Candela Capitán and Paul McCarthy

Posted on 16 de April de 202519 de April de 2025 by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 063

Feature · Candela Capitán and Paul McCarthy
Words · Candela Capitán and Paul McCarthy In Conversation mediated by Andrea Bratta

Where Does a Body End

What happens when a person becomes a product? Legendary performer Paul McCarthy and new-media heroine Candela Capitán come together to dissect their work—through a series of detours on Instagram addiction, endless spinning, streaming, TikTok aesthetics., abjection, and the shifting role of irony in art and life.

Candela Capitan Do you remember I called you once?

Paul McCarthy Sure, I remember, you wanted to come here –and I said: “Yeah, sure, if you want to come, come!” Where are you now?

CC I’m in Barcelona!

PMC I think my favorite city is Barcelona—though maybe Berlin is up there too. I really love Barcelona. I was actually supposed to work on a theater piece there. It was planned to take place in both Barcelona and Madrid, but it ended up falling through. We were working on a project called A&E, Adolf & Eva, Adam & Eve and were so sure it was going to happen. It felt like everything was in motion, but then, last year, it all just collapsed. Nothing came of it. There are still some conversations happening—phone calls back and forth—but these things take so long. Once something falls apart and stays dormant for six months or more, you start to wonder if it’ll ever come back.

CC It’s so difficult to get projects approved in Spain..

PMC And it’s always a little bit painful when something doesn’t go through, who knows, maybe we’ll manage to do it.

CC Regardless, It’s such a pleasure for me to be speaking with you! I’m a huge fan. I come from the world of choreography, but I’m deeply connected to performance art. My work draws from movement, blending elements of choreography with aspects of performance. I think that’s part of why I’m so drawn to your work – I feel like we share some common ground.

PMC I actually know of your work through Instagram. It’s interesting – with Instagram, you end up following so many people. I’ll admit, I’m a bit addicted to it, but I find myself connecting with certain types of imagery or ideas that stand out. I think I probably started following you because something in your work felt familiar or resonated with me. I was reflecting on that recently. I have some close friends who are dancers and choreographers – some are part of troupes, while others collaborate with different groups. In performance, there’s often this natural overlap with musicians, actors, or other dancers. The lines between disciplines start to blur. A good friend of mine is Simone Forti, and with her, those lines are completely blurred. As a dancer and artist, her connections with musicians and visual artists have always been significant. Simone is often considered a dancer, but she’s had a major influence on artists across different fields. Dan Graham once told me she was a key influence on many minimalists like Robert Morris – maybe not Donald Judd, that might be a stretch – but definitely Morris, and artists like Charlemagne Palestine in the 70s. I remember seeing your piece where you keep rolling, and it made me think about repetition – the endurance of it, and how repeating something over and over carries its own weight. There’s a sense of irony in that too. I think repeating an action or a word or a sentence over and over for an extended period of time, for the viewer or the performer, it can become ironic or absurd. When I think about your work, I find myself wondering – how do you think about irony? Maybe that’s the first question. How do you approach irony in your work? In mine, I often turn a situation upside down. That gesture, I think, is a layer over a deeper subject or issue. I think repetition can also bring something up, something deeper.

CC I think my work might have less irony, or at least it feels that way. I see my performances as more serious – maybe because I tend to confront myself in ways that feel heavier. I’m not sure. It’s not necessarily political in a direct sense, but more about how I construct my pieces. That said, irony plays a big role in how I build movement. Without it, I feel like something is missing. For me, it’s a bit like that – if my work doesn’t have a sense of the uncanny, it doesn’t feel as interesting or engaging, at least for myself. I don’t know. I work a lot with the internet and how our generation’s imagination is shaped by it – how everything now revolves around social media and the way we absorb so much from being online. For me, that imaginary world isn’t entirely serious, and I feel like irony naturally becomes part of it. My work reflects that – there’s irony in the way I engage with this digital space. I was actually thinking about something else before this. How do you see our generation now? You’ve always worked with devices, screens, and technology, and I feel like I’m exploring similar ideas, but in the context of a generation that’s hyper-connected through platforms and social media. I’m curious – how do you feel about that now? How do you connect with this shift?

PMC I think, in some ways, it goes back a long time for me – to the 60s and 70s – when mediums/genres were starting to blur. There was this merging of dance, theater, music, film, art, painting, and drawing. I was lucky to be in a radical school at that time, but I was also actively seeking out the edges of things. Even from an early age, I felt like I was trying to leave something behind or break away from it. I wanted to make work using tape recorders, cameras, the motion picture, film. By the late 60s, I was already drawn to video because it offered something new. You could record for long periods, integrate sound, and immediately see what you were recording, see yourself on a monitor. At that time for me, all genres felt radical – painting, sculpture, drawing, dance, film, poetry. I was interested in minimalism, experimental film, performance, and happenings. It all converged. I did paintings flat on the ground as an action in the studio, without an audience, performance actions. I remember once, in 1967, I was assigned to make a kinetic sculpture in school, and I jumped out of a window – inspired by Yves Klein. That relationship between the body, sculpture, and action has stayed with me. Over the last 15 years, I’ve become deeply involved in video – recording, editing, collaborating. I write scripts that allow for improvisation, with key blocking moments but room to explore between. Sometimes we record for days, accumulating material that then traps me in the editing process. To answer your question about social media – I was interested but slow to engage with it directly. I never made a website or actively posted, though I followed what others were doing. Streaming fascinated me, but I felt too immersed in my ongoing projects to shift focus. The same happened with virtual reality – I was curious but hesitant, until someone asked me to create something, and I ended up making 30 VR pieces. Now, I’m obsessed with AI and work with it daily. Sometimes interests simmer until the right moment arises. Today, I’m performing, doing an action live and altering the recorded image through AI and then streaming the action through social media. I recognize the importance of social media and digital platforms – it’s not a lack of interest in what it is, but more about time and priorities. I don’t know where this dabbling in AI will end up.

CC What about galleries? Would you say their role, or importance, changed over time?

PMC I think possibly galleries are becoming obsolete. I think also in some cases, galleries are being run by people who are out of touch or placating collectors who don’t realize what is done, expressed, or formed by artists. I feel like there’s something happening that the art world isn’t fully recognizing. They’re not really interested in engaging with it creatively. During COVID, for example, galleries suddenly realized they needed to do online exhibitions. So they just hired people with technical skills – people who didn’t really get what artists are about. It became, “Give us the material, and we’ll handle it.” But artists struggle with mediums – we fuck with them, break them, and rebuild. That’s part of the process. So yes, I’m interested in how social media intersects with art.

CC I’m not really interested in AI. I’m not sure why – maybe I’ll understand it one day, but for now, it feels too digital to me. I love talking about streaming, how we connect with others through Instagram, and what’s happening on the internet. But I don’t feel very connected to digital imagery. I don’t know why.

PMC AI to me feels like a massive iceberg that we haven’t even hit yet. When I first interacted with AI images, it felt almost like a revelation – the fascination was immediate. I don’t think of it as a tool I need to train or control. I view AI more as a collaborator, and I’m not interested in the process of training it. Maybe I am training it, but that’s not my focus. What interests me is the layers, the speed, and the unpredictability of the images, the hallucination, or dreaming it produces. I’m not interested in the slick AI images, I’m more interested in distortion, blurred images. As an image maker, this speed and layering are compelling to me. A lot of my performance work is centered around creating an image, whether that’s a visual or a conceptual one – the making of an image and the effect on me being in it. Primarily it’s about the persona, entering another world. I think how I interact with AI is similar to painting and drawing. There’s a connection between drawing, painting, and how I engage with AI. Both are about creating something that evolves. The process is similar – I give it something, a prompt, an idea or a live or recorded input, and then I watch how it takes shape. There’s something in that, like watching a painting come to life, seeing the layers unfold.

CC And what about streaming, where does your interest lay in that?

PMC I’ve been really interested in that for a while now – not just in the traditional art world sense, but in how individuals, who aren’t necessarily part of the art scene, are using streaming platforms. These streamers can engage with thousands of people, creating a phenomenon that’s beyond anything we’ve seen in the art world. It’s a different kind of interaction, a new way of reaching a huge audience that doesn’t follow the traditional art world or tv and film world structures.

CC I work a lot with social media and streaming, but I’m always more focused on how these contexts are affecting my generation. I think that’s part of why I don’t connect with AI – I don’t think of my work as an image. I’ve never seen it that way, and I’m only realizing it now. Maybe it’s because I don’t create traditional paintings. I do work with visuals, but not in that final, static sense. I’ve always thought in terms of movement or action. I’m more connected with the action itself, the process, rather than just the image. I think a lot about how streaming is changing the way my generation lives. I even did a performance about this, looking at a sexual streaming platform called Chaturbate. Now I’m working on a project that focuses on the massive buildings in Asia where influencers and digital creators live and work. These huge complexes house rooms for influencers to do production, often at a very young age, and under intense pressure to produce constant content for platforms like TikTok. It’s like a hyper-production machine. They’re doing it all day long, creating content, doing advertising, and living under this very high-stakes, commercial environment.

PMC I think, you know, when it comes to mediums like streaming or AI, they’re just forms, extensions of something bigger. I’ve always been interested in video, film, and cameras, and in a way, streaming and AI are just natural extensions of that. I was drawn to media, especially film in the early 60s.

For me, performance is the core of it. The small drawings I make aren’t just images—they’re scripts. They’re a series, not singular. There could be 20 or 30 drawings in a series. They’re about what I imagine I’m doing or doing with others. The action, the performance, is the critical element, the core is always the performance. That’s what I care about the most.

I’m interested in streaming, I’m interested in video. I stopped performing in front of people in the early 80s and only did it in front of a camera. But now I’ve started performing in front of people again.

CC What made you come back to performing?

PMC I began performing and creating work with an actress and artist, Lilith Stangenberg, who’s deeply involved in theater and film. That led me into theater performance, which was something I had never done before. I wasn’t initially interested in it. Part of it was a rejection of what I thought of as traditional theater, the stage, the position of the audience. I was more drawn to the idea of performances, actions, happenings, taking place anywhere—whether in someone’s bedroom or on the street. A lot of the time, projects, work, happen because of an opportunity or coincidence, and then you dive in. That’s what happened with theatre for me. It wasn’t something I planned.

CC And why did you stop?

PMC I did it performances from 1967 to 1983. It was all within the context of the art world or the alternative art world. I did a performance in a gallery sometime in the 70s, but mostly it was in alternative spaces or my studio, or someone else’s studio. In the 80s, the art world started to change, and so did the alternative spaces. They became more like cabaret environments, where stages were built, rooms were painted black, and lights were set up. It changed performance art. It became more about entertainment performance. Many artists involved in performance in the 70s at that point checked out for different reasons. Some went off to explore other parts of life or moved to places like South America. The world was changing, and my interest started to shift too. I wasn’t as interested in performing for an audience anymore. Early on, I made work in a studio without an audience, just using a camera. I found myself going back to that original way of working—performing in front of a camera rather than an audience. I didn’t feel like I needed an audience. But now, over the past few years, and especially since 2019, I’ve been more interested in performing in front of an audience. Lilith and I did about 100 performances, ranging from two to four hours long, but only 15 of them were in front of an audience. The camera still played a central role, but I’m now more interested in engaging with an audience. Most of what I’ve done with Lilith has been done in constructed set-architectures that we’ve built, in nature, or existing buildings/houses, and always in front of cameras.

CC Now you can do it in front of a camera, but without an audience.

PMC I was thinking about your work in relation to these actions that are repetitive. There’s something about the process of standing up, rolling, then standing up and rolling again, and doing it repeatedly. What is happening within yourself, How long do you do it? I’ve made similar pieces where I’d spin for an hour. With these repetitive actions, there’s a connection or empathy that builds between the audience and the performer. It becomes a physical or emotional experience for them both.

CC What? I don’t remember this piece?

PMC Well, it’s similar to your continuous rolling piece. I spin standing up for an extended period of time, sometimes holding the camera. I did it a number of times. But when you’re rolling over and over again, do you get dizzy? Do you do it because of that sensation, dizziness, or is it about something else?

CC If you roll like i do, not spin, you don’t get dizzy. You just get super tired.

PMC It’s related to being exhausted. I know a number of actors, that before they start to perform, they spin. I do and Lilith does.

CC I do too. It’s a proper ritual.

PMC I think it’s a transition. It’s like you’re preparing for something. That spinning creates this kind of delirium, a shift—like when you stop, you’re not in the same place you were when you began. It’s a way to enter another world, a world of action, a world of performance. It’s a process of starting something new. In these A&E pieces we’ve done, Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun drank champagne in the bunker, and it seemed fitting to us that as part of the work, the performance, we should drink champagne. For me, in this case, drinking became a connection to spinning. Alcohol, in a way, loosens the brain, helps to enter a different headspace. I would drink throughout the performance, and there were times when I was quite drunk. It became a ritual, entering the next phase, the next world – a transformative one. It’s about leaving this world behind, shaking it off, and entering another space entirely. That’s what the spinning and drinking do—they prepare you to transition. I do think at times though, the drinking made me stupid, a true lush, a drunk.

CC My practice has a lot of that too, but maybe not exactly rolling like this. I think what I do is put my dancers—or myself—into this in-between world, this bridge world. It’s about preparing to enter another space, another reality. It’s that same kind of transition, that same ritual of moving from one world to another, whether it’s through action, movement, or setting up the right conditions for a shift. It’s about creating that moment of transformation, where you’re not quite in one place anymore, but not yet fully in the next. It’s that preparation, that threshold, where the work really begins.

PMC Do you usually work with the same dancers?

CC I work with six dancers, generally, but It depends on the specific action required or the type of performance. Some dancers are more comfortable with certain movements, while others aren’t. For the performance you mentioned earlier, The Death at The Club, some dancers were willing to stay on the floor for 40 minutes, and others were not. There’s that balance between what they want to do and what the performance requires. The rules I set are flexible—dancers always want to perform perfectly, they want to push themselves, but they also know their limits. For me, the idea of working with different types of dancers or bodies is intriguing. It’s less about perfect technique and more about the expression of movement and action, and how bodies respond to these rituals and transitions. It’s about pushing boundaries and seeing how different kinds of bodies engage with that process.

PMC Did you rehearse for this one?

CC No, no rehearsal. We just did it.

PMC So, when do you rehearse something?

CC For example, have you seen my piece with five dancers in pink? Yeah, for that one, the choreography is like a score. It has 17 figures, and the choreography is also written out. For that, I need to rehearse because they all perform the same movements, and I rehearse for months.

PMC Do you rehearse for months as a group or individually, or both, perhaps?

CC First, I always follow the same structure where I spend about one and a half to two years working on a project, but the project has different timings. Initially, I do a small piece with myself, a performance with just me, and then I do a second performance with the same concept but for a larger scenario. So in each project, there are two performances: one that I do alone, where I’m in the studio by myself, and then I invite more people to join.

PMC Once a performance is completed, does it become a piece that you can perform at different locations?

CC Yeah, I finalize the project, and then I move it. I think I’m always doing the same—I don’t like to change my projects. I move them like a dance company would.

PMC That is something that exists more in dance, in music, and in theater. But you don’t see it as often in performance art. The idea of creating a piece and repeating it in different locations isn’t as common. In performance art, you usually do it once—maybe twice or three times—and that’s it. In my case, the subject or character carries through. For example, I had a piece where I played a sea captain. I performed it four times, but it changed each time. It was never the same, but each time I was still that sea captain. It’s similar to shooting a film. If you film over 30 days, you’re that character for 30 days, but the actions shift as the narrative progresses. In A&E, Adolf and Eva’s performances would change based on the scenario. One time, they’re on a picnic; another time, they’re coming home after dinner. But certain actions were repeated in every performance. Those repetitions were rituals, their way of being. The surroundings and context would shift, repetition became critical, and I realized how much that reflects daily life. Every morning, I have coffee. The day changes, but the coffee is constant. These repetitions are part of life. I see that in my work too—there’s a similarity, a thread that carries through. I repeat it because it feels like I’ve found something I need to continue exploring. I’ve noticed that some elements in my work never seem to end. They’re internal, personal things that I keep coming back to.

CC I love when someone repeats the same thing over and over, but each time with a different perspective. It’s like they’re driven by these obsessions, you know? They keep exploring the same idea forever, but actually not quite.

PMC I can see things I’m doing now that trace back to 40 years ago. Even though a lot has changed and evolved, certain themes persist. I remember reading a while back about the death drive. This idea that certain traumas stay with you forever, certain issues you just keep repeating and repeating. The nature of the death drive is that you never escape it. It’s an addiction, and I don’t think I want to escape it.

Are you working on something new right now?

CC I’m working on a new piece, something to do with the subject of cows.

PMC Cows?

CC Not real ones. What I mean is, I’m analyzing these companies in Asia that collaborate with young influencers, and I’m connecting this with hyper-production and cows. Hyper-production of videos, streamings, content for social media. These companies contact young people to create a massive amount of content for social media platforms. And I’m drawing a connection between this hyper-production of digital content and the hyper-production of milk from cows.

PMC Are you engaging one of those companies directly? Using them?

CC No, not directly, it’s more of a territory of inquiry, a theme, in relation to younger generations, especially gen alpha.

PMC Will you use social media as part of it? Will the performance exist on social media?

CC I always create two scenarios: one for social media and one for the stage or the physical space, simultaneously. When I do it, it’s live —streamed through a platform or website. I’m kind of building two spaces simultaneously. It depends on the context. For example, in my last performance, Solas, we streamed it on a sexual streaming platform. This created two types of audiences: the real audience present in the performance space and the audience accessing the platform to see porn. On the screen, there’s a chat interface, so what’s fascinating is that the audience in the physical space and the audience on the platform chat about the performance simultaneously. For those not in the room, they receive the feed through the platform. The number of people varies depending on where I stream. For instance, on Instagram, I could have around 1k viewers. But on Chaturbate, the audience tends to be smaller because they quickly realize it’s a performance, not what they expected, so they might only stay for a short time. The platform choice really influences the type of engagement.

PMC What does the use of social media in your work represent? What is it about?

CC It’s about different things, depending on the platform. For instance, with the sexual streaming platform, the focus was on connecting two kinds of audiences. One audience came to watch dance, while the other came to consume porn—though some might not even realize they were engaging with porn. It depends on the project. For example, my next performance will involve TikTok because the imagery of my new piece aligns more with TikTok’s aesthetic. On TikTok, there’s a lot of streaming with bizarre content, like 1,000 dogs in a pool or Asian girls doing nails for 20 hours straight.

PMC I mean, there’s something about the subject you’re choosing to work with—these influencers in Asia, right? Are you trying to understand what they’re like? Or were you saying that, as humans, they essentially become the product?

CC Yeah, exactly—they become the product.

PMC I guess that’s what I’m exploring. The work I’m making seems to grapple with this proposition, though it’s not always straightforward. There’s an interest in these influencers, but I might be looking at it differently. Maybe it ties back to our earlier discussion about irony—or something close to that. But I think my focus is less on social media itself and more on something visceral. It’s about the body, the physical, and its abject existence. These mediums—social media, influencers—are interesting to me in terms of their effect on the body and consciousness. What’s happening when someone becomes a product? What happens to their body and their sense of self? That said, my work tends to circle back to the visceral, the physicality of existence itself. So while the phenomena of influencers and streamers intrigue me, it’s not just about them—it’s about the deeper, more primal aspects of existence. The subject might seem futuristic, but for me, it’s tied to something deeply physical and human.

CC I love your answer, and it was extremely interesting speaking to you. You’re so focused—almost obsessed—with the importance of the body itself, and that’s always been so fascinating to me. Your work is so important to me! Should you ever manage to do a project in Barcelona, or even Europe, and need a performer, I’d be happy to do it!

PMC Let’s stay in touch.

In order of appearance

Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E, Santa Anita Drawing Session, 2022. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photography by Alex Stevens.
Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E, Adolf and Eva, Dead End Hole (Picnic), 2021. KODE Lysverket Art Museum, Bergen, Norway. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist, Kode Art Museum, Peder Lund, and Hauser & Wirth. Photography by Alex Stevens
Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E VR experiment Adolf and Eva, 2019-2021. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist, Hauser & Wirth, and Khora Contemporary.
Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E, Adolf and Eva, Adam & Eve, Picnic in the Garden of Eden, 2021. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photo: Alex Stevens.
Candela Capitán, SOLAS. Courtesy the artist. Photography by Daniel Cao
Candela Capitán, MOLOKO VELLOCET, 2024. Courtesy the artist.
Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg, A&E, Adolf and Eva, Adam & Eve, Santa Anita Drawing Session, 2022 © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth.. Photography by Alex Stevens.
Candela Capitán, The Death at The Club (in 45min). Courtesy the artist.
Candela Capitán, GRANJAS HUMANAS. Courtesy the artist.

Courtesy and Toxe

Posted on 15 de April de 202527 de April de 2025 by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 012

Feature · Courtesy and Toxe
Words · Courtesy and Toxe In Conversation mediated by Andrea Bratta

Scandinavian Connection with Courtesy and Toxe

DJs, producers and multi-hyphenate Courtesy and Toxe dive into a warm, free-flowing conversation, spanning from the interplay between public architecture and sound to the Dutch Golden Age’s visual storytelling, weaving through the Danish art scene—and, of course, the pulse of music. A meeting of minds where genres blur, influences collide, and creative instincts take center stage.

Toxe I started making music when I was really young—around 15. My brother got me Ableton back then and really pushed me to start. He was the one who initially got me into it, but after a while, he stepped back, and I was able to explore and discover things on my own. My latest album leans heavily into lyrics and singing, which is something new for me. But I’m not looking to stop with music itself; I’m always finding ways to build on it. I also recently graduated with a degree in architecture, and I think that mindset—of constantly adding layers and depth—applies to everything I do.

Courtesy I read that both your parents are artists, which, honestly, made me a bit jealous.

Toxe They’re very local artists in Gothenburg, where I’m from—and actually, I’m in Gothenburg right now. My dad’s a sculptor, and my mom does a bit of everything, though lately, she’s been making costumes for theater. They both work a lot with scenography and public art projects.

Courtesy This feels like a very Scandinavian thing. In the Danish art scene, a lot of young artists I know are involved in public sculptures and similar projects. But in Germany, none of my artist friends or anyone from the scene here would ever do something like a town hall sculpture. In Scandinavia, contemporary artists take part in these traditions, due to the funding and cultural focus.

Toxe That’s probably true, I think for many public building projects here there is always part of the budget set aside for public art or something of a requirement. I like public art in the same way i like pop music, it’s for the people and more integrated into everyday life where it can really make big impact.

Courtesy There’s this Danish artist, Poul Gernes, who was a 1960s provocateur. He did a lot of school and hospital decorations, as well as some iconic public commissions. One of his most famous works is a building in Copenhagen called the Palads. It’s this pastel pink cinema right in the middle of the city—anyone who’s taken the train into Copenhagen would recognize it.The building itself is kind of controversial. It was originally an old station building, probably built around 1900 or earlier, and it had that classic architecture of the time. When it became a cinema, they decided to do this big PR stunt—they completely covered the building in construction materials so no one could see it and then commissioned Gernesto to transform it. He painted it this bold, almost garish pastel pink and many other off colors that looked absolutely wild. When they revealed it, it caused a huge stir. Something like that would never happen today in a Scandinavian city—they’d be much more cautious. But back then, it was a major statement. Now, they’re planning to tear it down, which is bittersweet. I’ve been involved in a project documenting the building for a book. I wasn’t doing traditional architectural photography, since that’s not my thing, but I was capturing portraits of the building.

Toxe You’re also a photographer, right?

Courtesy I do photography as part of my art practice, but not in the sense of being a photographer, if that makes sense. This project is an example of the kind of town hall or public art commissions that feel so distinctly Scandinavian.

Toxe I hadn’t really thought about it specifically as a Scandinavian thing, but it’s probably true. Even though I’m very different from my parents in what we make and how it looks, I think they’ve definitely influenced me—particularly in terms of working with space and spatial ideas. They’re very sculptural and focused on things like architecture or engaging with existing spaces and places in the city. I think that influence really shaped me, more than anything else.

Courtesy Why did you study architecture?

Toxe When the pandemic hit, I thought, This is the perfect time to study. I’d always wanted to study at some point, but, you know how it is—when you’re DJing and working on projects, it’s hard to find the time to stop and do something like that. The timing just worked out. So, in 2021, I moved to Amsterdam to study, and I spent the last three or four years there. I just finished this summer. Did you study?

Courtesy I studied a few different things but didn’t finish most of them. I did complete a bachelor’s at the conservatory, though. Otherwise, I spent some time studying psychology and cultural studies— art history and similar topics—at a master’s level, but I didn’t finish. But it’s fine..You’re not gonna get many jobs from reading Judith Butler or Foucault.

Toxe It’s a good addition to what you’re making, similarly to the way I studied architecture. It wasn’t like a classic, technical school. It was more of an art school, you know? We read a lot about architectural theory, and people were exploring all kinds of things. It felt less strict—more like something you could add to any art practice, or even use if you wanted to be a writer or do research. It was very open in that way.

Courtesy I think one of the first art history books I read was Gombrich’s The Story of Art. It kind of ends up being the story of architecture and art: Since the Renaissance, all the artists were architects too. You can’t really talk about one without the other—the influence is so intertwined, with the same people designing buildings and creating art. So unless you go to a really technical school, those two things are kind of unavoidable—they’re just linked together.

Toxe Of course, totally—I fully agree. It feels like such a valuable thing to have studied. There’s so much interesting reading that really adds to how you see the world.

Courtesy How was it to write lyrics for your album?

Toxe Um, I think writing lyrics is probably the newest part of my whole music-making process. Singing and using my voice is something I’ve always done, even before this album. Like, I’m always humming or singing when I make melodies or harmonize—it’s just a tool I use when I produce. But this is the first time I’ve actually put my voice directly into the production, so that part felt more natural. The lyrics, though—that’s what’s really new for me. I didn’t originally plan for them to be in Swedish; it just kind of happened. I think there are a lot of sounds in Swedish that fit my voice really well. Plus, I have this strange, awkward relationship with the language because I haven’t lived in Sweden since I was 18. My Swedish feels very simple, very teen-like, and I actually like that awkwardness. It works for this kind of poppy, teeny-sounding record. The lyrics are simple and repetitive, and I really like how that turned out. I feel like this is just my first attempt, though, and I want to do more of it. I’ve always loved paying attention to lyrics when I listen to music, and now it feels like this whole new world has opened up. But yeah, lyric writing is definitely the most awkward part for me. It’s also what I struggle with the most, but I like that. I like when something feels a little awkward, difficult, or uncomfortable. It’s a good challenge. Did you sing or write lyrics before?

Courtesy I have an awful singing voice, so that’s never gonna happen. But this is the first record I’ve done with lyrics—not my voice, but still. When I started working on the album, I wanted to include lyrics, so I started paying a lot more attention to poetry. I was reading a lot and kind of absorbed that. I’ve had this idea for a while, though—that I wanted to collaborate with writers I know. Not songwriters, but friends who are art critics, artists with writing practices, or authors. This album felt like the perfect opportunity to make that happen. For example, I commissioned a text from Sofia Defino Leiby—she’s an American artist, a painter, but she also writes and released a book last year. I gave her a theme to work with, which was breadcrumbing. You know, when you’re dating someone or in a situationship, and they’re just giving you the bare minimum—little breadcrumbs—to keep you hooked. I had this idea for the first song, gave Sofia the concept, and she wrote a longer text for it. Then I worked with a Singaporean singer Sophie Joe, she’s this really technically amazing singer—and we edited the text together into the song. I did something similar with the Danish author Lucia Odoom. I asked her to write a song as well, and then I edited it down to fit. It was a really interesting process.

Toxe So they all kind of just wrote a whole text, and then you edited it down?

Courtesy They wrote a whole text, and then I edited it. I worked closely with the vocalists, recording them in my studio and shaping the final piece. Of course, I also wrote all the music. I did this with four different writers for the album, so you end up with these longer texts that sit somewhere between songs and poetry

Toxe There are so many ways to work with words and music—it’s really exciting. Even doing something like that, or writing for others, feels like it would be so much fun. It’s like this whole new world that’s opened up, and I’m really excited about it.But for me, compared to what you’re describing, the way I made my new album was pretty different. I just hummed nonsense over the songs first, like placeholder sounds, and then I translated that into words. It wasn’t this thing where you start with a full text and then shape it into a song, or chop it up and structure it. It was more about fitting real words into the nonsense sounds I was already making.

Courtesy What was the name of that beautiful Scottish band that used nonsense lyrics a lot?

Toxe Cocteau Twins? Yeah, I mean, I guess that band just kept it that way—leaving it as nonsense sounds. But I think a lot of people’s process starts like that. You kind of just sing nonsense. For some people, it’s very much like, “I’m writing a poem, and then I’m putting it into a song,” or, “I’m freestyling words as I go.” For me, it was really hard to just freestyle words. I think it’s because I’m also thinking a lot like a producer. It makes more sense for me to hum things first, and then construct the words afterward. It’s kind of a mix: it’s intuitive because I’m just singing freely, but the word aspect feels very deliberate and organized—like a producer’s approach.

Courtesy Do you work very much in the grid as a producer? Like, in terms of 4/4 timing and the way you compose—how structured are your songs?

Toxe Yeah, I think so. My songs usually have a clear structure, but they evolve and change in different ways. I wouldn’t say I’m too rigid, but I’m definitely structured. I’ve never been the kind of person who had a lot of instruments around me when making music. I’ve always worked on my laptop, so I never really jammed with people or recorded live instruments. I guess that naturally makes my process more “griddy.” Adding a human voice does make things a bit more fluid, but in general, my approach is pretty structured. I did make a soundtrack for a movie once, though, and that was very different. It involved a lot of field recordings and creating ambiances, more about capturing moods than following a strict grid. It was for a small film my friend made and something I released on PAN Records a few years ago. That was the first time I really stepped outside of that grid-focused approach, but in general, my work is very laptop-based and structured. What about you? How do you approach it?

Courtesy No, it’s all over the place for me. I work with a lot of musicians, and it’s kind of complicated for them to work with the material I make because it’s so disjointed. Even for the singers, it’s probably a bit of a nightmare, but we figure it out in the end. I don’t really stick to a set grid, and a lot of the basslines aren’t in 4/4—like, they end up being kind of poly-rhythmic without me intending for it to be that way. It’s just what sounded good at the moment. The basslines, for instance, won’t be in 4/4, which makes mixing tricky for some dj’s. Some songs on the album, I think, sound really great like that, but it doesn’t always translate well if you’re someone like a DJ using the loop function to mix in. It just won’t work because everything is kind of going over an awkward number of bars. The length of the vocals or different instrumental parts doesn’t line up the way you’d expect, which makes it hard to mix in a conventional way.

Toxe I get what you mean—it’s not like I’m producing or making songs with the club or mixing in mind either, or even how it’s going to sound on speakers. It’s more about what feels right in the moment.

Courtesy And what about your new album, Toxe2?

Toxe It just kind of happened, really. I initially wanted to do a self-titled album because it feels like my first, and more personal”. But the title actually came about because of the artwork I created. I was really into movie logos and entertainment media—those flat, logo-style texts that capture the emotion and story of a film or game. So I started creating a logo for the album, just for the sake of having one, and it turned into something that felt right, which then became the album name.

Courtesy It for sure streamlines questions of authorship! [laughs] I did an EP called The Violence of the Mood Board, which plays with the idea of authorship and critique. If you’ve ever seen mood boards—whether for fashion, a photoshoot, or some creative project—you’ve probably noticed how they often appropriate images from photographers, visual artists, and other sources without any credit. A friend of mine, an art critic, Jeppe Ugelvig, wrote an essay, which touches on how the fashion industry tends to appropriate images from artists and incorporate them into fashion mood boards or campaigns without giving credit. But the critique goes both ways: the imagery used in the EP artwork from that record came from Sofia Defino Leiby, a visual artist and painter who makes collages and sometimes appropriates imagery from fashion. It highlights this reciprocal relationship between art and fashion, where both sides borrow and recontextualize without clear ownership. In the context of music, particularly dance music, the conversation around authorship, sampling, and originality is always complicated. It’s an ongoing discussion that doesn’t really hold much weight, but it’s still something I find fascinating. Fashion, too, is full of contradictions—it’s a space where appropriation is widespread and accepted, yet often ignored. It’s all part of this broader critique I’m interested in exploring, not because I’m particularly invested in fashion, but because it’s a field that’s deeply messed up in its own way. I’ve worked with smaller brands that I’m friends with, where I made music specifically for them, and I consider those collaborations more artistic. Then there are the situations where I’ve been paid to have my music used in a fashion show or ad. But the worst part is when bigger fashion brands steal your music—they’ll use it in their shows, and when they post the video online, they’ll change the music just enough to make it hard to prove legally. It’s a really shady move, and unfortunately, it’s something that happens all the time. It’s just part of the gross side of the industry.

Toxe I’ve only had stuff where people buy my music for runway shows, not really commissions. So, I don’t think I have a deeper relationship with fashion in that way, not really.

Courtesy Yeah, I get that. It feels like fashion’s kind of stuck right now, especially with the big houses just doing the same thing—studio shoots with celebrities, no real creativity. A few years ago, there was more excitement around it, but now it’s like everything’s watered down, even from brands like Balenciaga, where it feels more like behind-the-scenes stuff than actual fashion. It’s only the small, up-and-coming brands that feel fresh and interesting, but the industry as a whole doesn’t seem to be pushing boundaries at the moment. I wanted to know—what did you end up writing the lyrics about? Just going back to that, what are the songs about? Anything in particular?

Toxe Well, I think the general themes are very much like love songs, and also just isolation and loneliness. A lot of it reflects that phase of my life where I was just alone a lot, especially in Amsterdam. I didn’t really have a private life there, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because I like being alone a lot. But yeah, the topics really revolve around that—isolation and those feelings.

Courtesy Unrelated question, but do you like Dutch art? I recently fell in love again with the old Flemish masters, like Jan van Eyck, that’s why I am asking. I was at the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin recently, I go there often actually, and they have some great Dutch painters, along with Renaissance pieces, like the Italians and others. I really enjoy painting a lot. As for architecture, is there a particular architect or movement you’re into? I’ve been reading a book recentlythat explores architecture and politics in Germany from 1918 to 1945. It focuses especially on the Bauhaus movement and the Nazi response to it, and how architecture became so politicized in Germany. It’s really intense, especially considering recent events in Germany. But I love architecture because it can tell you a lot about a city. You can even see when a city was bombed, just by looking at how much modern architecture there is. You can also learn a lot about a city’s political history by which buildings have managed to survive.

Toxe It’s hard to say if I have a specific favorite architect or movement, but over the past year, I’ve been reading a lot of Beatriz Colomina, if you’re familiar with her. She’s an architectural theorist, and her work focuses more on the relationship between mass media and architecture. It’s been really interesting, especially in terms of understanding how the two—media and architecture—interact and shape our perceptions of space. She talks about this a lot in her book Publicity and Privacy, where she compares the work of architects like Le Corbusier and Adolf Loos, analyzing their different practices. Later, she shifts focus to modernism and mass media, particularly the transformation of domestic space. She explores how buildings, once transparent and open, have become spaces that are now staged for representation, and how we’ve become experts in crafting our own public personas. Colomina dives deeply into privacy, examining how our intimate spaces—the home, personal life—have become increasingly public. We’re all constantly exposed to representations of other people’s private lives, especially in today’s digital age. For example, I can see your house in the background here, on Zoom, and we all now live in a world where our homes are often seen as a backdrop for our online selves. We’re more exposed to curated representations of spaces, like in movies or social media, than to the actual physical spaces themselves. What interests me most is how this affects how we perceive and interact with space. We live in an age where the domestic space is both staged for online consumption and yet made to appear intimate, personal. It’s like we’re living in a movie set, framing and presenting our surroundings for an audience, but at the same time, this display of intimacy can be flattened, reduced to signifiers—symbols of our lives rather than their true essence. It’s fascinating how the domestic becomes a kind of branding tool, where we curate and perform intimacy for an online audience.

Courtesy I just finished Understanding a Photograph by John Berger, and he explores this really interesting distinction between commercial photography and private photography. What’s fascinating is how these two have completely merged now, especially with social media. The purpose of both has shifted, and it’s so relevant today. His perspective really adds to how we think about the act of capturing moments and their meaning. It reminds me of Susan Sontag’s writings on photography as well. Both she and Berger, contemporaries in their time, were essentially in conversation about media theory and the staging of images. Like, photography has always been a performance in a way—there’s no such thing as an “authentic” photograph. Every image is an interpretation or edit of a moment. And that’s why I think it’s so uncomfortable to have my photo taken. It’s not just a snapshot of me; it’s someone else’s aesthetic or interpretation of me in that moment. It’s their perspective imposed on me, which is a strange and unsettling feeling. I think people often believe there’s some kind of inherent truth in a photograph that doesn’t actually exist. It’s more of a constructed narrative—every photo tells a story, but it’s never a completely accurate reflection of reality. It’s like every image has been filtered through the lens of someone else’s view.

Toxe Yeah, exactly. It’s fascinating how this has evolved. We’ve always been staging ourselves in some way, whether through portraits or still lifes in historical paintings, where possessions and settings were carefully chosen to present a certain image or status. But now, in the age of social media, it’s like that process is happening in real-time, constantly being updated and shared. The line between what’s real and staged is so blurred. It’s almost like authenticity is no longer a fixed concept—it’s become performative in itself. The act of presenting your life, your home, your possessions, and even your emotions online is a performance, but it’s also embraced as “authentic.” It’s not about hiding the fact that you’re performing; it’s about making the performance feel genuine, relatable, or aspirational. Everyone is curating their persona, but at the same time, that curation is seen as real, as part of who they are. It’s a strange paradox, right? The performance becomes its own form of truth. And in this digital age, we’ve all become experts at shaping and performing these narratives about ourselves.

Courtesy That shift in how authenticity is viewed is so interesting, especially in creative fields like music. Ten years ago, there was so much emphasis on being “authentic” or “original,” as if it was a standard to strive for. Musicians were expected to have their own voice, and if you weren’t presenting something unique or deeply personal, it felt like you weren’t really succeeding. But now, as you said, it’s almost like that concept has been diluted, to the point where it’s not even about striving for authenticity—it’s more about how you present yourself, the world you build around your art. Now, it’s about the whole package—creating a brand, a persona, a narrative that feels coherent, whether or not it’s “authentic” in the traditional sense. And I think that’s what’s made the music scene, and even creative industries in general, so much more about curation and perception than about the work itself. It’s like people are less interested in whether the music is original or authentic and more focused on how it fits into a larger narrative or how it can be consumed. The idea of “authenticity” in the traditional sense feels almost outdated in comparison. It’s less about what you’re doing and more about the image you project while doing it

Toxe It’s fun to surprise people. I totally get that thrill of proving people wrong, of having them think one thing about you, then completely flipping it.

Courtesy It’s really contemporary, though, because even when I started my record label, the last one, Kulør, we had this big record with what was considered fast dance music at the time. It resonated a lot with people who are now in their late 30s or so, and up until a year ago, I was still associated with that sound. But since then, I’ve explored a lot of different genres. My approach to music is very eclectic. Yet, I’d have people, particularly men, come up to me and tell me I wasn’t being true to myself, saying things like, “Be yourself.” It was like they had this one snapshot of me—this moment that captured a version of me and they wanted me to always be that person. But for me as an artist, that’s not interesting. If people are expecting me to stay in that one frame, they’ll always be disappointed, because I can’t be reduced to that singular snapshot or sound they want me to fit into.I think in the art world, especially in contemporary art, there’s more acceptance of evolution in an artist’s practice. But in the dance music community, there’s still a lot of resistance to change. Some people have very rigid ideas of what authentic music is and what’s “acceptable.” It’s definitely a generational thing. That’s why movements like the ones at parties, like the deconstructed club oneS Dan booked in Berlin, where there were DJs breaking norms and pushing boundaries, always upset people. That kind of music still pisses people off in the dance music community today. It’s like, once you challenge these long-held ideas of what’s “authentic,” it causes friction.

Toxe Yeah, exactly! It’s fun to pull people along, surprise them. When they start expecting too much from me, I just get this feeling like, ugh, I can’t breathe. It’s suffocating. But I totally get that thrill of proving people wrong, of having them think one thing about you, then completely flipping it. It’s a nice feeling, like breaking free from their expectations and showing them something unexpected.

Courtesy A lot of artists I like in visual art are really trolly as well. Do you think that this recent conversation about expectation, staging, and the distinction between the private, intimate, and public – and what is given to people for consumption – connects to the art of DJing or performing? I definitely think about the audience I want to play for. When I DJ, I mix different genres, blending experimental music with classic house tunes. I’m always considering the dance floor, but it’s not about playing what the crowd expects at that moment. I focus on what the future of the dance floor could be. It’s not about playing commercially functional music – I know that right now, hard techno is popular, but that doesn’t mean I’ll play it just because it works. I’m not interested in it. For me, it’s about being mindful of what works, but also not playing music I find boring, even if it’s effective. That’s really important to me.

Toxe For me, I feel like I’m a pretty bad DJ in the sense that I just play whatever I want to play. Of course, I’m mindful of the situation I’m in, but when I DJ, I see it more as an extension of the music I make. I’m just trying to create a context for people to understand what I’m into by embedding my music into that wider musical world. If it’s a party, I want to make people dance and have fun, of course. Regarding performance, I’m very much a loner. I make music alone, and I really prefer to keep the process private until it’s finished. I don’t collaborate much, and I don’t share anything until I feel it’s ready. So, going from that private, intimate space to public performance is a big shift for me. It’s about translating something deeply personal into a public spectacle, and that transition is interesting, though difficult and weird at times. It makes me feel somewhat detached from myself, as you become a product, especially when you’re aware of using your own image and being very public. But there’s still a distance, especially online, since I haven’t performed live in front of large audiences yet. Now, with this album, I want to figure out how to perform live, especially with singing, and be on stage more.

Courtesy I’m curious—do you enjoy hanging out with groups of people? Growing up, did you have a friend group, or did you prefer individual friends? For me, it’s definitely individual friends. I’m not a group person at all; a dinner with four people max is ideal, and anything more than that starts to feel stressful. Unless I’m at a party or actual club.

Toxe The idea of a large group dinner doesn’t attract me at all.

Courtesy It’s interesting because, for someone who performs, people often expect me to be more social, but I just don’t thrive in big groups. I collaborate a lot, but my collaborations are usually limited to a max of three people in a room—me and two others. That’s when it feels like a really beautiful dynamic, but I don’t want anyone else around. I do enjoy performing, though, because it’s different. When I’m on stage, I’m controlling the room. I’m the one guiding the energy of the entire space, and I find that really interesting.

Toxe No, exactly. I’m curious about how this transition works, because DJing is one thing—you’re just controlling the room and the sound, and it feels more technical that way. But then when it comes to singing live, it’s a completely different experience. It’s much more personal, more exposed in a way. I wonder how you navigate that shift, from being in control of the energy through music to sharing something so intimate with an audience.

Courtesy How do you feel about microphones? Because they fucking scare me.

Toxe I don’t know yet. I definitely need to have some kind of rehearsal or something to get into it. I’m excited though because I like the challenge and the uncomfortable feeling, but yeah, it feels awkward for sure. Like, I haven’t really sung live much, maybe once or twice, so it’s all pretty new to me. I didn’t even consider it when I made the album—like, “Oh, I want to make a vocal album and perform.” It wasn’t part of the plan. Now, I’m trying to figure out how to do it in a way that makes sense for me.

Courtesy Any shows planned?

Toxe I’m heading to the US now and will be in New York for the rest of the year. I think I’ll start doing live shows in 2025.

Courtesy What are you doing in New York?

Toxe I’m planning to work there for a bit—I might have a job at an architecture studio. I’ll be doing that while working on music, preparing for my live, and traveling a bit. I might want to move there long-term, so it’s a bit of a trial phase for me. You’re in Berlin, right?

Courtesy Yes. Which is kind of like New York, like a kind of sad New York now. No jobs, but the same prices, almost like.

Toxe You’ve been there for a while, right?

Courtesy I’ve been here for about eight years, so I’m kind of stuck here now, a little bit. I think it’s going to be the one, though. Yeah, I’ve built a family here now.

Toxe Do you have kids?

Courtesy Yeppp!

Toxe Whaaaat? Wow!

Courtesy I have a daughter that’s three years old, so the moving around has stopped.

Toxe It’s beautiful. Do you think motherhood affected your music?

Courtesy It’s really just about time management. I am in a way much more productive than before. Now, I don’t have the same kind of time, and it’s frustrating because your whole perception of time changes when you become a parent. A lot of people use it as an excuse to not make art, or they just don’t have the resources. But the reality is, you have limitations unless you choose not to spend time with your kid, which isn’t an option if you’re trying to be an active part of their life. You really have to prioritize and be efficient with your time. And when I do have those days where I can just work, it’s honestly amazing.I think some people can have the structure without it, but for me, it gave me the structure and motivation I needed to become a proper artist, instead of just kind of floating around.

Toxe Yeah, that makes sense. Also because you’re not doing that just for yourself anymore.

Courtesy Exactly, I do it for her too.

Credits

Talent · Courtesy wears SIA ARNIKA
Photography · Pablo Manrique
Styling · Yannic Joel Hohaus
Makeup Artist · Naomi Gugler
Hair Stylist · Rebecca Schmitz from Nina Klein Agency
Styling Assistants · Diana Lukashuk and Stella Jennifer Roswitha Wiechers

Talent · Toxe
Photography · Michael Wolever
Styling · Michael Wolever and Toxe
Photography Assistant · Tucker Van Der Wyden

Merlin Carpenter

Posted on 15 de April de 202519 de April de 2025 by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 154

Feature · Merlin Carpenter
Words · Lila Torquéo

Can the Inside go beyond the Outside?

Merlin Carpenter wields negativity as a weapon, dismantling art’s illusions with irony and self-negation—his shows postponed, relocated, or delegated. Grounded in Marxist materialism, he exposes art’s inescapable entanglement with capitalism, stripping critique of its false autonomy. Rejecting comfort, he embraces failure and refusal as radical acts. Through writing, he probes spaces beyond market logic, seeking new critical frontiers.

“Not just our labor, not just our leisure—something else is being commodified here: our sociability, our common and ordinary life together, what you might even call our communism. Sure, it’s not a utopian version of communism. It is a very banal and everyday one, it’s our love of sharing our thoughts and feelings with each other and having connections to other people. But still, most people seem rather alarmed that their desire to share and be with each other, to reach out to friends, to pass on cat pictures, even their desire to have ferocious arguments with strangers, is making someone else very, very rich.” McKenzie Wark, Capital Is Dead: Is This Something Worse?, 2019.

Merlin Carpenter explores forms of negativity through an iconoclastic, disillusioned, and irony-tinged approach. His exhibitions stand as negations of themselves – they are postponed, relocated, multiplied, or even delegated. From his artistic practice to his theoretical writings, steeped in Marxist and materialist philosophy, he lays bare the links between the economy of artistic production and capitalist ideology. Art, especially painting, finds itself confronted by its own contradictions: despite its pretensions to critique, it remains tethered to its market essence and the dominant financial system. Operating within both commercial and alternative spaces, Carpenter scrutinizes the speculative commodification of art and the flows of information and economic value that govern its circulation. While contemporary anxiety is often soothed with antidepressants and comforting illusions, Carpenter deliberately chooses the path of solitary failure and refusal, a radical gesture aimed perhaps at fostering conditions of lucid discouragement, or even a shared revolt. It is in writing, however, that he has found a privileged space to explore areas free from value, beyond the reach of capitalist logics, and open to new critical possibilities.

The heat of capital

In 2021, Carpenter presents his exhibition Steam Engine, curated by Tobias Kaspar, at Longtang, a Zurich-based venue. Entering the space, one encounters a room thick with steam and metallic sound textures, paired with panoramic paintings of locomotive wheels. Bold, rough black strokes define the structure of these machines – icons of the industrial revolution and metaphors for Fordist capitalism. These crude lines overlay colorful checkered patterns of plastic tablecloths mounted on frames. The speed suggested by the steam engine wheels is slowed by the heaviness of these strokes, yet the symbol of progress is definitively undermined by the ironic contrast with the retrograde connotations of the “Wachstücher” patterned tablecloths. This vernacular motif, emblematic of Italian trattorias and traditional German breweries, was notably used by his fellow Cosima von Bonin, who also contributed to the hedonistic mythos of the Cologne art scene of the 1980s and ’90s. These tablecloth patterns evoke scenes of rural life and a nostalgic yearning for a still and conservative past. The track Stress II by London-based producer Acolytes intensifies the sense of disjointed time, with its stretched and jagged frequencies endlessly looping in distorted echoes, repeating in a relentless cycle.

In a separate room away from the fog, two posters hang. One advertises Carpenter’s 2020 Paris exhibition Circuits at Palette Terre, featuring the Art Deco-styled tagline: “La vision obscurcie est la vision dégagée” (“Obscured vision is clear vision”). The second is titled The Far Right in the Art World as of April 2019, a diagram originally published in the Art of Darkness issue of Arts of the Working Class. These words, which conclude the exhibition at Longtang and which the artist will expand upon in a text published afterward, provide insight into the tenuous links between the ideological drifts of public opinion and the art world, as well as the hierarchies of perception associated with it. The steam both obstructs our vision and creates an effect of revelation, forcing viewers to move closer to the paintings to see how they engage with modernist, technocratic, and conservative traditions, all at once obsolete and enduring. The brash sounds gradually fade and decay, dissolving into a spectrum of broken, ever-regenerating frequencies. No revolution seems possible in this claustrophobic loop.

The drawings and paintings in Carpenter’s Circuits series, shown in 2020 at dépendance in Brussels and Palette Terre in Paris, depict broken electrical circuits. Their black lines on white background schematize the abstract chains of the global financial system, as if flattening them were the only way to represent it. After generating these circuit images in large quantities, Carpenter transforms them into something else: the cogwheels of steam engines, which give a new, thermodynamic shape to the energy of value. Though corrupted from the beginning, the system emerges stronger from its own damage, its ideology thriving on sabotage: the more it destroys, the more it progresses. Carpenter’s chaotic fusion of locomotives, smoke, and sound becomes an allegory for a disintegrating system in full delirium, that, though on the brink of a breakdown, continues to insist it still has energy to burn. We are faced with a megalomaniacal spectacle seemingly beyond redemption, compelled to consume even its own means of survival – right down to the very wood of the old locomotive’s wagons – in order to keep moving forward. There is almost a metallic aftertaste that recalls the misogynistic rhetoric of futurism, with its glorification of progress and war, famously described by Marinetti as “the only hygiene of the world”. The movement of the locomotive wheels is nothing but an illusion, a mirage conjured by smoke. But it doesn’t matter – White, dominant-class fascism spreads like a virulent cancer.

The fog’s obscuring effects and the hypnotic reverberations could lead to a physical experience of desubjectivation. It could echo Georges Bataille’s headless man and his meditation practice, which for him was a painful trial seeking to dissolve its mind. His retreat from both the social world and his individuality became a way to resist the war machine of negativity that defined World War II. This mental withdrawal resonates in a way with the trance state Carpenter values for its revolutionary potential. In his book The Outside Can’t Go Outside, he positions trance outside the realm of value. He frames it as a metaphor for what exists beyond capitalist realism, yet in a state that can only subsist virtually. Brian Massumi explains that capitalism is a vast exterior that captures interiorities. Carpenter, for his part, describes it as “a line of control within”. Since capitalism is boundless, can our actions occur outside of it? Pushing the question further: can the inside go beyond the outside? To capitalist, monetized surplus-value, Massumi opposes a non-capitalist, purely qualitative form of “surplus-value of life”. This makes us want to believe that in Carpenter’s exhibitions, or perhaps even more so in his writings and his concern for trance, there lie remnants of bare activity stemming from this great exterior. One can imagine a micro-activity stirring on an imperceptible scale within the steam. By changing the air’s density, the steam alters sound perception, heightening reverberations or dampening high frequencies. The particles suspended in the air may be to the waves what Carpenter’s texts are to his readers: micro-movements carrying transformation, traces of emerging ferment, of passionate activity. However, Carpenter insists that if such movements exist, they do so solely in their virtuality, with no direct relation to assimilated forms of opposition to capital such as alternative value systems, forms of care, or non-capitalist enclaves.

There was no official statement at the exhibition, only the steam, which could be read as a press release, and the announcement of a forthcoming text, written by the artist months later. A deliberate choice, meant to leave the field open. This retroactivity is common for Carpenter, allowing him to incorporate political episodes but also to self-revise, in what he calls an “endless theoretical discussion”. According to McKenzie Wark, the hacker class is made up of those who define themselves in opposition to their detractors, much as Marx and Hegel by embracing communism. Wark urges us to invent new term combinations that break free from our capitalist paradigm, to forge fresh conceptual matrices that can reprogram our perceptions. Carpenter’s approach seems close to this, using language to better shape a self-generating and experimental theory.

The “value” of refusal

One should expect Carpenter to take a disconcerting approach with commercial galleries, urging them to make efforts that acknowledge the political stakes in which they are entangled. His 2018 exhibition De Streepschilderijen at Overduin & Co. in Los Angeles, offers a case in point. Carpenter required the gallery to rent an exhibition space far from the US, in Amsterdam, while keeping the Los Angeles gallery open as a salon for discussions and self-promotion. Between two screens, a television displayed footage of the Amsterdam exhibition, which Carpenter filled with paintings. Large canvases repeating a single motif – black and white lines stripes crowded the outdated rose-pink walls, making the entrance almost impassable. This is how he staged a blatant parody of the uniformity of classic – institutional formalism. By deterritorializing his works, Carpenter positions himself not only against the rise of the far-right but also against the incestuous ties between white imperialism and the art world. However, in promoting himself, he paradoxically cancels his own boycott while simultaneously reaffirming it. This act of sabotage transforms into an absurd performance. A strategy of failure, as seen in his boycott against the rise of the far-right with Not Doing a Show in FPÖ Austria at Nousmoules in Vienna (2018) – once again nullifying his refusal by allowing the exhibition to proceed after all.

For his 2020 exhibition Paint-It-Yourself at the gallery Reena Spaulings Fine Art in New York, Carpenter seemingly delegated the creation of the work to the audience, not preventing them from paint the white canvases displayed in the gallery. Ironically, the audience finds itself both exploited and complicit, working without remuneration, while Carpenter and the gallery reap the financial benefits, even though no money has been made yet. The work, which outwardly appears to offer free participation, is ultimately commodified. In doing so, Carpenter brings the dynamics of appropriation and free labor into the physical space, echoing their global normalization on social media. As he stated in his letter to the gallery, “Instead of using right-wing material as a left-wing joke, I would make the simplistic left gesture as a formal joke in relation to a more rigorous hypothesis.”Carpenter’s absolute rejection of any compromise lends him a heroic air, which simultaneously flips into cynical anti-heroism, as a risky way of life that embraces failure to avoid any form of reification. He seeks to expose the mechanisms of an ideological machine that, far from being subverted, is reinforced in the very negation of its own discourse. His attitude can in some ways align with that of Bonny Poon when she staged what she called the ‘nightmare of the gallerist’ in her exhibition Off The Wall at City Galerie Wien in 2022. There, Bonny Poon parodied the hierarchies that structure the transactional relationships of the art market, reducing the exhibition to a raw confrontation of messy obstacles, walls where she tag titles – Artist/Dealer/User/Lover/Pet – and a painting titled Anatomy of a Deal. Over the past few years, a growing interest in the conditions of production has been shaping the young art scene. We think of Eva Barto’s exhibitions, in which she created ‘communication vessels’ between public and private institutions, highlighting economic negotiations. This awareness and positioning is further marked by the rise of militant collectives such as Wages For Wages Against (founded in Switzerland), Art en grève and La Buse (in France) founded by Eva Barto, all with the urgent goal of regulating artistic labor. A massive work in progress.

Designers

Merlin Carpenter, Steam Engine, 2021
Merlin Carpenter, Paint-It-Yourself, 2020
Merlin Carpenter, Circuits, 2020
Merlin Carpenter, De Streepschilderijen, 2018
Merlin Carpenter, Steam Engine, 2021

Suzanne Ciani

Posted on 14 de April de 202521 de April de 2025 by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 074

Bottega Veneta Cover Special · Suzanne Ciani
Words · Gaia Grisanti

LFO Spirituality

A true pioneer of electronic music, Suzanne Ciani has spent over five decades shaping the sonic landscape with her groundbreaking approach to synthesizers. From composing in the late ’60s to redefining live performance with her immersive quadraphonic shows, her artistry transcends time. In this conversation, she reflects on her journey—from breaking barriers in a male-dominated field to finding her voice in modular synthesis, the impact of the ocean on her compositions, and the evolving relationship between technology and human expression. Ciani shares insights into the fluidity of sound, the importance of creative freedom, and the enduring resonance of her music in a rapidly changing world.

Gaia Grisanti Hello Suzanne. How are you?

Suzanne Ciani Good morning. Just about to wake up, but everything is good! What about you?

GG Excited for this interview to begin, I am a big fan of your artistic production. It all started when you curated the live music performance at the Acne Studios’ Fall Winter 2023 Show in Paris. It really seemed like the sound was threading through the flow of the fabrics, almost establishing the textures, the weight, music became almost a physical presence. How did this collaboration start?

SC I got a call from Acne Studios, asking me to produce a soundtrack for their new collection. They gave me complete freedom. I was excited because I find freedom to be a fundamental ingredient for my performance, plus the fact that I love playing live because I really like to stay in the moment. One of my missions has always been to demonstrate the performability of electronic instruments without using a keyboard and to impact the design of these instruments. I can easily adapt to sudden things, following and pacing the flow. I played with the Moog where I have a module that allows me to move the sound in quadraphonic space.

GG After being a piano student and a composer for some years, you approached the world of electronic music in a period where women were not really allowed to experiment with that.

SC In the Sixties, women composers were not really seen as credible and composing music was quite an intimidating prospect. In those years, composing meant mainly working with an orchestra. And that involved conducting: standing and getting the result you want. My teacher was an Italian man who firmly told me that women basically had no right to be on the podium and conduct. Hearing that wasn’t easy, but that moment was what channeled me towards a new door.

GG What happened after?

SC Every time you meet a closed door you have to pivot and look for a different path, until you find your unique one. You have to invent new possibilities. So I instinctively adopted electronic instruments as my own voice. Then my goal was to get enough money to buy a new Buchla 200 for myself in a period when institutions and not individuals were owning these instruments and in a field where women were not commonly involved.

GG As human beings, we tend to focus too much on the past and get stuck with regrets or nostalgia. Likewise, when we focus too much on the future, we can feel overwhelmed by feelings of anxiety or anticipation. In the meantime we forget the now. How did you find your own voice and learn to stay in the present moment?

SC Back in the Sixties in California, I started working with Don Buchla (pioneer in the field of sound synthesis. Ed.). I called him the Leonardo Da Vinci of electronic music instrument design. He didn’t use the word “synthesizer” because it had a connotation of being related to a keyboard instrument, but Don Buchla was more interested in the more elaborate voltage control of all parameters of the sound. I fell in love with a new possibility that gave me the freedom to be on my own and experiment independently..

GG You have always considered the synthesizers almost as living beings, defining them as “machines with a brain”. Tell us more about your relationship with these mechanical humans you have always been surrounded by.

SC Well, I grew up with them. Actually I grew up with the piano, when I was a composer of classical music. That is until I met Don Buchla. When Don Buchla and I started working together, he made a distinction about the machines: those instruments have an inside and an outside. I was in charge of the outside, moving the Knobs and dials, while an engineer was in charge of the inside. Technology was collaborative: it involved the artist that worked on the sound/performance and the technician who took care of the circuit board inside of the machine. In the end, every analog modular instrument is unique and you have the option of curating your own configuration of modules.

GG How crucial was it to find the right mentor at the right time?

SC You know, Don Buchla wasn’t very friendly at the beginning. He fired me the first day.

But I just came back the day after saying that it wasn’t fair. And I stayed. Don Buchla was also very shy, he wasn’t really sharing his thoughts with me, but he found his way of expression through the instruments. We found our common ground in the machines.

GG I guess spending time alone and really getting to know your personal self has been important for your personal development. And it is especially nowadays with all this pressure of sharing and showing, of having to attend everywhere to prove oneself relevant.

SC When you are making music it really comes from a private place and then it goes out into the world. If you respond to what people like, you are lost. Don Buchla, the designer of my instruments, never ever bent his ideas to the market.

GG Was there a moment or a place that represented a turning point in your career?

SC Japan played a big role in my career. Back in the Sixties , a musician couldn’t publish any music independently and you had to have a record company to release your music. I went to all the record companies in the US and in Europe but they didn’t understand what my music was. They thought I should sing because I am a woman. Then I went to Japan and they listened to the music. There I got my first record deal; that was a launching moment. When I went back to the US there was still no place for my music in the music store, because they couldn’t really find a category for this electronic instrumental sound.

GG After some time though, your music was ultimately labeled as New-Age.

SC In my second album I had a song called “The Velocity of Love” and when it was played on the radio it got a huge response even if nobody knew what it was. Some radio people started to sponsor my concerts and did a lot of airplay. Finally that genre took off and was labeled as “New Age”.

GG What made this genre special at that time?

SC New Age was a very controversial name, it could be massage music, meditation music, relaxation music or simply instrumental music. It seemed to be part of a cultural shift towards healthiness and “spirituality.”

GG Has the process of producing music been working as a therapeutic form for you?

SC The stepping stone for my music was the ocean and that immense space that is unpolluted by human inventions and noise. The ocean was my canvas. My first album was called “Seven Waves.” Now, at last, I’m living on the ocean and so there is some kind of happiness going on here.

GG In recent times AI is taking over our lives, leading to new explorations and forms of relationships. Looking at fashion and art, a Neo Space Age is approaching and space travel is expected to be booming again. You have explored this symbiosis of the organic and the artificial several years ago. Where do you think this fascination for futuristic, escaping scenarios comes from?

SC I think there is no replacement for human relationships, I believe AI is going to cause a lot of misery and desperation if you unlearn how to communicate.

In the Sixties and Seventies live performance and technology were not in a good place, the audience didn’t know that the instruments were producing the sound, they were asking where the sound was coming from, where the tape recorder was. To them there was no reference point.

Now the audience sees and understands what is going on when I play because I have a video camera focused on the instruments and also my young fans own and play these analog modular instruments. I believe technology has to be a support but not a replacement.

GG In your latest album “Golden Apples of the Sun” you used synthesizers like Buchla 200e and Moog One, but the addition of your voice and whispers makes it a truly immersive experience. You really get to meet with your inner senses, feeling some sort of deep fulfillment. Does all this come from a deeper connection with your inner nature?

SC In my previous album “Seven Waves” I also used an instrument called the Vocoder to loop in my breath because I found the vocal presence very personal and I wanted to put part of myself into it. My voice has been used a lot in sound design, I even had a tool called the Voice Box that is used for processing voices and other sounds. But I am glad that you appreciated it.

GG Are there any composers that you like at the moment?

SC Yes there are quite few and there are a lot of women dedicated to this instrument. I met Caterina Barbieri several years ago who is performing live on analog modulars and I like her a lot. Also Lisa Belladonna and Floating Points.

GG I believe you are one of the most contemporary artists playing nowadays, although your first album “Seven waves” was released in 1982. You said that most of the instruments on Seven Waves no longer exist and that that recording is an historic footprint in the evolution of music, unique to its time yet still valid today.

SC When I was growing up in the music industry the main idea was that if you turned 40 it was all over. But, you know, I believe that there is no clock.

Credits

Talent · Suzanne Ciani wears BOTTEGA VENETA.
Photography · Yudo Kurita
Styling · Shaojun Chen

Romeo Castellucci

Posted on 14 de March de 202517 de March de 2025 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Romeo Castellucci
Words · Annalise Kamegawa

A Fight Against Reality Itself

In conversation with NR, director and stage designer Romeo Castellucci speaks about one of his first performances, Cenno. A mysterious work staged only once in a flat in Rome in the early ’80s, it has since been difficult to trace in any concrete way. When asked about it, Castellucci remarks, “In Italian, the word cenno means a little gesture—it’s the minimal gesture. And probably, Cenno was literally a minimal gesture.”

This early experiment foreshadowed a career of theatrical productions that are less about performance in the traditional sense. Instead of a reenactment of narrative he offers something closer to a whisper, a procession of movements, or a thread of energy extracted from some of the most iconic operas and didactic tales.

Some, like The Rite of Spring, are so complex that they challenge visual perception. Others, like Ma and La Passione, are more restrained, presenting not not much more than bodies on a stage. Yet what unites all these works is a distillation of reality itself. In capturing the narrative within form, Castellucci creates what he calls “a space in which the image calls the name of each spectator.” In this way, theatre for him is neither literature nor mere performance—it is a battlefield of aesthetics, a confrontation with reality itself.

What led you to study painting in Bologna? What were some values or ideas you formed during this period of study, and how did this go on to influence your later career in theater?

At the time, Bologna was the intellectual center of Italy—the most avant-garde city in terms of art and philosophy. It was a city on fire, as it was the most politically engaged, involving itself in these extreme fights. I was barely 18 years old when I arrived there.

Art history became my spinal structure, my intellectual foundation. The Renaissance and the study of Italian art history were disciplines that carried a kind of radicality. Instead of turning to political activism, I engaged in an artistic fight—a fight against reality itself. At every level, the experience of art is a battle and a combat with the very principles of reality. Studying the history of art, painting, and sculpture was the main food of my soul.

I never studied theater, but within the Accademia di Belle Arti, I began to develop an idea of theater from my engagement with performance art. There is a difference between theater and the performing arts. The first is the conception of time and space. Theater embraced an idea of fiction and falsehood—the fake as a discipline. In the end, I found theater much stronger than the performing arts. It’s a much more radical conception of life for me.

Then I started to study Greek tragedy. It was a kind of matrix, a philosophy, for me. Greek tragedy is not only an aesthetic—it’s not just archaeological stuff—it is really living in my flesh and in our society.

Your work pulls from some of the world’s most foundational myths and tragedies. On that note, how did you build your literary foundation?

My study was independent. I was alone at school, and it was very personal. But then I was lucky to meet an instructor, Giorgio Cortenova, who taught the history of contemporary art. that orientate my thinking on the language of the “form”. But for the rest, I was completely alone at school, without friends or companions. However, outside of school, I had a small group of friends, and together we created our first theatrical experience. Previously, I had worked on many installations—paintings, sculptures, and performances. But somehow, without any deliberate decision or choice, theater became my primary activity.

I never chose theater—it happened by chance. In fact, I originally studied visual arts. Despite this, I still feel that, in a way, I am working in visual art.

Theater, for me, can sometimes be a very boring job. As a spectator, when I was young, it was always terrible and so strange. I’m in the middle of it now, in the blind spot, so I cannot judge my work. But very often, theater is just boring. That’s not a snobbish statement—I’m just being honest, as a spectator.

I’m curious, then, where you found the potential in theater if your experiences were always met with boredom?

Not always, but frequently, I was met with boredom. Because normally, theater—both then and even now—is seen as a second branch of literature, a way to illustrate it. But theater has nothing to do with literature. Theater is the art of the flesh.

During my studies, I came across Antonin Artaud. He was a French philosopher and radical thinker. He wrote and worked in the first half of the 20th century and died in 1948. That encounter changed my life.

And music changed my life as well. When I was an adolescent, I heard The Rite of Spring performed live. It was a shock—something really violent. At that age, we need violence, and I found that violence in a form. That, for me, was a revelation.

I discovered that aesthetics could be a battlefield. You can fight through aesthetics, and that was far more interesting than the so-called political fight.

How did your first performance, Cenno (1980), come to be? I had quite a hard time finding any information about it, but I think that’s the nature of it.

It’s very mysterious because it was done one time, in one flat, for one spectator. And then it stopped.

Nevertheless, it’s the foundation of my work. This spectator was—he’s now passed—the Italian critic Giuseppe Bartolucci. Afterwards, he became our friend. It was so important to do Cenno only for him, that one time, in that flat in Rome.

It was very important because the work was terrible, but the discussion was very rich. I remember the discussion better than the show.

Could you share a bit about what the performance was about and the discussion afterward?

I have almost forgotten. It was some mysterious images with strange characters, almost without words. I don’t remember. It’s a bit confusing, even in my mind. In fact, it was something between performance and theater, but it’s difficult to try to describe to you what it was.

I can say something else about Cenno: in Italian, the word cenno means a little gesture—it’s the minimal gesture. And probably, Cenno was literally a minimal gesture.

The performance was done with the founding members of the theater company Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio. In the text The Theatre of Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio (2007), regarding the development of Tragedia Endogonidia, I felt such a cohesion of voice in the company. What were those early years with the company like?

We shared different aspects of the language of theater. Claudia [Castellucci] was engaged in the writing of texts, so at that time, she was basically a dramaturge. Chiara [Guidi] was more focused on how to pronounce the word. I did all the rest—the set, direction, and so on.

I have to mention Scott Gibbons, my musical collaborator. I still work with him, and it’s a strong relationship. He’s very similar to me, like a brother. When we work together, we don’t need to speak or explain things.

You had been practicing from the 1980s until the early 2000s with Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio. Where did the energy come from?

This is a fair question because, without fire, you cannot create work. I refuse the idea of profession—when you are a professional, you can do the “right” thing, but that is not art. It’s decoration.

I try to surprise myself all the time. I believe deeply in the principle of contradiction. I want to work against myself. Every time I create something, it is both the first time and the last time. Therefore, it has to be a surprise. The stage is the most bizarre and strange place in the world. If you are not able to feel the strangeness of this place… it’s strange.

For me, you have to reinvent everything every time—not only concerning issues like material, topic, gesture, and aesthetics, but even the necessity itself. You have to ask yourself, What is the urgency? What is the necessity? What is the danger? I have to feel a danger because it’s a dangerous place. This is just my opinion, but if you are confident in your way of doing things, it doesn’t work.

[Regarding Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio,] we now work separately. Just after Tragedia Endogonidia, we split our beds. We still share the space “Teatro Comandini” in Cesena, but everyone has pursued their own personal work.

Moving into your more recent work, La Passione (2016): it seems like the performers, apart from the musicians, are not exactly actors. Who are they? Technicians?

There are no actors at all. They are technicians and real people who come from the city.

La Passione, which is Bach’s Matthäus-Passion, is a portrait of a city. It was first in Hamburg, then in Lisbon, and now it will be in Florence. The people on stage are real people—citizens of the city—each bringing their own experience.

In a way, it was not created to portray the passion of Saint Matthew or the gospel itself. Instead, it was the gospel as seen through a real person. The passion belonged to a real person, creating a kind of mirrored effect. So La Passione is not just the passion of Christ—it is also a reflection of the passion that exists in everybody in real life. The fact of having a body is a passion. That’s the main idea.

Your works do not simply remake a text but rather use it as a framework for theatrical exploration. What’s fascinating is how this approach allows for a transformation beyond strict interpretation.

When I’m facing a production—maybe something from tradition, La Passione, Hamlet, or so on—I don’t ask myself, “What does Hamlet mean for us?” Instead, I take the reverse perspective: “What do I mean for Hamlet?” Meaning myself, my place as a person, and my place as a spectator.

When I work, I always take the place of the spectator because a director is a spectator too. It changes the perspective—you are surprised every time. You don’t know what is going to happen.

But the most important thing is a question—a question that the spectator can interpret however they want. It’s just as important not to provide answers.

The question of the audience is always very important because it presents a reversed perspective of theater. What I do on stage is not an object or illustration; it is an experience that completely belongs to the spectator.

It’s such a vulnerable position to be in as well, to know that your work is going to be held by all of these people.

Because I want the spectator—the audience—to have to finish my work. There is space for any kind of interpretation, even spaces that engage the imagination of the spectator. My work on stage is never complete. I always leave open doors. There is also a lack of narration and logic—a kind of hole in the representation.

There is a space in which the image call the name of each spectator.

What do you say to audiences who come to you later asking for answers?

I ask the spectator what they think. To tell you the truth, that is more important. Of course, I have a dramaturgy—I have ideas, a concept, a vision of the form, and so on. But it’s much more interesting to ask a spectator what it means for them. There are many, many different interpretations, even completely opposite ones.

That is good news. You can feel whatever you want because your body is diving into an experience. It’s a good reflection of society when there isn’t a singularity of thought.

Sometimes it’s not easy because the spectator to have to make a decision. The spectator then takes on a kind of responsibility when viewing. There has to be a choice, a strong one.

Now, in a way, we are spectators 24 hours a day. Without any choice, without any question, we just eat pictures. But at the theater or in an art gallery, you have to make a choice. That makes the difference.

With such a long career, I’m sure you’ve been presented with many new technologies. In the Die Zauberflöte (2018) grotto, the set was created with parametric design and CNC. This display is particularly breathtaking in scale and detail. What are your considerations when presented with a new technology?

I use every kind of technique, every kind of technology that exists. I am not superstitious about technology—I just use what I need in the moment. Very often, technology can turn out to be a kind of trivial gadget or something simply demonstrative.

I worked with the architect Michael Hansmeyer. We had a very good exchange while working on the Grotto. It was large-scale. It wasn’t just an aesthetic choice—everything was based on symmetry, like a mirror (symmetry is a key theme for Mozart).

I did The Rite of Spring with 48 sophisticated programmed machines that performed a dance with bones dust in the air: it was bone ash from cows is used in agriculture as a fertilizer. Instead of dancers, I created a precise choreography with machines suspended from the ceiling. They were able to spread dust into the air. They created something like spirals, jets, explosions, falls, forming shapes and dancing to Stravinsky’s music.

That performance involved only machines. There were no people on stage. It was very complicated—we spent a month and a half just programming it to be in sync. That project was the biggest technological push I’ve made. But when I work with machines I deal with the ghosts they represent.

There is a very different emotional impact when you see machines versus a human body.

A machine is frightening because it does one thing with absolute precision—it has a function. There is no space for humanity and no space for doubt. And that is what makes it so unsettling.

The opposite of that is the presence of an animal. I often work with animals—not to command them to do something precise, but because they enter the stage as animals. They are pure beings. They represent chaos. It’s another kind of inhumanity, the opposite of a machine.

An actor is, at the same time, both an animal and a machine.

Your performance Μa (2023) unfolds within the Eleusis archaeological site, a space imbued with the weight of the Eleusinian Mysteries. We discussed earlier how mythology can serve as a framework for building another narrative. In that vein, how do you approach and manage a site so charged with history, mythology, and cultural memory?

It sometimes happens that I get to work in very special places. For example, here at the archaeological site in Eleusis, where the cults of the Mother took place. I’ve also done work in Geneva’s Saint-Pierre Cathedral or the Palais des Papes in Avignon, among many others. In every special place, we must consider the place itself as a character, not just a venue.

You have to work with the phantoms that are present. It’s better to engage with the memory of the space—to become close to it and work with it. Otherwise, you are dead, because the place is much stronger than you. So, we have to deal with their memory, as characters endowed with spirit.

The venues can speak and listen. In the end, the main creative choices will come from the spaces themselves. You just have to listen carefully to the ghosts of the space.

A bit of a silly question, but do you have any interaction with pop culture?

Sure. From a certain point of view, it’s inevitable. We exist in this world. I am not a hermit—I go to the supermarket, I use the internet, I listen to the radio, and I like some of it.

I have no prejudice. If something is good, it’s good. I like Schubert, but I also enjoy pop songs when they have a strange form that can catch my attention.

In order of appearance

Romeo Castellucci, Cain, overo Il Primo Omicidio. Composer: Alessandro Scarlatti. Premiere: 2019. Photography: Luca Del Pia.
Romeo Castellucci, Hey Girl!. Premiere: 2006. Festival: Festival d’Avignon 2007. Photography: Steirischerherbst/Manninger.
Romeo Castellucci, Hey Girl!. Premiere: 2006. Festival: Festival d’Avignon 2007. Photography: Steirischerherbst/Manninger.
Romeo Castellucci, Genesi. From the Museum of Sleep. Premiere: 1999. Photography: Luca Del Pia.
Romeo Castellucci, Genesi. From the Museum of Sleep. Premiere: 1999. Photography: Luca Del Pia.
Romeo Castellucci, Salzburger Festspiele 2024 / Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Don Giovanni. Premiere: July 28, 2024. Photography: Monika Rittershaus.
Romeo Castellucci, Mystery 11. Eleusis 2023. Photography: John Kouskoutis.
Romeo Castellucci, Mystery 11. Eleusis 2023. Photography: John Kouskoutis.
Romeo Castellucci, Don Giovanni. Photography: Monika Rittershaus.
Romeo Castellucci, Parsifal. Opera House: De Munt / La Monnaie. Premiere: 2011. Photography: Bernd Uhlig.
Romeo Castellucci, Parsifal. Opera House: De Munt / La Monnaie. Premiere: 2011. Photography: Bernd Uhlig.
Romeo Castellucci, Die Zauberflöte. Opera House: De Munt / La Monnaie. Premiere: September 18, 2018. Photography: Bernd Uhlig.

ciguë

Posted on 28 de November de 202428 de November de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · ciguë architecture
Words · Annalise Kamegawa

From prototyping in France to wooden structures in Jakarta, ciguë’s practice embodies a growing world

ciguë, with their portfolio of projects around the globe, has created a world within a world. Rooted in their Parisian beginnings, each project carries fragments of the places they’ve worked, building a collective vision that continually evolves. In an interview with NR, founding partners Alphonse Sarthout, Camille Bénard, and Guillem Renard delve into the projects and processes that define the spaces that they create.

We heard that ciguë was founded when you all were in architecture school in Paris. It’s almost as if you’ve grown up in the industry together. How have your relationships evolved throughout the years?

A: When we started, there was no topic we wouldn’t share with each other. In the beginning, we could spend an entire day just talking about one project—this helped us a lot to build a foundation of ideas and understand our direction. After 20 years, we now share a common intuition. There’s much less talking than before and more acting with trust in each other.

C: For some people, there is life and then there is work. We [the partners] never tried to separate these things. Our beliefs from our private lives are applied in our professional lives too. For us, it’s all one and the same: life is research; it’s a playground; it’s also a lot of work.

A: Maybe the biggest challenge is having the team grow beyond the partners—we need to employ people. Many journalists still use the word ‘collective’ to describe us, but really today, we are a company with partners and employees trying to keep up that spirit.

We try not to have any hierarchy in the creative process: but we still work toward collective thinking that goes beyond the architect, contractors, craftsmen, and clients. We’ve tried from the beginning to have everyone around the table, working toward a common idea. We strongly believe that the best projects we’ve done were not just us in a corner having nice ideas—it’s best when we can build relationships.

Your work with Ace Athens is one the firm’s largest projects to date in terms of both scale and scope. The Hotel & Swim Club is a 120-room property with a pool, gallery, and café. Notably, the project works around the renewal of the Fenix Hotel. What was one part of the space that challenged you? One part that inspired you?

A: Ace Athens is actually not the biggest project we’ve worked on, but at the moment, it is the biggest project to be realised and delivered.

A big challenge: The balconies on the façade make the building very particular. The rule was one balcony to one room, so we had to preserve the rooms’ partitions. Additionally, there were legal restraints. If we demolished something in the hotel, we couldn’t rebuild it as a hotel, because current urban planning regulations only permit housing developments.

We also had to find a way to give the exterior a certain elegance. Unfortunately, it was a very fragile structure that required reinforcing the concrete with very specific techniques. When we found the hotel, it had a very 80s-90s style of mixed material with these ugly plastic additions. It was not very inspiring, so we had to strip it to the bone to revive the structure.

C: I see two major things in this rehabilitation. First, it reflects the kind of architect we want to be. Existing buildings are everywhere, and our focus is to take something that’s falling and give it a new life. This belief has guided our company’s history.

Second, once you give life to the rehabilitation, the question then becomes how to connect it to the city and make it embody the place it’s in. We partnered up with a friend of ours, Matthieu Prat, who has spent a lot of time in Athens finding artists in the local scene. This collaboration [which resulted in showcasing the works of 18 Athenian artists in the hotel] was an essential part of this process.

In the Aesop Nashville store, there’s these tall wooden beams with shelves mimicking an ax intersecting a tree. It’s noted here that you were inspired by the American legacy of “first growth pine.” We’re interested in your first interactions with Nashville and what led you to the discovery of this site-specific phenomenon?

G: With our projects, we try and find a way to blend with the locals. We walk through the streets, finding some materiality to ground us. But this is a good question because, being French, it’s not so easy to casually navigate a place like Tennessee.

We ended up finding this guy who was a kind of collector in what seemed to be a sawmill factory. We pushed open the doors to his space and we discovered these crazy old wood beams and dismantled logs from the beginning of the 20th century. They were super nicely refurbished. That’s when we said, “here is our project.” For us, it expressed the historical legacy through a material – we could work with it as a starting point.

C: It brought all these archetypes of America into one gesture, or one scene.

A: What Guillem described is a process we’ve been doing for every project abroad. If the conditions allow it, we request to withhold from designing until we get a chance to be on site for a few days. Of course, it’s not easy to say to the client, “in order to design, we need you to pay for a trip first.” But for us, this is very important.

We did this for Isabel Marant in Tokyo. We spent almost a week walking around the city, going to the harbor, finding factories, people working with local materials. We do all this to get inspired and immerse ourselves in the culture.

C: In general, we don’t want to find ourselves imposing our French culture onto a project. Rather, what interests us is discovering how cultures can blend. That’s where we’re seeking to design from.

Your work is known for its connection to craftsmanship and prototyping. There are a lot of fixtures (including elaborate systems and contraptions) within the Aesop stores that are made by the team at ciguë. Given your emphasis on craftsmanship and custom design, but with a growing international presence, how has your process for creating custom pieces evolved? Are your prototypes still primarily developed in France, or do you now collaborate with local artisans in different regions?

C: Overtime, the tools of architecture have been reduced to the lines on AutoCAD. We didn’t recognize ourselves in this. Our practice was born from the will to make things as well as to design them. We prototype because it’s very evocative and allows us to get rid of words and drawings. So many ideas can be summed up just in one piece.

Sometimes we also use prototypes to discuss with the makers that execute the designs. We’ve found that it’s a super rich and fast way to exchange ideas without language.

A: At the beginning, we were designing and building everything ourselves systematically. When we started to have projects abroad, we were obliged, almost forced, to have our project built by others—at least that’s how we perceived it. But after a few projects, we discovered that collaboration with local makers made the process so much more interesting.

For one of the first stores we did abroad, we built everything here in France. We shipped it, installed it there in three days, and then came back to Paris. It was a challenge. We made it, but then we just realized we couldn’t see the city or meet anyone there. In the end, it was just like any project done in our workshop in France.

One or two years later, we did a project in Tokyo for Isabel Marant. There, we discovered Japanese craftsmanship, and it was amazing. The first meeting we had, we didn’t say anything. We were at a table filled with materials and samples. There was a language barrier, but through the materials, we could see there was a deep understanding between us. After this, we took a bit of distance from systematically building everything ourselves

In the Arabica coffee space in Jakarta (2023), the architecture pulls from both Javanese crafts, traditional Indonesian dwellings, and the heritage of Dutch colonial architecture – all influences that are palpable in the city. I’m interested in understanding the process of building this wooden structure.

G: On this project, carpentry was a big challenge because there is a lot of wood available for use within Indonesia. All the wood from the country is going abroad now for furniture and other uses. They are struggling a lot to keep the material in their territory. Because of this, it was a big challenge for us to get the clients, the engineers, and the other stakeholders to understand the idea behind having a wood building.

We wanted to integrate into the neighborhood’s old wooden construction. This area was a historic neighborhood, and we wanted to emphasize that.

A: Playing with the archetypes of the Javanese house, with its big, airy, ventilated structures, made sense to us. It wasn’t in a nostalgic way. It was more because, if it’s been this way for centuries, then there must be a reason. Unfortunately, with modernity, there have been so many aspects of traditional architecture that have been erased through technology. With air conditioning and concrete as fast building methods, there has been a loss of the specificities of certain architecture that makes it rich.

C: Such as was this case in Jakarta, sometimes we build new buildings. This isn’t a light act for us—we feel a strong responsibility. That’s why we look to invoke a certain culture or link it to local knowledge about buildings.

Working so much in the public-facing retail sector, your spaces have more foot traffic than say an office or private residence. Are there any standout memories you have of the public interacting with your spaces in an unexpected way?

A: I’m reminded of what we did for the Citadium project. It is a department store, mainly for young people, kids, and teenagers. The funny story is that the manager of the place had always been a fan of music and radio, so he decided to create a radio station in the space. The renovation happened during COVID.

G: It was a DJ booth and a welcoming radio station for Rinse, Paris. It plays electronic music and everything on a web radio that’s strongly resonant in the young generation.

A: During COVID, all the clubs in Paris closed, but Citadium was open because of capacity rules. They could still welcome people. This radio station became the only place you could hear live music, DJs and performances. The initial intention to create a radio station is already cool, but then during COVID, it became an important communal place.

In every city, project, and prototype, Ciguë’s work is about a unified voice—not singular, but a composition of many stories, colors, and textures gathered over their years of practice. Reflecting this ethos, in NR’s conversation, Alphonse says, “Throughout our projects, we want to feel like we’re still on the path of discovering who we are. If we realize one day that we’re just repeating the same style because we’re Ciguë and that’s what Ciguë should do, then we just won’t make sense anymore. Every project is a new story. Every project is an occasion to reinvent ourselves and meet new people, new materials, invent ways of doing things.”

Credits

ciguë architecture, Isabel Marant Store, Tokyo-Omotesando. Photography by Koyo Takayama.
ciguë architecture, Ace Hotel, Athens. Photography by Pasquale De Maffini.
ciguë architecture, Aesop Store, Nashville. Photography by Aesop.
ciguë architecture, Isabel Marant Store, Tokyo-Omotesando. Photography by Koyo Takayama.
ciguë architecture, Arabica Coffee Shop, Jakarta. Photography by Ricky Adrian.
ciguë architecture, Citadium, Paris. Photography by Maris Mezulis.

CS + KREME

Posted on 23 de September de 202426 de September de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · CS + KREME
Words · Andrea Bratta

Sonic Sceneries

It is an almost safe assumption to say that backgrounds are important while tracking down an artist’s output. When it comes to Conrad Standish and Sam Karmel’s –the duo behind CS+Kreme– such taxonomies are as interesting to perform as they feel superfluous. During the summer leading to their upcoming New LP ‘The Butterfly Drinks the Tears of the Tortoise,’ NR spoke with the Melbourne/Naarm based duo to retrace an incredibly rich history of sonic experimentation in and out of different scenes, resulting in an almost chameleonic approach to their signature interplay between registers and sounds.

I wanted to begin perhaps in a bit of a classic fashion with this one –I’ve been digging a bit about you, and there’s not much information out there, which seems intentional.

Conrad Standish: It’s not really intentional, yeah. I think people might see us as more mysterious than we are. The truth is, people don’t usually ask us for interviews, so we don’t do them. But when we’re asked, we’re happy to.

Mmmh. I guess it’s their loss. I’m all the more excited to dig in and uncover a bit of unwilling mysteries. How did this project come about? Conrad, we were chatting a little bit off the record while waiting for Sam to join, and you mentioned Melbourne and the challenges of building something culturally there. Was CS+Creme born out of you guys being part of the same scene?

CS Yeah, Sam and I knew each other a little from the Melbourne scene. One good thing about Melbourne is that different groups mix. The techno scene overlaps with other scenes, probably because it’s a smaller city. We knew each other from parties, and at the time, the band I was in had just ended. Sam emailed me, asked if I wanted to jam, and that’s how it started. We jammed in his bedroom— I brought my 808 over, and we had surprisingly strong chemistry. That’s how it all began, and over the years, we just got deeper into it.

Going through your releases, I had the impression of being confronted with a very heterogeneous mix of elements and influences, which seems to evolve from record to record – A pronounced sense of experimentation, if you like. Could you talk about your process? How do you approach composing?

Sam Karmel Sure. We usually start with sketches, often born from jams. If we like something in a sketch, we play with it until we’re happy. There’s a lot of experimenting—adding, removing elements, and trying unexpected things. We push ourselves but keep it natural. Sometimes new equipment helps us explore new areas, but it’s a playful and fearless approach, where we throw ideas around until we get somewhere that feels right.

CS Yeah, that’s pretty accurate. In the early days, everything came from improvisation or jamming, and we’d zero in on the good parts to refine them. But now, we’ve expanded. Sometimes we work individually, bring ideas together, and refine them. There’s no fixed process, but the end result is always quite different from the initial idea.

That unpredictability is fascinating. It’s like the process takes you somewhere unexpected, which brings to mind how sometimes writing starts with a concept but ends up in a completely different place. But your output still feels very coherent. When I listen to one of your records I can really tell it’s a collection of songs that belong together, you know what I mean? Do you consciously aim for that level of cohesion when you create an album?

CS No, not consciously. We don’t start with a clear idea or feeling in mind. It evolves naturally. As we’re halfway through, we start to see a pattern or shape in the record. We just let things unfold and guide them later when we start to understand what the album is becoming.

It reminds me of discussions about surrealist music—how it emerges from spontaneous juxtapositions that form a coherent aesthetic in the end. You seem to have a broad range of influences. Could you talk about your musical backgrounds and how they come together in your sound?

SK Yeah, over the years, we’ve traversed different areas of music. I grew up with classical music, then got into metal, and later Detroit techno and electronic music. Conrad has a different story.

CS Yeah, for me, it was hip hop when I was younger, being part of the graffiti scene in Melbourne. Then I played in rock and punk bands. We have broad tastes but share a lot of common ground. Our different backgrounds come together naturally.

I’ve got to say I am very curious about the Melbourne scene. You’ve mentioned also how much they usually overlap. Did growing up in such an environment influenced the experimental quality of your processes as musicians?

CS Well, I wasn’t as involved in the Melbourne scene as Sam was. I moved to Berlin and London for a while, so I can’t say I’ve been deeply embedded here. But Melbourne is cool; it has its own scene, though I’m not sure how amazing it is compared to other places.

SK Yeah, when I moved to Melbourne in the early 2000s, there was an underground experimental band scene that I was part of. The scene has changed a lot since then. Right now, it’s very dance-music-oriented, especially with a focus on psychedelic techno.

CS Exactly. It’s gone through different phases, and it’s hard to pin down what it’s like right now.

You come from such different backgrounds and scenes, and you’ve both performed in various settings— from the Bourse de Commerce to festivals, passing from proper clubs, and concerts. Does the setting where you perform influences how you compose or alter your live sets?

SK More and more, we’re thinking about how the music will translate in different environments. The sound system has become something we’re particular about now. As we’ve played on some amazing sound systems around the world, we’ve realized that when the system is good, our ideas translate the way we want them to. So, to some extent, this does affect how we write music, even for things that haven’t been released yet. And when it comes to live sets, we’re treating them as a unique entity, separate from the records.

CS Yeah, I agree. I’d love to treat the live experience as something completely separate from the records. It doesn’t have to just be us playing songs from our albums. I almost want to create something that’s 100% for the live experience and never recorded. But the setting can change things every night—sometimes you have a great sound system, sometimes a small room. In the past, we might have just pushed through, but now we’re trying to be more flexible and adapt to different situations. We both want the live set to be treated very differently from our recorded material.

CS Our upcoming record, for example, is quite gentle, but for live shows, I personally don’t want to be that gentle. We’re working on a new live set for our tour, and it’s going to be interesting to see how it evolves.

Why do you feel the live performances need to differ from the record’s nature?

CS I think it’s important to have a dynamic range in live performances. Sure, there’ll be gentle moments, but I don’t want to just play songs from the record. It’s a different experience being in the room, where the energy can change based on how we feel or the space we’re in.

SK Yeah, emotions always come into play during live performances. There’s room for improvisation, so how we perform can vary depending on our mood that night. It’s part of what keeps things fresh and exciting for us.

Could you tell me a little bit about the new material you’re working on? You mentioned a new record coming in September.

CS Yeah, we’ve written a new full-length record coming out in September on The Trilogy Tapes. It’s our most concise work so far, with some very gentle, minimal moments. But we don’t want to talk too much about it—it’s better to listen when it’s out.

SK We’re still pushing into different areas, but it feels like a natural progression. It’s very different from our previous records, yet it still sounds like us.

I understand it can be hard to describe music in words. Sometimes you just have to listen to it to understand.

CS Exactly. Describing music is difficult, especially for us, but there’s a chemistry between us when we know we’re getting it right. I think this record has a lot of those moments.

Speaking of live shows, do you ever think about incorporating visual elements into your performances?

SK We’ve thought about it recently. Sometimes visual elements can be overdone and come off as corny, but when done right, they’re amazing. We’re open to exploring it but haven’t found the right person to collaborate with yet. For now, our shows are minimal—just us playing in the dark with minimal lighting, no big showbiz elements.

Final question—when composing, is there something specific that inspires you, like a particular sound or image, or is it more of an organic process?

SK It changes. Sometimes it comes from an emotional place, other times from an interest in abstract sonic ideas. So the writing process depends on where we’re at emotionally or sonically at the time.

Listen to CS + KREME mix here.

Credits

Photography · Louis Horne

Paul Cournet

Posted on 5 de June de 202431 de July de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Paul Cournet
Words · Simone Lorusso

The Genesis of CLOUD

Paul Cournet, an architect and researcher based in Rotterdam, has carved a unique path in the world of architecture. From his formative years studying in Bordeaux and Paris to his tenure at OMA, where he played a pivotal role in diverse projects, Paul’s journey is one of exploration, creativity, and innovation. In 2022, he founded CLOUD, an international architecture, research, and design studio, marking a new chapter in his career. We had the privilege of sitting down with Paul to delve into his experiences, insights, and the fascinating intersection of architecture, education, and research.

Paul, thank you for joining us. Can you share with us the inspiration behind founding CLOUD, and what drives your vision for the studio?

Right after COVID I felt the world was in a different place. Honestly, COVID was a wake-up call for me. The world has been changing so rapidly in the past few years and I felt it was time for a different approach to architecture. An architecture driven by a new generation. I was also having so many conversations with so many inspiring people that, after a decade working at OMA*AMO, I thought it was the right time to start a new project – a multidisciplinary practice, at the intersection between architecture, research and design. This is how CLOUD was born. At CLOUD our interest lies in the materiality of architecture, both for its intangible as well as its tangible aspects, and the tension between them. We work on buildings as well as many other projects such as books, curation, scenography, and objects. We are currently working with clients such as the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam for which we are renovating the public areas of the museum, furniture pieces for galleries and brands, a modular timber housing concept in Belgium, as well as self-initiated research projects exploring innovations in materials.

It’s fascinating how interconnected our paths can be. For six years, I had the opportunity to collaborate with AMO on several fashion projects while working through a creative studio. I’m intrigued to learn how your experience in that realm has shaped your perspective on architecture and research.

Originally I come more from the art side of things. When I was a teenager I used to spend my time painting murals in abandoned factories and train stations. This got me interested in architecture and cities. I then studied architecture in France in the early 2000s and it was a moment of cultural explosion thanks to the internet where all of a sudden it was really easy to download any kind of movie, music and book online from across the world. This really opened my mind. At this moment, Rem Koolhaas had just published his new book ‘Content’ (2004) and AMO was developing all kinds of research-based projects with exhibitions, lectures, and installations which appeared to me so inspiring as a practice, and radically different from the architecture scene in France at that time. So as soon as I could, I applied for an internship and started working there at the end of 2010. Today I am still very interested in the possibility of working at different scales. I see architecture in everything and I believe that you can make a point with a building as much as with a chair.

When discussing Rotterdam, a city I once called home, I always admired its ongoing social evolution and its uniquely pragmatic approach, distinct from other European cities. How do you envision Rotterdam evolving over the next decade?

Rotterdam has changed a lot in the last decade that is for sure but for me, it has been the perfect place to start an architecture studio for different reasons: It is still the largest harbor of Europe which has made the city truly embracing diversity in its history. The city is also still relatively affordable and is not yet overly-saturated compared to Amsterdam or other larger European cities. In short, it is still pretty easy and affordable to start a studio here. Our studio is located in one of the ‘antikraak’ buildings which allows us to rent a space way under the market value. There is also a lot of industry around the city making it easy to produce things with manufacturers locally. And to finish, Rotterdam is pretty much in the center of Europe which makes it central and well connected to Paris, Milan, Brussels, Amsterdam, London, for work. Also overall I love to be in Rotterdam because it is a city pretty much under the radar, and we can simply focus and work without being too distracted. But yes, indeed, the city is changing rapidly and I bet in 10 years the city will be very different.

Could you elaborate on the ‘Datapolis’ research project? I’m interested to learn more about its objectives and how it fits into the current architectural landscape.

Datapolis is a project I initiated at the architecture faculty of TU Delft in 2019 as a research and design studio with Negar Sanaan Bensi. The central question was trying to understand what the ‘CLOUD’ is and how it operates. You know, the ‘CLOUD’ is this thing that we talk about every single day when we send emails and photos to each other, order online, use social media platforms and work from home; but that we can’t grasp how it truly works nor where it is or what we should share or not with each other online regardless of time zones or political borders. The ‘CLOUD’ is a metaphor but also a reality. Our intuition was that this immaterial CLOUD is indeed made of a tangible infrastructure with a vast physical footprint on our planet – think for instance data centers, connected satellites, automated distribution centers, undersea internet cables and humanoid robots. This intriguing complexity made this project an urgent research for us considering the discussions on climate change and ecological footprints of this data infrastructure. As the university studio grew into a bigger project and we expanded the conversation outside of the school, we then turned the research into a DATAPOLIS book in June 2023. The project now continues in different forms and we are now working on a series of DATAPOLIS exhibitions that will open later in 2024.

The recent design week showcased your involvement in numerous activities. Although we didn’t get a chance to chat, I expressed my gratitude to Sabine, with whom you collaborated on the scenography for promoting design and culture during the AlUla opening. Could you share more about your role in this endeavour?

Sabine and I were invited to curate and design the scenography of Design Space AlUla for Salone del Mobile 2024 in Milan. The show presented the outcomes from the latest design initiatives in AlUla. Here we wanted to create an immersive experience to translate some of the magical features that one can find while visiting the oasis: the stargazing and the moonshine in the desert, the visit of the old town and the historical Hegra sites that we translated in different features for the exhibition, respectively: a suspended light box changing colors during the day, the ‘urban carpet’ painted on the floor of the basilica that organized the exhibition layout and the monumental entrance that opened the exhibition to the streets of Milan.

We also visited Capsule Plaza during design week, now in its second edition. What distinguishes this unique concept?

This year we unveiled the second edition of CAPSULE PLAZA, the design festival that I have co-curated with Alessio Ascari, and launched the third issue of CAPSULE, the design magazine. A hybrid between a fair and a collective exhibition, Capsule Plaza brings together designers and companies from various creative fields, bridging industry and culture with a bold and multi-sensory curation that spans interiors and architecture, beauty and technology, innovation and craft.

This year the event took over two iconic Milanese locations: Spazio Maiocchi and 10 Corso Como. What is really exciting is to be able to create projects between all of these different industries and create a collective experience under a single roof. On top of the exhibitions, we also curated a dense program of live activations with talks, dinners, performances, workshops etc during the whole week which allows us to program both the hardware as well as the software of the event. This year the event was sub-titled ‘Radical Sensations’ as for us design is much more than a bunch of chairs and sofas, and design should call to activate all our senses.

As a guest teacher and lecturer across various universities in Europe, how do you approach educating the next generation of architects?

The world is changing rapidly and therefore education should also rethink completely how it operates more than ever. I have seen so many schools that claim to think outside of the box and promote a free and utopian thinking for their students but when you look at academia, they operate in a complete echo chamber. At the end of the day, they are the box. The relationship of ‘master and slave’ between students and professors should completely be abolished and schools should operate in a more collaborative process. There are some great examples in the past, look at Black Mountain College for instance. Education should be horizontal. We should also impose on anyone with a professional activity to go back to school every 5 years for a semester for instance. It would really change the dynamics for the better I think.

It might seem like a straightforward question, but I believe that our deepest passions often drive us to explore research and undertake projects. Can you share a situation or project where your emotions played the most significant role?

Just quit the job that you had built for over a decade with a stable position and all the benefits that goes with it. Call it quit on Friday and jump into the void. Start your own studio with no masterplan in mind, just because you have this feeling this is the right thing to do that day and that you believe something positive will come out of it. Focus on creativity and surround yourself with people that are smarter than you. Just take that risk …

Fifty-two years ago, the Club of Rome issued its seminal report, ‘The Limits to Growth,’ alerting the world to the finite nature of our planet’s resources. As an architect and researcher, could you share your perspective on what has been achieved in the past five decades and what remains to be addressed? Most importantly, what steps should we be taking now?

Architects are probably the best at giving lessons, but also probably the worst at taking them. Over the last 100 years, the modern movement embraced industrialization in the name of standardization and cost efficiency without taking into account the costs their actions would have on our planet. Today, the construction industry is one of the most polluting industries. If you look at any city in the world today, we still build architecture using almost exclusively concrete and steel. We are so short sighted that any of our buildings are fully climatized and contemporary architecture has become disposable in 90% of the cases. Architecture has lost any meaning for our society. We need to create a world based on new radical regulations where architecture has become non-extractive, where our cities produce more energy that they consume and where our society truly coexists with the environment. We also need less things and focus on quality instead. Only then we will be able to claim that we have properly read the Club of Rome’s report and learnt our lessons …

In order of appearance

CLOUD / Studio Sabine Marcelis. Design Space AlUla. Milan Design Week 2024. Photography by Alejandro Ramirez Orozco. Courtesy of CLOUD.
Paul Cournet. Photography by Nikola Lamburov. Courtesy of Paul Cournet.
Datapolis: Exploring the Footprint of Data on Our Planet and Beyond, Paul Cournet, Negar Sanaan Bensi. Published by nai010 publishers, 2023. Photography by Riccardo De Vecchi.
CLOUD / Studio Sabine Marcelis. Design Space AlUla. Milan Design Week 2024. Photography by Alejandro Ramirez Orozco. Courtesy of CLOUD.
CLOUD / Studio Sabine Marcelis. Design Space AlUla. Milan Design Week 2024. Photography by CLOUD. Courtesy of CLOUD.
niceworkshop. Capsule Plaza. Milan Design Week 2024. Photography by CLOUD. Courtesy of CLOUD.
Panton Lounge. Capsule Plaza. Milan Design Week 2024. Photography by CLOUD. Courtesy of CLOUD.
LC2 Chair. Paul Cournet. Photography by Titia Hahne. Courtesy of CLOUD and Titia Hahne.
Barcelona Foam. Paul Cournet. Photography by Titia Hahne. Courtesy of CLOUD and Titia Hahne.

Chanel Beads

Posted on 5 de June de 202431 de July de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Chanel Beads
Words · Andrea Bratta

The Feeling Remains

What is a feeling? neither us nor Shane Lavers from Chanel Beads might have a correct answer for it. That being said, NR spoke with him about navigating fleeting emotions through music, internal contradictions, and what drove —and bothered— him one week prior the NYC band’s debut album Your Day Will Come would see the light.

Hi Shane, how’s it going?

I just woke up, I’m in the middle of moving, so it’s been.. chaotic, but I am good!

And, most importantly, your first LP is on the way! How do you feel? How have the last weeks leading up to it been?

Yeah, it definitely feels like something new, but I try not to have any expectations, really. And then everything’s a happy surprise.

I’ve known about your work since fairly recently, actually. I’ve gotta come clean. I listened to your music for the first time in Paris, around November.

You were at the Bagnolet show, right?

Attending that show was a great moment for me, as it had been more than a couple of months since seeing someone play live –I came there being so curious about the whole thing..Your setup, and the way you guys performed felt refreshingly different. One thing I am wondering ,now that things are maybe starting to change, is about the shift from smaller, intimate venues to larger ones, like the recent gig you did at SXSW. What I loved about your show was its intimacy, and maybe some of it might be lost in bigger settings. How do you feel about this potential change in how your music is experienced? Are you adapting to it?

Settings like SXSW are complicated –We played a couple of outdoor daytime shows, and that’s just not a great fit, at least for what I’m trying to do. That show you just mentioned, if i’m not mistaken, the place was almost a gallery or a studio, it didn’t have a stage, but was still loud enough: That felt like an ideal place to perform. I’m uncertain about adjusting to formats where there’s a significant distance between me and the audience. Most of the live performances I’ve done are just kind of this weird act. It’s not acting per se, but it’s a really naked moment –Me trying to embody my music really plainly, really close to people. So yeah, I’m kind of nervous, and I don’t really know what to do if there’s like a gate and, you know, 20 feet between me and people. But I guess we’ll cross that bridge.

You maybe lose that conversational element that your music possesses.The Bagnolet show was the first time ever I listened to your music –I didn’t know anything about your work prior to that. A friend invited me to the show telling me it would be a good one so I decided to go in blindly, without listening to anything beforehand. I just wanted to be surprised by something new. Maybe that’s why I perceive this presence of a conversation between you and your listener, and that is something that an intimate live experience embodies better. Do you consider the relationship between your music and its audience, allowing space for their interpretation alongside your own narrative? Or do you primarily focus on expressing your own story, regardless of the presence of a stage or audience?

It’s kind of complicated. I mean, it’s definitely closer to the latter. It is always a bad idea to try to imagine what other people are thinking, and that is sometimes because you can never really picture a stranger’s mind. I don’t purposefully try to not-think of what other people will think, and I feel very lucky at the moment because that kind of distinction doesn’t even cross my mind because I am too focused on myself as the listener, or trying to have a conversation with myself.

It feels very insular, though, and sometimes after a songs’ made, I’ll kind of notice that I think that I’ve written something very specific and detailed, but then I am like “wait, there’s only like four or five lines in this song and not that much of a context for them.” Even I may not fully know what the song is about as it shifts as you write it. However, as long as it means something to me, I’m happy, I am excited.

Your songs often present two distinct voices or perspectives, a sense of internal conflict or contradiction. This duality seems particularly pronounced in some of the songs from your upcoming record, especially now that yours and Colleen’s singing alternate and layer more substantially, perhaps reflecting this conversation or dialogue within yourself you just mentioned. I had a question in that sense, but I guess you’ve already touched on this aspect, acknowledging the presence of two voices conversing or two parts of yourself engaged in dialogue –An interplay between different perspectives allowing abstract feelings to resurface and attempting to give them tangible expression.

Yeah. Context always changes in what I write, but it’s almost like..the feeling remains the same, there’s a consistency of an emotion lingering through and through. It’s akin to moving from one scene to another, seemingly unrelated, yet still connected by a common thread despite the shifting of time and space.

Without the need of a specificity.

Yeah. [pauses] The feeling remains.

It’s intriguing how your composition process seems to mirror this idea. I’ve noticed a very distinct style, and sound, in your music, even from the first time I encountered it. Despite this being your debut LP, your consistent approach to composing and shaping sonic palettes over the years has been evident. Was this new record an opportunity to crystallise and refine that style further, or was you just going for an experimental take on longer narrative possibilities or a more cohesive output of material?

It’s both of those things really, it kinda just felt like, “Okay, now I’ve got an album.” But I definitely was trying to match an emotional and lyrical sentiment with the sonics. I always felt kind of frustrated with the way I composed in the past and I know that a lot of musicians or artists might feel like they’re aspiring to something, but they’re kind of stuck making something else. It’s kind of a cliche, so I try not to think about it too much, like the one of sitting down with the guitar and then getting really into it, making beats or something like that. I think such things are kind of boring, and self mythologizing in a weird way.

Industry tricks 101: The creative journey’s sentimentalisation..

I’ve been talking about this with friends a lot. I felt really free with this project, I finally was able to let the floodgates open and release stuff because I felt in a position where I’m not interested in distinctions anymore, and whatever i do is just gonna exist as it is and I’m not gonna give a shit If people think it’s rock music, electronic music, or whatever. I’ve been having interviews where people keep asking me about Coffee Culture, because it’s kind of the record’s outliner, but I actually feel like I make more music similar to it than, let’s say, Police Scanner. And I guess this kind of feels like a cliche too –To be like “Fuck the listener, I don’t even care about the listener.” But yeah, I didn’t really like thinking about distinctions like “who’s listening to it? Am I listening to it or is someone else listening to it,” I am kind of practicing ignorance almost as a virtue, lately, in that regard. [laughs]

Have you been putting things out because you just finally felt really like it?

Yeah. And I try to stay away from distinctions and intellectualising stuff. It’s way more interesting to go back before those lines were drawn.

I get it! Sometimes, as I interview people, it’s almost weird because when I come there, I have all my stuff prepared, questions, notes. I’ve been reading, listening, informing myself on the artists’ work, weaving narratives around and intellectualising it. It all feels a tad funny sometimes, because I think of myself first and foremost as a listener and sometimes I think that maybe I should just focus on enjoying the music and, as you said, it is simpler, and maybe more interesting. How do you feel then when talking about music, your music specifically?

Well, I think it’s fun to over intellectualise things, I just don’t want to do it to myself. [laughs] It’s flattering to talk about your music with people, but it also feels weird sometimes –And don’t get me wrong, I’m getting good at PR training. If someone asks me a question, I’ll just be like “next question,” if I don’t want to say anything about it– The strange thing with talking about my own music is that, often, the whole point of it is that I’m not able to just talk about the things i want to communicate with it. If I could, just talking about them would have been fine, but because I don’t feel like I can do that via simple words, I resort to music. Whatever you’re trying to express, I feel it has to come out via the best channel you can express it through, so a complicated feeling or a complicated thought can come out with all the nuances it deserves. What I like about the way I’m approaching music is that it allows me to work with stuff that I’m still parsing through –It’s me trying to figure out how I’m feeling, and what I’m thinking or what the world is, in an external and internal way at the same time.

How long do you feel this record has been growing within you? A part of you may still be processing the themes woven into this record, and while you may have physically composed the record recently, it feels listening to you like its inception and development may have been with you for much longer.

A lot of what I do, not only with music but with visuals too, I approach it with a “waiting to strike” attitude, kinda like getting really prepared for something that is going to happen so that you can move quickly about it. It’s not improvising. It’s more like operating in real time, that’s why maybe I am so fond of playing live shows. Things always happen quickly and impulsively, but at the same time thought out and prepared. I’m not really interested in super constructed music, but rather in quick bursts that then are shaped from there. I have this kind of motto, “Never let them see you sweat,” which is like..You can think about stuff and prepare it, but ideally you shouldn’t be in control of all the variables, so then you can kind of discover new stuff in that moment. I don’t know if that answers your question, but that’s a complicated answer to give you, because I wrote the album pretty quickly, but there’s one song on it called Urn that I wrote, like in 2018, and it kind of came out way different when I finally recorded it again, so timelines are, let’s say, variable.

Like with Idea June, you released two different versions, very similar in their underlining, both songs’ sentiment feels the same, but they still are very different, maybe two sides of the same narration? It’s interesting that you decided to release both. The bit about not wanting the artifice behind things to be seen really resonated with me. When I saw you live, it felt..digital, electronic maybe, in a way. Your setup was hybrid, a computer playing the record and you playing over it, singing over it and adding vocal and sonic layers to it..but it felt very different from listening to the record versions of your tracks, because you don’t just execute the song, i feel it varies from set to set and is closer to what you said about doing the prep in order to be ready to change things on the fly.

Zach and Maya make their own guitar parts, and we just play the whole song front to back, they improvise a little but usually just once, and we get stuff like 90% locked in. As we refine it, especially during tour runs, it becomes less about improvisation and more about solidifying the structure. Still, there’s always this sense of recreating the song each time we perform it, even though the tracks remain consistent. It’s like discovering how the song should function anew with each rendition. Also, we’re not the type of band that heavily engages with the audience too much, like I’m not trying to crack jokes too much, which is what I do when I get nervous. I tend to funnel any nervous energy into the performance itself, though it’s more of an internal dynamic rather than trying to rile up the crowd. The live show is crucial because it feels like an ongoing dialogue with the audience about the sound and atmosphere of the music. We’ve encountered various venues with unique setups, like a show in Seattle held in an old drugstore, where our sound ended up heavily distorted due to the setup. It was mostly just kind of like shoegaze and punk bands playing, technically, like a festival –You just weren’t supposed to hear the vocals anyway, so they had a setup that was really not ideal for what we usually do. Rather than fighting against it, we embraced the challenge and improvised, adapting to the space on the spot. There was no respect or adherence to how the songs sounded initially, we just blasted the sound, fully screamed our lungs out and got over it, using it to our advantage. It’d be such a nightmare to just try to be like “Oh, this is not supposed to sound like this,” and fight with that. It’s way more interesting and compelling to just try to adapt to the room on the spot.

Are you aiming to maintain the same approach when performing in more standardised venues or supporting bands like Mount Kimbie? It’s a different dynamic, with different expectations and preparations for the show. How do you plan to stay true to your style and maintain some level of absence-of-control in these more controlled environments? It’s an essential aspect of what you do. Initially, when I saw you play, I found myself wishing for a full band and a more elaborate, proper, setup. But as I became more familiar with your work, I began to appreciate your approach to live music more and more. It really started to make sense and felt refreshing, new. How do you plan to maintain this chaos-theory approach to live music as your career progresses?

Our current approach is highly adaptable and, despite occasional suggestions to add a drummer –mostly from drummers themselves –I’m intrigued by its current possibilities. I’m not focused on delivering what people expect, so I’m not inclined to follow traditional paths. Mount Kimbie are an amazing band, they’re fantastic musicians, but as for myself, I’m currently not interested in playing an instrument onstage. Singing without any other responsibilities allows me to fully immerse myself in the moment, embracing any awkwardness that may arise. I’m just going to go with it and enjoy the experience.

Fuck it we ball.

It’s nice talking about the live shows and setup so much in this interview because it really provides a lot of the backstory behind our process. Most of the songs were written specifically for the way we play live right now –So many of the songs have multiple layers of singing in them because I got really into melodics and rhythmics that are fun to reproduce and alter during a live show. It’s compelling when we’re like in SXSW, a real, proper capital-R Rock festival..we’re in the belly of the beast, the beast being people telling us we need a drummer and stuff like that, but we still come out and do the show regardless and win people over.

It can be a great selling point, you have your way of doing things, that’s what won me over anyways. If you get, you get. If you don’t, you don’t. I think you don’t need a drummer, personally..for all that matters. [Laughs] A slight detour towards intellectualization: What served as the primary inspiration or driving force behind this record? Was it a specific narrative or theme you wanted to explore through your writing, or were you more focused on crafting a particular sonic palette and incorporating specific musical elements?

It’s definitely about the sound. While I was writing the lyrics, I did worry that I might end up with similar songs. Ideally, they all serve as cohesive glue, but I understand if someone were to criticize that aspect. When I begin a song, it’s usually because I have a particular sound or energy in mind. Then, I sit down and think about what’s been bothering me.

What has been bothering you?

I often think of the inability of things, or maybe myself, to change. I’m kind of in a pessimistic era these days. I mean everybody is, so..

It’s not like the world is in a great state, pessimism makes perfect sense. But your record still feels full of hope, in a way. It has mixed feelings and even tender undertones at its core –Like being very pessimistic about certain things, but still hoping to be wrong about it.

Well, I think there’s freedom in acknowledging how fucked things are, because then you are not deluded, but then you don’t wanna delude yourself about thinking that you are more fucked than you actually are. That’s maybe the real frustration for me..trying to find a point that feels good enough between these two extremes.

Maybe, life is just a pendulum swinging between deluding yourself and bringing yourself back towards a sense of reality. Chanel Beads’ take on Schopenhauer’s pendulum.

I guess we’ll find out.

Credits

Photography, Art Direction and Styling · Jack Pekarsky
Featured Artworks · Michal Alpern
Special thanks to Matthew Fogg and Olivia Larson.