to Europe’s historical lineage,
and less ties mean less expectations. Sometimes, being
far away can also mean being more free.
During my introductory visit to Oslo in late
2009 I met several curators, writers and artists, including the Parallel Action collective whose Anders Dahl
Monson inscribed, »thank you for taking this book away
from Norway« on a schoolbook of texts that he’d signed
for me. Sitting in a small brown bar called Sara on my
first night I watched the snow fall lightly, the city felt
both far away and like the most serene place on earth.
That would be the first of many trips I’ve made to this
city, which grows more captivating each time I visit,
and will continue to do so when I open an exhibition
space there later this fall. —–– E S P E R A N Z A R O S A L E S
is a writer and art critic. She lives in Berlin and Oslo.
SPIKE 29 — 2011
ST
Es gibt in Oslo viele Kunstszenen, der Unterschied ist,
wer bleibt und wer geht. Matias Faldbakken, einer der
international erfolgreichsten norwegischen Künstler, ist
vielleicht die Ausnahme, während die meisten anderen
Künstler im Ausland leben. Ida Ekblad (die eine junge
Künstlerin als Beispiel dafür nannte, dass alles möglich
sei – so auch eine Vertretung in drei großen Galerien in
London, Berlin und New York im Alter von 30 und ohne
einen skandinavischen Galeristen), lebt derzeit in Berlin,
Gardar Eide Einarsson zwischen Tokyo und New York,
und Bjarne Melgaard lebt jetzt in New York. Was uns zu
einem entscheidenden Punkt bringt: Oslo ist weit weg.
Nicht zuletzt aufgrund seiner Entfernung vom übrigen
Europa hat Norwegen eine eigene Kultur entwickelt, mit
eigenen Helden und einer eigenen Kunstgeschichte.
Manchmal bedeutet weiter weg zu sein, freier zu sein.
Während meines ersten Aufenthalts in Oslo im Winter 2009 habe ich Kuratoren, Autoren und Künstler getroffen, unter ihnen das Kollektiv Parallel Action, dessen Mitglied Anders Dahl Monson mir eine Widmung in ein
Schulbuch schrieb: »Danke, dass du dieses Buch aus Norwegen hinausbringst«. Ich saß an meinem ersten Abend
in einer kleinen braunen Bar mit dem Namen Sara und
beobachtete den sanft fallenden Schnee. Die Stadt wirkte
weit weg und wie der ruhigste Ort der Welt. Das sollte die
erste von vielen Reisen in jene Stadt sein, die mit jedem
Besuch anziehender wurde, und sie wird es auch bleiben,
wenn ich dort im Spätherbst meinen Ausstellungsraum
eröffne. —–– E S P E RA N Z A RO SALE S ist Autorin und Kunstkritikerin. Sie lebt in Berlin und Oslo.
Art Guide Oslo
ST
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Matias Faldbakken
Oslo Artists /
Künstler aus
Oslo
Selected by /
Ausgewählt
von
Esperanza
Rosales
That Death of which One
Does Not Die, 2010
Installation view /
Installationsansicht
Kunsthalle Fridericianum,
Kassel
Shoe Box Sculpture,
2011
69 x 39 x 36 cm
Courtesy of the artist and
Photo: Vegard Kleven
Photo: Nils Klinger
115
Represented by /
Vertreten von
Untitled (Newspaper
Rack #4), 2011
123 x 259 x 93 cm
Standard (Oslo), Oslo
www.standardoslo.no
Photo: Fredrik Nilsen
Reena Spaulings Fine Art,
New York
www.reenaspaulings.com
Simon Lee, New York
www.simonleegallery.com
Galerie Giti Nourbakhsch,
Berlin
www.nourbakhsch.de
Eva Presenhuber,
Zürich/Zurich
www.presenhuber.com
was born in Hobro, Denmark, in 1973, and
studied at the Bergen Academy of the Arts as well as at the Städelschule
in Frankfurt (Prof. Thomas Bayrle). In 2005 he represented Norway at
the Venice Biennale, and has had recent solo exhibitions at Reena Spaulings, New York, Objectif Exhibitions, Antwerp, Kunsthalle Fridericianum, Kassel and Schinkel Pavillon, Berlin. Faldbakken is also a writer
and is internationally known for his novel trilogy Scandinavian Misanthropy.
MATIA S FAL D B A K K E N
SPIKE 29 — 2011
Art Guide Oslo
wurde 1973 in Hobro, Dänemark, geboren
und studierte an der Academy of the Arts, Bergen und der Städelschule
in Frankfurt (Prof. Thomas Bayrle). Er vertrat Norwegen 2005 auf der
Biennale in Venedig und hatte zuletzt Einzelausstellungen bei Reena
Spaulings, New York, Objectif Exhibitions, Antwerpen, der Kunsthalle
Fridericianum, Kassel und dem Schinkel Pavillon, Berlin. Faldbakken
ist auch Schriftsteller und wurde mit der Romantrilogie »Skandinavische Misanthropie« international bekannt.
M AT I A S FA L D B A K K E N
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Fredrik Værslev
Untitled, 2011
195 x 145 x 4 cm
Untitled, 2011
140 x 89 x 29 cm
Shelf Paintings
(Pottery in October #3),
2009
27 x 76 x 54 cm
Shelf Paintings
(Dew Problems) #08,
2011
76 x 54 x 18 cm
Represented by /
Vertreten von
Standard (Oslo), Oslo,
www.standardoslo.no
Johan Berggren Gallery,
Malmö
www.johanberggren.com
Circus, Berlin
www.circusberlin.de
was born in Moss, Norway, in 1979, and studied at Malmö Art Academy (Prof. Matthew Buckingham) as well as at
the Städelschule in Frankfurt (Prof. Simon Starling). During 2011 he
has had solo exhibitions at Tomorrow Gallery, Toronto, as well as Circus, Berlin and Standard (Oslo). Værslev is a founding member of the
exhibition space Landings in Vestfossen, Norway.
F RE DRI K VÆRS LEV
wurde 1979 in Moss, Norwegen, geboren und
studierte an der Malmö Art Academy (Prof. Matthew Buckingham) und
der Städelschule in Frankfurt (Prof. Simon Starling). Seine letzten Einzelausstellungen waren 2011 in der Tomorrow Gallery, Toronto, bei
Circus, Berlin und Standard (Oslo). Værslev ist Mitbegründer des Ausstellungsraums Landings in Vestfossen, Norwegen.
F RE DRI K VÆRS LEV
SPIKE 29 — 2011
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Camilla Løw
Numbers, 2008
60 x 60 x 2 cm
(height variable /
Höhe variabel)
Courtesy of Campoli
Presti, London / Paris
III, 2008
150 x 30 x 30 cm
Courtesy of
Campoli Presti,
London / Paris
VII, 2008
151 x 30 x 57 cm
Courtesy of
Campoli Presti,
London / Paris
White Steel, 2008
125 x 125 cm
Represented by /
Vertreten von
Courtesy of
Campoli Presti,
London / Paris
Sutton Lane, London, Paris,
Brussels/Brüssel,
www.suttonlane.com
Schmidt & Handrup,
Cologne/Köln,
www.schmidthandrup.com
was born in Oslo, in 1976, and studied at Glasgow
School of Art. She has had recent solo exhibitions at Roche Court, Salisbury, as well as at Galerie Schmidt & Handrup, Cologne, Landings in
Vestfossen, Norway, and Bergen Kunsthall No. 5.
CAM I LLA LØ W
SPIKE 29 — 2011
Art Guide Oslo
CA M I L L A L Ø W wurde 1976 in Oslo geboren und studierte an der
Glasgow School of Art. Zuletzt hatte sie Einzelausstellungen bei Roche
Court, Salisbury, in der Galerie Schmidt & Handrup Köln, dem Kunstraum Landings in Vestfossen und der Bergen Kunsthall No. 5.
30.09.2011
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Terje Nicolaisen
Installation view /
»Artist Statemnet«,
Tromsø
Kunstforening 2010
© VBK, Wien 2011
Untitled
(Waiting for
Stuart Bailey),
2011
21 x 30 cm
© VBK, Wien 2011
508 Portraits, 2010
Installation view /
»Artist Statemnet«,
Tromsø
Kunstforening 2010
© VBK, Wien 2011
Museo de Pasatiempo
(enlarged version), 2010
Exhibition view /
Ausstellungsansicht
Kunsthall Oslo
© VBK, Wien 2011
was born in Drammen, Norway, in 1964, and
studied at Academy of the Arts in Bergen as well as at the Trondheim
Academy of Fine Art. He has had recent had solo exhibitions at Henie
Onstad Kunstsenter and Kunstnerforbundet in Oslo (2011), Kunsthall
Oslo and Tromsø Kunstforening (2010). Nicolaisen is part of the artist
collective Tegneklubben (The Drawing Club) with Paul Dring, Ulf
Carlsson, Martin Skauen and Bjørn Bjarre.
TE R J E N I C O L A I S E N
wurde 1964 in Drammen, Norwegen, geboren
und studierte an der Bergen National Academy of the Arts und an der
Trondheim Academy of Fine Art. Seine letzten Einzelausstellungen waren
2011 im Henie Onstad Kunstsenter und Kunstnerforbundet, Oslo, sowie
2010 in der Kunsthall Oslo und dem Tromsø Kunstforening. Nicolaisen
ist Teil des Künstlerkollektivs Tegneklubben (Zeichenklub) mit Paul Dring,
Ulf Carlsson, Martin Skauen und Bjørn Bjarre.
TE RJ E N ICOLAI S E N
SPIKE 29 — 2011
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reviews
thomas feuerstein
elisabeth & klaus thoman - vienna
Thomas Feuerstein, Parlament (detail), 2009. Glas
Myxomyceten Vitrine, 170 x 85 x 75 cm. Courtesy Elisabeth &
Klaus Thoman, Innsbruck/Vienna. In his work as an artist, Thomas Feuerstein
(b. Innsbruck, 1968) deals with present-day
models of society. In the process he resorts
to mythical stories, like the one about the
Leviathan, or to the character of the Trickster,
a sort of inverted Prometheus figure who
independently makes an appearance in a
variety of cultures.
The title of the exhibition, “Fly Room,”
derives from a number of pictures using
Drosophila flies. This species has become
the model organism of our day, to which
over 100,000 scientific publications have been
dedicated so far. In 2000, it was the subject
of the first complete genome sequencing.
The Drosophila genus has thus become a
key reference for the study of human biology.
With the help of a colorless sugar solution,
Feuerstein has painted a series of pictures
that serve as deadly flytraps. The flies feed
on the brushstrokes, get stuck, and turn into
pixels for different layouts: school, prison,
mausoleum, garden of love and paradise
garden — all of them stations that humans
get stuck in, and in which they change and
mutate for a certain period of their lives. The
massed congregations of fruit bodies thus, in
a sense, form post-Foucauldian Leviathans.
In addition, the gallery rooms are filled
with a selection of new sculptures and objects.
Within an atmospheric superimposition of
living room, office and laboratory, the artistic
ensemble serves as furniture that has various
functions and meanings: the Candy Lamp
series enables the photosynthesis of plankton;
on the molecular table sculpture entitled
Laborant, a mouth-blown glass object titled
Candy Man produces the sugar for the fly
pictures from the cells of algae.
Feuerstein depicts this model organism
as a modern-day chimera, while at the same
time incorporating it into a curiously selffeeding cycle. The flies and algae tell stories
about human existence that the artist, going
well beyond science, intertwines with artistic
fictions, social utopias and political scenarios.
Vitus Weh
matias faldbakken
standard - oslo; oca - oslo
There’s no way around Matias Faldbakken these days. For this year’s Documenta
the artist presented works in Kassel’s public
libraries, where visitors encounter a scene
of chaos as if some madman had gone on a
rampage. Among the fairytales and adventure
stories strewn across the floor in the library’s
youth section, one title stands out: Ghetto
Kids. Could this assault on literature be a
satirical comment on youth’s infatuation with
ghetto culture?
Oslo beats Kassel though. Here the artist
has two solo shows: “Bit Rot” at his main gallery, Standard, and “Portrait Portrait of of a
a Generation Generation” at the Office for
Contemporary Art. One of the installations
at Standard also recalls an act of youthful
vandalism — the trick of throwing rolls of
toilet paper around. This makes for a roomfilling installation, with toilet paper spread
over an ensemble of old-school TV antennas, recalling an age before cable TV and
the Internet, when TV was wholesome and
pranks were friendly. The other works in the
show — including fuel containers filled with
concrete — make it unmistakably clear that
104
this is not a nostalgic look back. The title
of his parallel OCA exhibition echoes this
sentiment with its stuttering play on the title
of a sculpture by Norwegian artist Arnold
Haukeland. Jacking up the wall at the entrance with a regular car-jack is more than
an uplifting gesture; it affects the structure
of the exhibition space and introduces an element of danger. Faldbakken continues in this
spirit by taking original Norwegian sculptural
works, tying them up, and placing them on
their heads in elaborate constructions that
the artist has referred to as “bureaucratic
vandalism.” The continuity from Kassel to
Oslo is obvious: a central part of this symbolic
vandalism of acknowledged or iconic works
of culture — books or artworks — lies in the
process of negotiating permission. Undoubtedly Faldbakken’s current position in the art
world helps with this. As stated, there’s no
way around him these days.
Andreas Schlaegel
Matias Faldbakken, Fashioned by Slavery and Concrete
Crate, 2012. Mixed media, dimensions variable.
Courtesy the artist and STANDARD (OSLO), Oslo.
Photo: Vegard Kleven.
Flash Art • j u l y a u g u s t s e p t e m b e r 2 0 1 2
285_Reviews_.indd 104
21/06/12 20.07

A million ways to say no

Transcription

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