Mesura and architecture that returns to genius loci
Heritage is the guiding force behind Mesura’s work. Inspired by the Roman concept of genius loci, the Barcelona-based architecture studio is drawn to places rich with history—UNESCO heritage sites, towering castles, or even the discarded stones of Gaudí’s Sagrada Família. Working within the spaces history has left to modernity, Mesura brings together fragments of the past with contemporary techniques, creating projects that span the globe.
The studio emerged during a turbulent time in Spain’s architectural landscape. In the early 2010s, amid the recession, a few university friends with a shared design philosophy began to work together in a small space in Barcelona. Their turning point arrived when they entered the EUROPAN 2011 competition, choosing the historic walls of Dubrovnik as their site. What started as an experiment soon became a defining moment—designing with history, rather than just around it.
That realisation shaped Mesura’s identity. Rather than following the traditional model of a singular architect at the helm, the studio’s co-founders— Benjamín Iborra, Carlos Dimas, Jaime Font Furest, Jordi Espinet, and Marcos Parera Blanch—built a space for collaboration, research, and a reimagined approach to design.
In conversation with NR, Mesura co-founder and partner Benjamín Iborra discusses some of the studio’s defining projects.
Were you always called Mesura?
We just started doing stuff together, but then at some point we said, ‘okay, there’s a little money coming in. So, we need to have a name just to receive the money.’ So, we first used the name of the street that we were based on. It was just a number: a pre-name without any thought behind it. We were called 311 … something ridiculous like that.
In 2015, the name Mesura was born. The word ‘mesura’ has a lot of meanings. For us, the first important thing was a name that could be understood in many languages. Next, it had to make sense in terms of being something specific to measurement: working in architecture is very technical.
Nevertheless, what’s most important is what it means to work ‘with mesura’ in Spanish! It means to work with respect. It’s not about doing whatever comes to mind; it’s about taking the time to think things through—twice, three times, even four times.
Your research is very visually oriented, almost like a pictorial collage of your thinking and the resources you encounter. Walk me through how you start this process: Where do you first go for references? Who are some of the people you interact with to immerse yourself in the environment?
We believe it’s much more interesting to see the process and not just the final result. We really enjoy it! We have this passion for using graphic design and narrative to explain process. At the beginning, we did it just for pleasure. In fact, it happens to be pretty unprofitable because it takes a lot of time. But eventually, we realized that when we spend to genuinely show what we do, the money comes back.
We like to focus on our communication, but we actually do this in our daily life— we look to research, to investigate, to make models, to try things out. It’s an atmosphere that we’re generating at Mesura. You’re not just seeing a result: you’re seeing research, trials, and a mix of things that go beyond architecture that are related to design and to culture.
The people that work in-house have great abilities and are very cultured. We’re involved in universities and there’s always people coming in and out of the studio. We do these things called ‘Tuesday Talks’ where we bring people that are not architects to the studio every Tuesday to talk about whatever they want. It’s ideas that are totally crazy that contribute to the culture of the people in Mesura. It gets us thinking beyond architecture and to have an open mind in all our research.
To create the Aesop Diagonal store in Barcelona, Mesura sourced KM0 (Kilometer Zero) stones, originally from the Montjuïc quarry. You describe deploying a “pseudo-archaeological effort” when found the stones that eventually would make its way into the final design. What does “pseudo-archeological” mean and what did this process look like?
We ended up calling this process ‘creativeanastylosis:’ I’m going to explain more later. And we’re not just using zero-kilometer stone, we’re reusing zero-kilometer stone.
For Aesop, we started from [Barcelona’s] local identity. We learned that, whenever they create a stone for La Sagrada Familia that’s not perfect, they throw it back into the mountain. Our first idea was: let’s use these discarded stones to represent the identity of the city. But obviously, La Sagrada Familia, in the name of Gaudi, said, ‘no, this is not possible. You cannot use stones from Gaudi to do your shop.’
At first it was a pity, but it opened up another opportunity. La Sagrada Familia was initially done with stone from the Montjuïc quarry in Barcelona: here, a lot of stones were extracted to create buildings in the city. This quarry was closed 60 years ago because it wasn’t possible to extract more from the little mountain. La Sagrada Familia was originally started with these stones, but in the sixties they also stopped.
We called a lot of people who worked with stone in Catalonia to ask if they had stones from Montjuïc. We ended up finding a family business that, for the past 30 years, had been gathering Montjuïc stones from all the buildings that have been demolished and gathering them in their quarry.
They said, ‘come to our quarry and just see whatever we got!’ That was amazing. Here is the part about ‘creativeanastylosis’. After a historical building has been demolished, anastylosis is the art of gathering those pieces and remaking it in the exact same way. For us, it’s a creative anastylosis, because what we’re placing the stones in a unique, creative way for new purpose.
It was very interesting because I think we found about 100-200 stones in this quarry. We didn’t need that much so we decided to be more ambitious and use the ones that have memory. Not just a square block, but one with a shape that you recognize because it has been in another building before.
The pieces that had some “memory” of an architectural past was a striking choice. It’s interesting to hear that the first approach involved The Sagrada Familia. It has such a strong architectural language—it’s extremely recognizable and particular.
You’re right. We saw the thrown-out Gaudi pieces, modelled them, and then arranged them for the store. In the end, we had a proposal for a concept. It was really powerful. It had a lot of shape, color, and character… maybe too much. But we’ll never know!
Regarding the Sundial House, given its unique location in the parks of AlUla in Saudi Arabia, what was the client’s motivation for building here? Has it been built?
Our first project in Saudi Arabia was done maybe more than 10 years ago. It was a retail shop in Riyadh. It was one of our very first projects. Since then, there have been many paths that have taken us back to Saudi Arabia. It’s a country that’s changing a lot and we want to be part of this change. They are developing projects in a good way while being respectful to the space.
One of the projects Saudi Arabia proposed was to create 100 houses. This was a competition, where the result was 100 designs created by all different architects in different places within Alula. We won and received an amazing site: it was a mountain carved out from the inside. With it, we proposed a house that made the niche into a unique courtyard within nature while working with raw materials like the sand and the rock that surround the space.
We hope that this is going to be done in the future, but we still don’t know. It’s in standby at the moment.
This house in Alula touches on how privacy and protection are two essential aspects of Saudi houses. How did these values end up in the architecture?
Our approach goes back to that initial project in Dubrovnik. Our first intuition was to create respectful design. This meant not competing with the space but observing it. Also, often working on tight budgets taught us to work with what’s available and appreciate vernacular architecture. In the north, buildings invite sunlight in; in the south, they protect against it. There’s some very basic and logical decisions that modern architecture has moved away from. In the end, these logical decisions can greatly reduce the energy that the building should consume.
Protection from sand and heat often results in enclosed, private, inward-facing spaces, which then influence cultural norms. There’s a deep connection between architecture, environment, and lifestyle. We believe in the concept of genius loci—the Roman idea of a place’s protective spirit. Not every project needs to follow this path, especially in urban settings without a lot of historical context. But in places like Jeddah and Riyadh, where we work alongside heritage architecture, respect for the environment is essential.
Ultimately, we’re continuously learning from the past, seeking the right balance between contemporary design and vernacular traditions. That middle ground is where we find meaningful, sustainable architecture.
In terms of preservation, when describing the Peratallada Castle project, Mesura said: “While, like the artwork, architecture has aesthetic and cultural value (it makes us reflect concepts and see things differently), it can never escape its functionality.” I’m interested in a moment during this project where you felt this tension most—between historical preservation and modern utility.
I’m glad you asked about this project—it was one of our first. What was realized was the landscape project with the swimming pool. Although there were concepts made, we didn’t end up touching the castle itself which held the historical parts.
Functionality in this project started with material choices. “Peratallada” comes from piedra tallada—literally “carved stone.” The village was built from the very quarry where the castle’s stone originated. We went to a specialist to understand the castle’s history. From the outside, everything might look equally old and worth preserving. Nevertheless, the expert revealed some stones dated back to 200 BC, while others were just 50 years old.
Our initial approach to the landscape project, considering the budget we had, was to work with local stone. We went to people in a nearby town that worked with the material. Like we discovered later on, they had a lot of leftover stones in their quarry from a previous project.
In Casa Ter, located in Baix Empordà, you built a “Catalan vault.” Why did you choose this typology of structure? What were some of the technical challenges you encountered while working on it?
The site is incredibly beautiful, so we wanted the project to feel calm, grounded, and not aggressive. To do this, we created a single-story structure, with long, extending horizontal walls that connected to the landscape. But the client was set on having a second floor to capture views of the sea.
The Catalan vault became the perfect solution for two reasons. First, it allowed for a smooth transition between the ground and the next floor up—rather than a stark, boxy structure. Second, it honored the idea of genius loci, protecting the spirit of the place.
This project made us realize how important of a decision the vault was, not just in terms of its form, but also in its techniques. It’s the kind of thing that will be lost if architects stop pushing to have them used in their projects. When we saw an old, expert artisan executing this vault technique, and alongside him was a young kid learning the craft, we understood that by incorporating this method, we weren’t just building—we were helping this skill get passed from generation to generation.
Technically, the vaulting process is a highly specific local tradition, typically done by layering locally made ceramic pieces in a way that creates structural integrity. However, we pushed it further by using an atypical shape. Instead of the conventional vault, we created a half dome. It was creating something new while still rooted in tradition.
The materials were equally important. From the start, we committed to using local ceramic and stones from the nearby River Ter—hence the name, Casa Ter. The entire process was beautiful, balancing the old with the new in a way that felt both respectful and innovative.
Credits
Mesura, Vasto Gallery. 2023. Photography by Salva López.
Mesura, Aesop Diagonal. 2024. Photography by Maxime Delvaux.
Mesura, Sundial House. Photography by Beauty & The Bit / Alba de la Fuente.
Mesura, Peratallada. 2016. Photography by Salva López.
Mesura, Casa Ter. 2019. Photography by Salva López.
Enter the transcendent realm of Tati au Miel, the artistic persona of Tania Daniel. A true multidisciplinary whose practice spans sound, performance, visual art, and technology; Tati au Miel masterfully weaves narratives that explore transformation, identity, and renewal, all while challenging conventional norms. Their practice, deeply informed by spirituality and introspection, bridges the tangible and the ethereal, inviting audiences to navigate the delicate interplay between the personal and the collective, the physical and the digital.
From their debut project, The Exorcism of Tania Daniel, which set the tone for their introspective explorations, to the dreamlike audio-visual installations of Rêverie and immersive performances like Formations for Eternity, from Seed to Skin, The Fantastical World of Tati au Miel, the artist reflects a commitment to introspective themes, experimental soundscapes and evocative visuals. An invitation to experience a world that is both deeply personal and universally resonant.
In this conversation with NR, Tati au Miel delves into the inspirations, challenges, and philosophies that fuel their ever-evolving artistic practice. They reflect on the courage required to embrace vulnerability, the intricate relationship between technology and humanity, and their pursuit of turning the ephemeral into something timeless. Discover an artistic vision that transcends boundaries, resonates with the soul, and redefines how we perceive and feel the world around us.
The name Tati au Miel evokes a sense of nurturing quality and creates a contrast with the complex or raw topics tackled within the work. How did it come about?
So interesting because I hadn’t thought of it that way before, as nurturing or creating contrast with the complexity of my work. It actually came about quite naturally. My name is Tania Daniel, and Tati au Miel feels like an evolved version of myself, a reinterpretation of my name. For years, people have called me Tati, and being French Carribean, the association with honey felt intuitive. Honey has a symbolic energy tied to deities and nurturing qualities, so when the name came to me, it just clicked. It wasn’t something I overthought or deliberately planned, it simply felt right.
Your practice spans across sound, visual art, performance, and technology, often blurring the lines between disciplines. How do you navigate the intersections of these mediums, and how does each influence or challenge the others in your creative process? Is there a particular moment or experience where you felt one medium truly transformed or expanded the possibilities of another?
I’ve always approached my work through sound and a sonic lens, which might stem from my struggle with words and writing. Sound feels so immediate and sensory to me. Even though I was never formally trained as a musician, DJing when I was younger became my way into sound creation.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time sewing and designing costumes, which I think influenced my creative process. For example, I would make music and listen to it while sewing, letting the two practices feed into each other. Over time, I’ve come to see different mediums as having distinct energies that complement one another.
Recently, I had a vivid experience where one medium transformed another. For an exhibition in Canada, I created a dark chiffon fabric cabin and performed inside it. The physicality and mood of being immersed in that installation directly influenced the sound and performance. Now, the recording is displayed alongside the piece, creating a dialogue between the two.
For me, it’s always about exploring how different works can affect one another and holding space for the energy they create together. Even if it feels abstract at first, the interplay between mediums becomes clear when experienced as a whole.
How would you describe the central themes or philosophies that guide your practice, and how do you see these evolving over time?
I approach art from a pure, almost childlike spirit. Whenever I create, I feel genuinely happy and excited, even if the sound itself is described as dark. It usually comes from a place of deep introspection and playfulness.
Living as an artist means I’m constantly encountering new themes and reflecting on them. My spirituality plays a significant role in this. I am Buddhist but grew up in a Christian family, so there are layers of influence that have followed me throughout my life. These references naturally find their way into my work. Over time, it feels less like I’m consciously choosing these themes and more like they’re embedded in my way of living and creating.
Your music often blends experimental soundscapes with emotive, personal narratives. How do you approach the process of composing music, and what role does storytelling play in shaping the sonic atmosphere of your work?
It’s a mix of everything. While revisiting my portfolio recently, I noticed recurring existential and philosophical themes. This wasn’t deliberate,it reflects my curiosity and the way art helps me explore questions without clear answers.
For me, art embodies feelings or understandings that don’t need finality. This is why my work often delves into timelessness or spirituality. I’m not drawn to linear narratives, like a love song or heartbreak story. Instead, I focus on the energy of emotions, like the essence of love, rather than its storyline. Experimental music allows for this fluidity,it doesn’t have to be defined or linear. It exists as a spectrum of ideas and emotions that connect in unexpected ways.
Rêverie, a state of being lost in one’s thoughts or daydreams. Rêverie weaves together the sonic, physical, and digital realms through a series of interconnected sculpture, sound, and virtual pieces. How do these diverse elements come together, and what’s the creative story behind them?
Rêverie was a deeply personal project and my first solo exhibition, which made it even more exciting. The idea developed gradually during a residency at World Creation Studio in Montreal, a space that has been a long-time supporter of my work.
For this project, I wanted to try something new, so I decided to work with ceramics for the first time and explore how they could integrate with extended reality. I created ceramic sculptures, some of which I 3D-scanned to exist both physically and virtually.
The exhibition space was designed to feel immersive and dreamlike. Visitors entered a fog-filled room where they encountered sand typography created by a friend, sculptures placed throughout the space, and a soundscape I composed. There was also an interactive sound sculpture, a chime made from 3D-printed objects. Using a motion sensor, visitors could play the chime, creating their own sounds and engaging with the installation.
The project’s title,Rêverie, reflects its dreamlike quality and the exploration of realms between physical and digital, tangible and intangible. It was a way for me to blend technology and materiality, creating spaces that felt both personal and expansive.
Your music, such as in tracks like My Heart, incorporates a distinct fusion of electronic, experimental, and organic elements. How do you balance these diverse sonic textures, and what does the blending of genres represent within your broader artistic vision?
For My Heart, the process began when Cecilia, the singer, sent me vocals and piano tracks. I stripped everything back and built the song around those elements. Even though I didn’t initially know the lyrics, I felt connected to their energy.
When blending genres, I approach it similarly to how I DJ. Since I started making music through DJing rather than formal training, my process is rooted in curiosity and experimentation. My sound naturally leans experimental, even when I try for something more club-oriented.
Over the past few years, my Tati au Miel project began to feel heavier and more intricate, which led me to start a new side project, Haitian Prince of Music. This project allowed me to explore different sounds,drum-driven, ambient, and inspired by artists like Boards of Canada. It helped me realize I can explore any genre as long as I give it the right context.
This freedom excites me. Whether under Tati au Miel or another alias, I can push boundaries and create across genres without feeling confined to one style.
Many of your projects seem to challenge conventional formats of performance or art. Can you discuss how you approach breaking traditional boundaries, and what inspires you to create in such multidisciplinary ways?
The first thing that comes to mind is when someone asks, “Oh, you’re an artist? What do you do?” and I say I do more than one thing. Their reaction is often, “You can’t do that.” I hate that response because it’s 2025, we live in a time with access to so many tools and opportunities. It feels like a calling to push boundaries and explore new ways of creating.
I think of that expression, “Our ancestors ran so we could walk.” We’re in a moment where we don’t need to limit ourselves to replicating what already exists. Personally, I feel driven to take untraditional routes and challenge myself with each project.
Over the past four years, since becoming a full-time artist, I’ve made it a point to include an element of curiosity or learning in everything I do. Whether it’s experimenting with a new medium or diving into an idea’s roots, I constantly strive to create work that moves beyond conventional frameworks.
With technology evolving so quickly, the possibilities feel endless. Tools that were once difficult to access are now at our fingertips, and I’m excited to embrace that momentum to reimagine how art and performance can exist.
Your work often explores the intersection of the personal and the collective. How do you navigate the balance between your personal identity and the themes you aim to communicate to the audience, particularly in collaborative works?
I think there’s something inherently communal about being human. While my identity is specific,I’m Haitian Canadian, trans, and able-bodied, sharing who I am creates connections with others, even if we don’t share the same background.
For example, practicing Zen Buddhism has deeply influenced my perspective. Over the past two years, I’ve attended silent retreats and visited temples, especially in New York and Vancouver. What I love about Zen is its openness and communal nature, you meet people from all walks of life who share the same values. That sense of shared understanding mirrors how I present my work. Those who resonate with it will connect, no matter who they are.
That said, one challenge I’ve faced as an artist is being tokenized as a Black artist. While I’m proud of my identity and think it’s important to share, I don’t want my work to be reduced to that lens. This has motivated me to push my practice further, creating complex, layered pieces that can be appreciated for their depth and artistry beyond labels tied to my identity.
Can you take us through your current residency at MONOM, the renowned spatial sound studio and listening space in Berlin? What specific projects or ideas are you exploring there, and how does the space’s unique focus on spatial audio influence your creative process?
I’ve been at MONOM for a few days now, and it’s already been such a rewarding experience. This residency is unique because the team reached out to collaborate with artists, creating a piece together through discussions and shared ideas. That approach felt very natural for me, as I tend to develop work intuitively after being in a space and sensing its energy.
In our initial conversations, we discussed themes like spirituality, which often appear in my work. As I began working, the piece started to take shape as a kind of prayer. It’s inspired by wind, silence, white noise and the idea of a slow-building listening session that invites people to sit with the energy of the space and immerse themselves in the sound.
For me, this project is about being present and responsive to the space and the people around me. Even when performing live, I adapt based on the soundcheck or the energy of the venue. Spaces like MONOM allow me to explore this dynamic fully, crafting something that feels rooted in the moment.
With regard to spatial influences, The Akhet Edizione performance at Fondazione Casa Morra is part of a larger showcase in Naples. What role do you feel the venue and its historical significance play in shaping the energy and message of your performance? How does this specific performance engage with the concept of time, space, and place, especially within the context of Akhet, which suggests a moment of transition or creation?
That performance was my favorite show to date. Interestingly, my previous favorite was my first performance in Milan. I feel deeply connected to Italy, it has a unique energy I always tap into. The Italian electronic scene is incredibly supportive of avant-garde and unconventional work, and the audiences are a perfect balance of curiosity and openness.
The venue, Fondazione Casa Morra, was extraordinary. It’s a beautiful museum, and I had the privilege of staying there before the performance. This gave me time to immerse myself in the space and its history. Naples itself brought its own energy to the performance. The city’s chaotic charm reminds me of Mexico City, where I lived for a few years, and I’m drawn to that kind of vibrancy.
The performance took place on a grand staircase, and I felt compelled to wear a costume and mask. I hadn’t performed with a mask in a while, but doing so helped me channel the energy of the space and created a sense of separation between myself and the performance. This allowed me to fully embody the moment.
The acoustics, the historical weight of the venue, and the energy of the crowd all came together in a way that felt transcendent. Listening back to the recording, I hardly recognized my voice,it was so specific to that time and place. It’s performances like these that remind me why I create. They inspire me to continue tailoring each performance to the unique energy of the moment.
Biraddali Dancing on the Horizon documents a process of ancestral, intergenerational learning. Can you elaborate on the significance and origins of this work?
This film was created by my friend and collaborator, Bhenji Ra, a performer and movement artist from Australia and the Philippines. Biraddali refers to a term used by the Tausug of the Philippines, a celestial being that resembles a woman with wings and supernatural beauty. In the film, Bhenjilearns a pre-Islamic dance of the Tausug people of the Sulu Archipelago and the eastern coast Bajau of Saba in the Philippines. The film portrays a ritual and the learning of this dance with her teacher and collaborator Sitti Airia Sangkula Askalani-Obeso.
The film weaves together movement, stunning landscapes, and traditional music. My sound work for the piece includes noise textures blended with music from the Bungalima Tausug Ensemble. It was an honor to contribute to this project, especially as Bhenjiand I have been collaborating on several performances over the past year.
When Bhenji approached me about scoring the film, she said she felt I could translate shadows and create a parallel realm through sound. That idea stayed with me throughout the process. The film is deeply rooted in cultural and spiritual resonance, and I aimed to honor that by incorporating both indigenous Filipino sounds and experimental elements.
This collaboration felt like a culmination of our previous work together. Bhenji’s expertise in movement and my focus on sound complemented each other, creating a rich interplay between frequencies and physical gestures.
Eternal and Sacred features a selection of pre-recorded mixes and live sets. The genres explored vary from electronic, experimental, industrial, classical, and jazz to ambient soundscapes. Can you elaborate on the existential vision behind the mix as well as the embodiment of this vision in the title?
Eternal and Sacred was a proclamation I made through a mix and live event. It brought together ten artists, who contributed mixes and performed for a radio showcase in New York. The event spanned an entire day, with performances and mixes streamed live.
One of the highlights was including M. Lamar, an artist whose work I deeply admire. M. Lamar blends gothic opera with themes of identity and transformation. Having him contribute a recorded performance for the event felt surreal, especially as I’ve been a fan of his music for so long.
The title reflects ideas close to my heart: timelessness, spirituality, and the creation of spaces that feel expansive yet grounded. The project allowed me to curate a collective experience where diverse genres and creative expressions could coexist.
The event was hosted at Montez Press Radio in Chinatown, New York, where people could listen throughout the day. Some performances were recorded live, adding to the ephemeral yet permanent nature of the project. The name Eternal and Sacred encapsulates the energy I wanted to evoke, a timeless, almost spiritual atmosphere. It remains one of my most fulfilling projects, and I hope to expand on it in the future.
From Seed to Skin explored ideas of transformation, skin, and identity. How do you use sound to symbolize processes of growth, decay, and renewal, and what role does sonic experimentation play in conveying these concepts? Could you elaborate on how your collaboration with Bhenji Ra shaped the overall concept, and how did each of you influence the other’s vision for this live performance?
That performance was the first collaboration between Bhenji and me, and it felt symbolic, like planting a seed. The performance we’re doing later this month is actually a continuation, almost like the third iteration of what began with From Seed to Skin.
The original performance took place in Mexico City during the Day of the Dead, which brought a powerful energy of renewal, death, and shifting perspectives. At the same time, there was a heightened awareness of ongoing genocide in the media, adding another layer of intensity to the work. Bhenji felt called to incorporate elements of Mexican mythology, particularly the god who is associated with transformation and is often depicted with two masks.
For this piece, I asked Bhenji to wear an older costume I had made called the Flesh Mesh. It’s a fabric printed with images of my own flesh, taken from a surgery, symbolizing the idea of a second skin. I had previously used it in other installations and performances, but in From Seed to Skin, it took on a new meaning of shedding and renewal.
The performance itself was deeply rooted in the present moment. I thrive on collaboration, and working with someone as intuitive and thoughtful as Bhenji was incredibly inspiring. Her vision brought in mythological and ritualistic elements, while I focused on sonic experimentation, creating sounds that felt raw and transformative.
Together, we were able to craft a piece that was reflective of growth, decay, and renewal, a work that resonated deeply with the themes we wanted to explore. It was a process of mutual inspiration, with each of us drawing on the other’s ideas and energy to create something profoundly layered and impactful.
In the performance and installation at Kurimanzutto Gallery, you both used your bodies as mediums of transformation. What role does physicality and embodiment play in your work, and how does it connect with themes of growth, decay, and renewal?
I love this question because physicality has become something I am increasingly curious about.
This curiosity about embodiment is why I have always been drawn to performance. While I perform live music, I try to bring an intentional presence to the space, using my body to interact with the environment. Working with someone like Bhenji, who is so experienced in movement, has taught me so much about exploring my body’s role within performance.
I see embodiment as a way to leave a trace of myself in the work. Whether it is through a live performance, a physical gesture that remains, or a recorded element, I am fascinated by the idea of archiving and marking presence. It feels like an act of personal archaeology, leaving behind something meaningful while fully inhabiting the moment.
Formations for Eternitywith Yesenia Rojas at Trans Pecos was a highly immersive live performance. How did you and Yesenia navigate the process of creating an experience that could engage the senses of the audience while also leaving space for introspection?
Yesenia is a close friend of mine. This performance was her first time doing something live, and it was exciting to collaborate on a project that felt so aligned with our shared interests. Both of us come from Caribbean descent, so themes of spirituality and ritual naturally emerged in our discussions. We envisioned the performance as “spiritual noise,” blending experimental sound with intentional, ceremonial elements.
We designed the environment to feel immersive and intimate, setting up four candles around us with the equipment placed in the middle. We faced each other while performing, surrounded by pillars of light, which gave the performance a cinematic quality. The setup became part of the experience, shaping the audience’s connection to the sound and creating a sense of timelessness.
This performance was the first under the Formations for Eternity name, and we both felt it had the potential to grow into an ongoing project. We are already discussing ways to expand it and record future performances. There is something deeply ritualistic about the way we approach these live sets, and it feels like a practice we want to explore further.
The term ‘eternity’ often evokes a sense of permanence, yet your performance seems to embrace the ephemeral. How do you reconcile these concepts, and how does it inform the way you craft live performances that are both fleeting and impactful?
I think it connects to what I mentioned earlier about leaving a trace. Even though live performances are ephemeral, there is something permanent in the impression they leave behind.
Over the years, I have become more selective about how I perform. Not every venue gives me the opportunity to fully realize my vision, but when I can, I think deeply about how to craft the experience. For me, it is about presence, being fully in the moment and creating something that resonates deeply, even if it is fleeting.
The kind of noise I work with often feels trance-like and timeless, as if it exists outside the boundaries of conventional time. I try to embody this quality in all my work. Whether it is through sound, lighting, or interaction with the space, I aim to create an experience that lingers in memory, even after the performance ends.
Ultimately, the reconciliation of eternity and ephemerality comes down to presence. By fully inhabiting the moment, I can create something impactful that leaves a lasting impression while embracing the fleeting beauty of live performance.
The Fantastical World of Tati au Miel series evokes a narrative-driven experience. In the second volume, ‘The Tale of The Vagabond,’ you create a world of migration, displacement, and transition. How do these themes resonate personally for you, and how do they manifest in the performance?
The Tale of The Vagabond emerged during a residency where I created a sculpture of a bird’s nest and performed alongside it. Even before starting the residency, I felt inspired to develop a character-driven story that leaned into fiction. The Vagabond is a human-bird hybrid, a metaphorical reflection of my life as a traveler and nomad.
This character embodies themes of being an outsider, someone without a fixed home. Growing up, the word “vagabond” was often present, sometimes even used as an insult in my Haitian upbringing, which added personal resonance to the concept. The bird imagery felt natural, symbolizing freedom, migration, and the fluidity of identity.
The narrative unfolds not through traditional storytelling but through installations and performances, each offering hints about the Vagabond’s existence and experiences. It allows me to explore deeply personal themes in a more tangible, relatable way, blending my abstract tendencies with a fictional framework.
How do you view the intersection of technology and sound in the Vagabond’s Altar?
It functions as an altar for a fictional character, blending physical objects I created with 3D-scanned and AI-generated elements. Viewers can interact with the piece through AR, placing it in their environment and scaling it to explore its details at their own pace.
What excites me about AR is its ability to make art more accessible. Anyone with a mobile phone can experience the work intimately, creating their own personal connection. This was my first AR piece, and I am eager to explore how technology can allow art to exist anywhere while giving audiences the freedom to engage on their terms.
Your performance at Mutek Montreal was part of an experimental music festival. Can you describe how you approach live sets like this one, how do you balance the organic elements of performance with the technological aspects that are so integral to your work?
The performance at Mutek Montreal was the live audio-visual iteration of my exhibitionRêverie, as both happened simultaneously in the city. It took place in a 360-degree dome at the Society of Arts and Technology, with visuals projected across the space and surround sound immersing the audience.
Because I was working with VR during my residency, I integrated visuals from the VR project into the performance to complement the dome’s environment. The site-specific nature of the dome heavily influenced the experience. For example, I adapted my sound sculpture for live performance and incorporated technology like motion sensors to make the experience both interactive and immersive.
Performing at Mutek felt significant, especially since it was in my hometown and allowed me to explore new directions in combining XR technology with live performance. It was an exciting way to experiment with emerging mediums while staying true to my artistic voice.
The Chime with Motion Sensor is an innovative piece that functions both as a MIDI controller and a live instrument. Can you describe the concept behind this piece and how it explores the relationship between physical movement and digital sound creation? How does the motion sensor function as a tool for both performance and composition, and what does it reveal about the relationship between technology and the human body?
During a residency, I participated in a workshop on digital fabrication and sensors, which introduced me to motion sensors. That sparked the idea of incorporating them into a chime. The first version was part of an installation, featuring 3D-printed objects that moved but did not produce sound.
I later developed a smaller, portable version with acoustic elements like small bells alongside electronic components. The motion sensor triggers sounds, blending physicality and technology. This interplay creates a tactile, interactive experience where movement generates sound, making it feel intuitive and accessible.
The chime represents my ongoing curiosity about integrating movement and sound. It highlights the relationship between the body and technology, showing how physical gestures can directly shape the auditory experience.
With the growing prevalence of augmented and virtual reality, what potential do you see for these mediums in the future of live performance or art installation? How do they enable a new form of intimacy and immersion with your work?
I believe AR and VR are becoming increasingly integrated into art and performance, offering exciting possibilities for intimacy and immersion. For example, performing in a 360-degree dome with projections felt like a form of augmented reality, where the audience could step into a fully immersive world.
That said, I think it is crucial to make these technologies accessible and human-centric. I am less interested in creating work that requires heavy equipment like VR headsets and more focused on using technology to simplify and enhance experiences. Motion sensors, for example, allow for intuitive interactions without overwhelming barriers.
Ultimately, I see AR and VR as tools to expand how audiences connect with art, providing them with new ways to explore and engage while maintaining a sense of presence and immediacy. As I continue to experiment, I hope to find ways to merge these mediums seamlessly into my practice, making technology a complement to, rather than a replacement for, physical interaction.
Carousel is a fascinating blend of experimental music, visuals, and themes of emotional vulnerability. Can you walk us through the inspiration behind this piece?
Many of the sounds in Carouselwere initially created during The Tale of The Vagabond. The root inspiration for this project was the concept of ever-changing forms and the idea of recreating and reinterpreting my own work. I am a big believer in revisiting previous ideas and evolving them into something new, and Carousel embodies this approach.
The title itself evokes imagery of a carousel at an amusement park, with its whimsical, cyclical motion. This EP captures that energy, blending playful, childlike wonder with experimental sonic textures. For example, the first track, La Berceuse, uses vocal samples from my friend Embaci, and its title refers to a French lullaby, a song to soothe or put someone to sleep. The tracks often feel like lullabies spiraling into echoes, creating a dreamlike atmosphere.
Another influence was the Haitian literary movement known as Spiralism, which explores themes of timelessness, transformation, and the expansion of life. This philosophy deeply shaped the EP, blending ideas of childlike innocence with an abstract sense of infinite possibility.
Solar Returnfeels like a deeply introspective and cosmic exploration of time and transformation. Could you elaborate on the concept behind this project and how it relates to your personal and creative evolution?
Solar Return was one of my first projects, and it holds a special place for me. It includes some of my favorite tracks, which I still perform live. At the time, I felt an urgency to create and release work, it was driven by a chaotic energy and a sense of survival. I had a lot of ideas and felt the need to get them out into the world quickly.
Looking back, I see how my creative process has evolved since then. These days, I feel more grounded and patient. I no longer feel the same rush to release work and prefer to take my time refining and expanding my ideas. This shift feels like a natural progression as I have become more established in my practice.
The themes in Solar Return, transformation, cycles, and renewal, still resonate with me, but I am exploring them with a deeper sense of intentionality. Moving forward, I plan to revisit some of these earlier works in a deluxe edition, combining them with new visuals and creating a more expansive body of work.
In The Exorcism of Tania Daniel, you delve into the supernatural, ritualistic practices, and transformation. Can you describe the genesis of this work, and how the idea of an “exorcism” informs the emotional and sonic landscape of the piece? How does embodiment and physical interaction with sound manifest in this project, and what does it symbolize in the context of personal transformation and release?
As my debut project, The Exorcism of Tania Danielwas deeply rooted in themes of trance, possession, and release. The idea of an exorcism felt like a fitting metaphor for letting go and confronting the darker aspects of life. Growing up with Haitian heritage, I was influenced by voodoo rituals, where possession and exorcisms are integral parts of spiritual practice.
At the same time, the project drew parallels with modern rave culture and the way people describe the catharsis of dance and techno music. While some people interpreted the project through that lens, my intention was always more spiritual, highlighting the beauty in confronting and embracing the complexities of life.
This work planted the seed for my ongoing Tati au Miel projects. It established a foundation of exploring abstract, spiritual, and transformative themes. Even now, I am inspired by ideas of fog, veils, and shifting realms, both as visual motifs and as symbolic representations of life’s layers and transitions.
Looking toward the future, what themes or concepts are you most excited to explore in your upcoming works? How do you envision your practice evolving over the next few years, especially as technology continues to advance in art-making?
In recent years, my live performances have become more reflective of my evolving sound. I’ve started incorporating new instruments, like bells and the flute, into my work. Learning the flute has been an exciting challenge, it’s still new for me, but performing with it has been an empowering experience.
Moving forward, I plan to release a larger body of work. My goal is to create a full-length album with at least 12 to 15 tracks, combining elements from my past projects with new approaches I’ve been exploring. Taking my time to develop this album will allow me to craft something cohesive, intentional, and deeply personal.
As technology continues to advance, I’m excited to experiment with interactive and immersive elements in my work. Whether through AR, VR, or physical installations, I want to create experiences that are accessible, innovative, and grounded. My goal is to push boundaries while maintaining a sense of intimacy and connection.
This next phase feels like an opportunity to integrate everything I’ve learned so far while exploring new directions. It’s a balance of honouring my past work and embracing the unknown, all while staying true to the essence of my practice.
Beyond Sound: The Humanity in No_Stone’s Imperfect Balance
No_Stone emerges as a raw and authentic dialogue between human complexities, sound, space, and identity. Rooted in Cairo’s underground music scene and shaped by the contrasting energies of Berlin and Barcelona, Assyouti and Jehia bring together their distinct yet complementary artistic visions, embracing imperfections, breaking boundaries, and redefining the underground.
Through their music, they navigate the tensions between chaos and harmony, energy and introspection, dissonance and connection. Together, they explore what it means to leave “no stone unturned,” with a reminder to remain human and real.
How did Cairo’s underground music scene act simultaneously as refuge and catalyst for both of your early artistic expressions? As your careers took you beyond Egypt, how did the clash between the raw energy of your upbringing and the more defined infrastructures of Berlin and Barcelona shape your evolving sound?
Assyouti: Cairo’s underground scene that had given birth to so many early important artists dissolved before I could even participate. By the time I started playing, there were just fragments left—parties here and there, but no cohesive movement. My early gigs were about trying to fit in, to play what I thought people wanted to hear. But I quickly realized my sound was “weird”, even in its most accessible form. That realization freed me. I stopped holding back. My last gig in Cairo before moving was pivotal—I played only what I loved. It was raw and honest, and for the first time, it resonated. That moment became my starting point. Moving to Berlin was transformative. There, artists are more respected, treated like professionals, and even given grants. In Cairo, we were seen as troublemakers. Berlin made me take myself seriously—not just as a DJ, but as a creative force. It helped me channel my creative output into something precise and intentional.
Jehia: My journey was different. I started my career after moving to Barcelona, long after leaving Cairo. Back home, the scene felt out of reach—age restrictions, limited access, and a general sense of cultural dissonance kept me away. But in Barcelona, the vibrant underground scene pulled me in. In Cairo, it was just for fun—b2b sets with Assyouti at house parties. Those moments were special—zero expectations, pure exploration. Barcelona’s innovative scene taught me to embrace my own artistic identity. My first solo gig, Primavera Sound, was a turning point. It made me realize I could take up space in this world and really express myself. That’s when I stopped holding back and fully leaned into the journey.
The creation of No_Stone brought two distinct yet complementary artistic visions together. Can you share the story of how these two paths crossed, and how shared visions for experimental, cross-genre music led to the formation of No_Stone?
A: I came to Berlin to study music. As part of my final assessment at school, I had to create an album and present it live at a venue. Initially, No_Stone was just an event to fulfill a requirement. I reached out to a club owner I knew and organized what I thought would be a one-off event. However, deep down I knew that it was only the start of something, it was undeniable that this had to evolve. Around the same time, Jehia was hosting events in Barcelona. We’ve always had similar tastes and I knew we were planning on booking many of the same artists. It felt natural to join forces. I called him and said, “Let’s do this together. Let’s expand it from two cities— Barcelona and Berlin—and create something bigger.
No_Stone has been described as a space that seeks the (im)perfect balance between introspective sounds and razor-sharp energy. What does this “imperfect” balance mean to each of you, and how does it manifest in your collaborative process during live performances?
A: It’s the acknowledgment that perfection is unattainable—and that’s where the magic lies. It’s not about creating a perfect experience but about embracing the imperfections that make it human. Real.
J: Imperfection creates relatability, spontaneity, and authenticity. In live performances, especially B2Bs, this concept comes alive. We challenge each other, not to dominate but to elevate, and that interplay shapes the narrative.
How does the imperfection work in b2b performances? Your collaboration thrives on spontaneity and unpredictability, particularly during live b2b sets. How do you prepare for the unexpected in these moments, and how do your individual approaches to music shape the dynamic tension between?
J: Honestly, I usually struggle with b2bs because I prefer to prepare my sets thoroughly from start to finish. But with Assyouti, it’s a completely different process compared to others. The last time we played together, we didn’t even discuss specifics—no genres, no strict plan. It just happened naturally. We only talked about the general flow of energy. But when we started the set, it felt seamless. There’s also this sweet challenge between us. It’s like a tug-of-war but in the best, most creative way possible.
A: Exactly. I think part of the magic is that we don’t prepare too much because we trust each other’s taste. That spontaneity keeps it exciting—like, “What’s he going to play now?” Even if we know each other’s music, it’s about when and how it’s played. My narrative might lead one way, and his might take a completely different turn. But by the end of the set—which is often the best part—we’ve settled into a flow that combines both our energies and we know where we’re going. The last time we played together, it was only an hour and a half—nothing compared to the 10+ hour sets we’ve done before. In those longer sets, things truly evolve. After the first couple of hours, we hit our stride and align perfectly. That’s when it gets really exciting.
J: Also, by the end of a set, you have less to lose. The crowd is already engaged, and you can afford to experiment more. You can mix the weirdest genres and take risks. For example, at our last set in Cairo, I played an Aphex Twin track—super emotional and serious. Then Assyouti dropped this ridiculous, playful pop remix over it. It was the most unexpected combination, but it worked. People went wild. It’s those moments of sudden synergy that make our b2bs so special.
Your music navigates the tension between dissonance and harmony, balancing chaos and order in a way that feels both structured and free-flowing. Is this a reflection of your internal states? Or is it something that emerges naturally as part of your creative process?
A: I think that too much of one thing—whether it’s energy or introspection—gets boring. Contrast keeps it stimulating and enhances the overall experience. Without balance, even the most energetic track can fall flat. My creative process grows by reading the crowd’s emotion. We naturally tap into that, sensing where the energy is and what the moment requires. Which is essential to learn how to contrast, either for preparing a narrative or just reacting spontaneously in the moment. In both cases you rely on intuition, which gradually develops by analyzing the room after “testing the water” and taking risks. But beyond that, it’s about creating a space where people feel free. Sometimes we mix tracks that feel right in the moment, even if they don’t create a perfect blend, but because we feel they’ll have a certain impact. That experimentation might not always be flawless, but it feels genuine and alive, making sense of the moment as it unfolds.
J: It’s natural. Every set is different because it’s shaped by the space, the time, and the energy of the moment. Of course my personal state influences the music I choose, but it’s more about creating a specific energy for a specific place, and that’s part of the creative process. And I think the experimentation itself becomes a kind of reflection. Even if there’s no set intention behind it, the act of blending, of trying something new, carries its own meaning. It’s about exploration and authenticity, not about delivering a polished, predictable performance. For me, that’s what makes a set interesting.
Genre-blending is central to your music, yet each genre retains its authenticity within the whole. How do you think such unconventional sound pairings enhance the narrative of the set?
A: When I started my career, I made a conscious decision not to box myself into one genre. If I had started that way, people would’ve expected me to stick to it forever. Now people know that I play across genres, and I love that freedom. It allows me to be invited to a variety of events, and I can tailor my sets to each space without losing my integrity. My family was always into music. Growing up, I didn’t think about labels like “genre.” To me, music was music. That perspective naturally carried over into my work. I don’t see tracks as belonging to genres; I see them as individual pieces with their own identities. That makes it easier to mix seemingly unrelated styles without fitting into a specific box in order to build a narrative that flows and evolves, and I think that’s what really ends up resonating with audiences.
J: When I prepare a set, I focus on the emotional and energetic identities of each track rather than their genres. That approach opens up endless possibilities for unexpected combinations. Sometimes I’ll stumble upon a blend that I wouldn’t have imagined working, but when I play it, it makes perfect sense. Those moments of discovery are what excite me the most. Can be quite a challenge too. My process often involves preparing music months in advance when possible. I build playlists for each gig, pulling tracks from Bandcamp, SoundCloud, YouTube—wherever. I think about the space, the people who will be there, even the staff working at the venue, and try to deliver a set specifically for that context.
A: If I have time to prepare, I can build something cohesive that still surprises me during the performance. Sometimes, though, you don’t have time to prepare—like when bookings come last minute or back-to-back. That’s when I rely on intuition and quick decisions. It can be messy, but those spontaneous moments often lead to unexpected blends or transitions that surprise even me. It reminds me why I love this—because it’s not just about playing music I’ve prepared but also responding to the energy of the room and truly connecting with people.
How do you balance the desire to push the boundaries of sound while ensuring that there’s still an emotional connection with the audience? Do you ever feel there’s a limit to how far you can experiment in a live setting?
J: It depends on the space or event. At some festivals, I do hold back. Festivals attract a fluid audience. People come and go, often without knowing the artist. In those cases, I restrain the experimentation to an extent. But in spaces I feel at home, like certain clubs in Barcelona or Berlin, I truly let go and play the weirdest, hardest tracks. Those are the moments where I push myself to do things I didn’t even expect of myself.
A: Again, it’s all about balance. I don’t want to sell out by playing only what’s “safe”, neither do I want to always play chin-stroking intellectual stuff, I want to enjoy myself and connect with the crowd. If I play something too abstract and it doesn’t land, it ruins the vibe for me as much as for them. It’s about finding that middle ground—staying true to my sound while keeping the energy engaging and stimulating. Some sets are dark and rough; others are light and fun. It depends on the context and how you adapt to it without compromising.
This ties into the larger conversation about the mainstream versus the underground. Do you think the industry will evolve to make more space for experimentation?
A: The music scene is cyclical. It swings between creative experimentation and peak commercialism. Right now, I feel we’re closer to commercialism. DJs, producers, bookers, labels I once admired are now leaning into accessibility, playing it safe for hype and sales, resulting in monotonous, trend-driven output. However, I’m hopeful for a shift back to adventurous, personal sounds and individualism, because many in the scene are starting to feel disillusioned. It takes a collective effort to break the loop, but I think we’re heading in the right direction.
J: I agree. Music should be about sharing your individual sound, not copying what’s trending. The artists I respect most are the ones who stay true to their niche, even if it doesn’t make them rich or famous. It’s about integrity and introducing people to something new and meaningful. That’s what we try to do with our sets and with No_Stone.
In No_Stone, the aim is to leave “no stone unturned” in your exploration of sound. Upon research, I came across that the origin of the phrase dates back to an ancient Greek legend where an oracle advised a general to search under every stone to find hidden treasures, signifying the importance of exhaustive investigation or effort. Considering the creative process to be a mirror of this philosophy, can you take us behind the scenes and to the influence you aim to create for the listeners?
A: The idea of “imperfect balance” reflects the fact that we’re not trying to go to extremes. It’s not about “raving until we drop” or about creating events that are purely for deep listening. It’s about finding a middle ground. Personally, when I go to events, I get bored if it’s all in one direction—either constant high energy or purely introspective. The harmony lies in moving between these states. At our events, there will always be people who want more energy and others who prefer introspection. It’s impossible to please everyone, but we can keep things dynamic. The balance will never be perfect, and that’s okay—it keeps things interesting. It’s like constantly shifting left and right to keep the center. That’s what we aim for.
J: Assyouti actually came up with the term “imperfect balance” before I joined, but it resonates with how I approach music too. No event or dj-set will ever be flawless, and that’s the point. Acknowledging imperfection keeps things organic.
How did this passion serve as a medium for delivering profound messages and fostering cultural connections?
J: One example that comes to mind is a mix I recently prepared for national radio in Barcelona. Unlike an online stream for an audience already familiar with our scene, this was broadcast to everyday listeners—people driving home from work, for instance. For me, that was a chance to play African, Arabic and Middle Eastern music. It was a way to showcase these cultures to people that wouldn’t really get exposed to them in their daily lives.
In clubs or spaces, I often play to people who already share similar views or appreciate the music I play—people who might cheer when I drop an Arabic or Palestinian track. But for the radio, I felt it was more intentional. It wasn’t just about playing a set; it was about using music as a bridge to connect cultures.
A: An example for me was during a fundraiser for Palestine. I didn’t approach it as just another club set. I was trying to tap into the collective emotions of the crowd, and that wasn’t by simply playing some Middle Eastern tracks, but rather creating an emotional narrative tied to the reason why everyone was there—to support Palestine. Because people were already emotional, and I wanted to offer a way to process and release that through music. That’s part of what I think we, as DJs, are here to do—not only play fun or bright tracks to always entertain, but also match the tone and energy of the moment when the situation calls for something deeper.
The DIY aspect is quite authentic and aligned with the philosophy. How does it add to the project’s message?
J: The DIY aspect mirrors the essence of No_Stone. It’s raw, real, and human. We’re not focusing on making it look perfect or polished. The priority is the music and the experience. That said, we recognize that visual identity matters, and we might refine it in the future. But for now, we believe it to be a mirror to its core.
A: Exactly. Just like in our careers, we’ve built an audience slowly but genuinely. The people who come to No_Stone events are there for the music and the experience—not because of flashy posters or a trendy Instagram feed. It’s about creating a real connection with our audience, and that authenticity is what makes the project so special.
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.
Home as an enduring space: Glenn Sestig and architecture as a cyclical practice
There is something prescient about Glenn Sestig’s eye. Consistent throughout his career, he sees a home, and decades later, its historic plans reappear on his desk, asking to be reanimated and given new life.
In his conversation with NR, Sestig admits to falling into the stereotype of architects, saying, “I can still be a bit stubborn with my own vision.” But on the contrary, he constantly strives to see from the point of view of both architects (past and present) and clients alike. In doing so, he brings into contemporary view the spaces underneath, besides, and between historic architecture.
Can you tell us about your early influences? Was there a specific moment or project that made you want to pursue architecture?
Around 12 years old, my grandmother wanted to redo her kitchen and asked me to design it. I did it together with a carpenter. I had to explain things with my hands and little drawn lines because, well, I didn’t know design or architecture yet. My grandmother was very happy with the kitchen, and she even said, “It’s your first project so I will pay you!”
My mother and my father also had a really modern spirit. We lived in a bungalow house, which was redone quite well in the ‘70s. It wasn’t a high budget project, but it was already very modern and minimal. When I was a kid, my mother and my father let me design my own room. I did the same thing as I had in my grandmother’s kitchen, working with the same carpenter. Afterwards, I also did their bathroom and kitchen. After all these little projects, my family and I felt that I should pursue architecture.
To be honest, I was in between fashion and architecture. I had some second thoughts about pursuing fashion, but at a certain point, my mother preferred I chose architecture because it’s more stable. Maybe back in those years, in her mind, it was a more stable career.
For your primary private residence, Pavilion Sestig (2019), you became your own client. What were some of your personal aspirations for the space?
Honestly, the easiest thing for me is to work for someone else—someone else with a strong vision, of course. When I start designing, the most important thing is, first, the plan and functionality, then second, the client’s style. At the beginning, clients never believe me when I say this! But I listen closely and absorb everything they share with me. That’s why each project ends up so different.
The most challenging part here was that Pavilion Sestig was both for me and for Bernard [Sestig’s partner]. Because I was working just for us, it was very nice to have Bernard to talk with. As an architect, I can still be a bit stubborn with my own vision, so it was great when he suggested something I wouldn’t have done.
For example, the house has this big roof. Bernard said to me, “I want to easily be on the roof because it’s full of trees over on the other side. Can you design me a beautiful staircase?” So then I designed it for him. In that moment, with the details we changed here and there, Bernard became a kind of client for me to talk with.
The original structure was created by architect Ivan Van Mossevelde. Can you talk us through how you made decisions to preserve versus renew the structure?
When I look at Van Mossevelde’s architectural plans from the ‘70s and ‘80s, they are already quite close to how I design. It was very easy for me to see what he did and to then bring it into the present, 50 years later, without completely breaking down the walls or changing the architecture. We brought the house into the future with the modern technical features available now. The windows are better, the electrical is changed inside, but the architecture for me is still the masterpiece that Van Mossevelde achieved. I wanted to preserve the house as much as possible. This is not a challenge for me – it’s routine. I work around the space, without touching the original structure, until it feels right. I must say, I’ve been in love with the house since I first saw it 30 years ago.
We also wanted to talk about Penthouse Mulier (2016).
About 35 years ago, an architecture professor of mine used it as a reference project and brought us to the Penthouse on Riverside Tower in Antwerp.
Years later, when Raf [Simons] was at Dior, I was with him in the car going back to Belgium when he said to me, “Peter [Mulier] bought the most beautiful penthouse. Even more beautiful than mine.”
I responded, “Okay, which one? Is it the one on the Riverside Tower?” and he looks at me as if to say, “How do you know that?” Well, it’s because I was actually there years ago! It was amazing to have the chance to see it when I was studying because it’s a private apartment. The past owners, Léon Stynen and Paul De Meyer, were famous Belgian architects and knew my professor since they were all in the same field.
This residence also features some built-in concrete furniture. With furniture design as part of your architectural practice, how do you go about creating pieces that are in conversation with the greater architecture of the space?
If you go into Penthouse Mulier, you won’t see what we added. There is concrete furniture and other new elements we designed, but I don’t want my furniture to pop out and be more important than the existing architecture. I engage in a conversation with the building when it has such a strong identity: my work then needs to be fluent with the existing space.
I must ask out of pure curiosity: I read that Mulier held an Alaïa catwalk in this house. When I saw the very long layout of the house in the floor plan (that looked a lot like a catwalk), I wondered is this the reason it was changed from a 6 bedroom to 1 bedroom residence?
Well, for Peter’s space, we really only wanted one bedroom. The six rooms that existed back in the day for family were removed for the master bedroom. In the end, there are actually two bedrooms with the guest room on the -1 floor. That’s why it’s so empty now.
But then it could be used as a catwalk, voilà! That Alaïa show was amazing.
Talking about your 2018 project, Wallace, there’s something really striking about how planar it is. There’s this cantilever detail and it’s almost as if the house moves into the landscape. It’s a beautiful ode to the original owner of the home, landscape painter Albert Saverys. I’m Interested in how you bring out the subject of the space in your architecture.
Originally, the client had called the office and said, “Is it possible to talk to Glenn? I have a project, but I know he won’t do it.”
The interior of the home was already done, and we normally don’t work around that. If we build a house for somebody, it has to be one cohesive project that includes interiors and exteriors. But because Wallace was so close to our offices, I told the client I would come and see the house regardless. When I arrived there and the outdoor environment was so amazing, I immediately told the client, “Hello. No problem. I will do it.”
We started with a beautiful home, but not something “wow” or particularly huge. The problem was that it was in a restricted area where we can no longer expand the building. But what was possible was terraces, pedestals, and cantilevers. With those, we made the house look double its size without making the internal architecture bigger.
With your consistent application of concrete and building on top of existing architecture, your works are often compared to those of Tadao Ando. I’m curious as to what you make of this comparison.
Ooh la! How chic! Are they now? Who is making this comparison? Well, I love the work of Tadao Ando—it’s impossible to say anything different as an architect. Of course, when you do a house in concrete, it’s easy to say, “it’s very Ando.” I’m very happy with this comparison, but I don’t know if I completely understand it.
My practice comes from a different place. It’s about the existing architecture and the client who brings it to me. This process is really about the space between us—it’s a conversation. I design something that matches the landscape, the existing building, and, of course, the client, who will live in it and need to be happy in it for many years. This is how I see my work in architecture.
What I will say, I do have a client who also has a house in Sri Lanka built by Tadao Ando. The father said to the mother, “I love you so much. What would you like to have?” And she responded, “Oh, a house by Tadao Ando.” At one point, they had the biggest private Tadao Ando home ever built. And now, I’ve done a few homes for them as well. One is Retreat Pringiers on the coastline of Belgium in Ostend. This house is completely concrete inside and out, so I can understand if people see this and say, “oh it’s a bit Ando.” But these clients are really in love with concrete.
On the note of concrete, do you find that there are certain materials or techniques you often find yourself gravitating towards on your projects?
We use a lot of natural stone. In Pavilion Sestig, marble had already been installed back in the ‘80s but we took it out. With the loud white color and the big nerves, it was too ‘80s. The original architect, Van Mossevelde, was very ahead of his time when he chose it, but for us, it was too indicative of the era. Instead, we used a sandstone that went well with the color of the concrete.
In a building with a concrete exterior, most of the time, it’s more beautiful to also have concrete flooring and concrete elements continue into the interior. Though if we are using stone, I love gray travertino, specifically, Travertino Titanium. It’s in Peter Mulier’s kitchen.
This gray Travertino is great because a lot of people initially think it’s concrete, but it adds another feeling. Living on and touching natural stone is just a different experience from concrete.
It’s interesting to see how so many of your projects build atop and renew the existing architecture in the space. If you were asked to renovate a project you worked on 10-15 years ago, what would you focus on?
When I take on a project, the materials and products should last as long as possible—that’s my ecological approach to architecture. Even though renovations often result in a lot of waste, when we bring in new architecture or interiors, the goal is to make them last for years to come.
I believe that’s the most ecological thing you can do with a building. It’s not really a building if, after 10 years, you have to throw it away and build a new one.
The buildings we work on are old buildings with strong architecture. That means you can renovate them, and they don’t need to be completely demolished. If I were asked to renovate a project, I’d focus on making functional improvements and expanding the space, rather than just updating it because it’s no longer good enough.
A national identity? in this economy? On the eve of his first large scale exhibition at Spazio Maiocchi in collaboration with Slam Jam, NR spoke with British artist Corbin Shaw (b. 1998) of new and old monuments, and taking, conceptually, the piss, diving deep in the global-local dichotomy and the meaning of nostalgia and complexity in the economy of a gen Z artist seeking sustainable form of expression. A conversation on Shaw’s practice framed through his new body of work developed exclusively for Eurotrash, an exploration of identity and contemporary stigmas,with the occasional detour on Mod’s “live clean in difficult circumstances” motto and a touch of Baudrillard mixed with Simon Reynolds subcultural commentary —best served cold at an airport.
You mentioned that you’ve never worked in a place quite like this. How does it feel?
It’s surreal, honestly. I’ve never really been in a position like this before, where I feel trusted to take on something so significant. But yeah, I’m excited about it. It’s this strange experience to go from just sitting, sketching ideas, to suddenly seeing them materialize. To see my name on the window outside—it feels almost unbelievable when I think back to just four years at university, working alone as an artist. Things have evolved so quickly, from working in my bedroom, to having a studio, to shows, and now to something this large. It’s kind of a dream.
Is this your first exhibition of this size?
Yes, it is.The groundwork for this show started with another project back in April, which marked a big step in my practice. People from London started noticing it and sharing it. But yes, this is the largest thing I’ve done. It’s crazy. One minute you are a student at university, the next one you’re here. I’m really curious about how an Italian audience would react to my work. In Britain, there’s a certain cultural understanding, a legacy, around the themes I explore, but I wonder how that translates here. I’m also constantly trying to explore my identity as British, yet not cling to it too nostalgically. The works reflect modern Britain, not an idealized past, so I’m interested to hear how Italian viewers might respond to this contemporary vision. Growing up, I was surrounded by the clash between old and new. It’s like this constant layering of history. In London, for example, you see these guys on bikes, fully armored up, like modern-day knights riding electric-powered bikes instead of horses. It’s this strange mix of the past and the present, like jousting in the streets, but with a tech twist. Living in a city like London, it feels like you’re always immersed in it. You walk down a street and see a plaque that says, “This person lived here” or “Karl Marx wrote here,” and you’re reminded of the history all around you. It’s mental, really. You’re not just walking through space, you’re walking through time, learning about it, experiencing it, and being a part of it all. There’s this sense of living within layers of history. I’m fascinated by that.
How do these themes of history and identity find their way into your work?
When I moved to London, a lot of my work was focused on my hometown and the city I grew up in. I lived in a way that made it feel like my life had ended—everything was about the past, about my childhood. I was mourning that phase a bit, while also trying to move on. I was growing into adulthood and starting to consider myself a distinct person in the world, trying to figure out my place as an artist. But eventually, I realized I wasn’t paying attention to what was around me, to the contemporary culture. When I left university, I was really eager to learn more. At school, I was always more academic. I knew I was creative, but I never felt great in the academic setting. When I studied in London, I often felt like I was falling behind. So, when I graduated, I was determined to learn about the deeper things that fascinated me. I was drawn to places in London—whether they were galleries, museums, or institutions—that had a rich cultural history. Being in a city that has so many cultural sources, shaped by its colonial past, was a privilege. It’s similar to when I was in Athens and visited the Parthenon. That experience was huge for me. Of course, half of it is in the British Museum, and I was just so fascinated by that.
So, you’ve shifted from nostalgia to something more current, right?
Yes, absolutely. I grew up in a post-industrial suburb, a place surrounded by new developments and shopping centers, where my comfort was in these plastic, suburban spaces. Now, whenever I go back, I notice even more the rapid transformation—everything seems modeled after American culture. But I’m drawn to these “modern monuments,” and I’m trying to express that they are as valuable to me as a historic landmark might be. For example, the urinal in the square references Trafalgar Square fountain, but also the one outside Buckingham Palace and the one at Fauci Square. Each of these has become a space where, every time a football match is on, the fans gather. In football, especially, the celebration gets a bit wild—men often celebrate the game by being naked in the fountain. There’s something about that, almost biblical in a way, that makes me think about how people overlook the significance of these rituals in modern contexts. It’s like history repeating itself over and over again, in a different form. I’ve become increasingly interested in architecture, particularly in the last year or two, and how the materials used in buildings influence our perception of them. What does concrete say in comparison to limestone? What’s the history of limestone? How does the color of concrete, or something like plastic, influence our understanding of a place? In the UK, a lot of new buildings, even in the city, are made to look old. It’s as if there’s a desire to preserve history, but in a way that feels almost like a post-postmodern approach. We’ve had modernism, then postmodernism, and now this hybrid where every detail is meticulously recreated. I think in Britain, there’s a struggle with identity, especially with the impact of globalization and capitalism.
It’s funny you mention that, because one of the things I jotted down in my notes was exactly this apparent clash between the rampaging globalization happening right now and the closing of borders, which is especially evident on the political level—like with Brexit and, just a couple of days ago, Trump being reelected. It’s a bit unsettling, to say the least. But then, on the cultural and arts level, we see this amazing (though not always in a positive sense) amalgamation of everything. It’s as if everything is starting to feel the same. You can see it and feel it in cities, in the way things are constructed, but also in food, in people’s behavior, and in how they react to art. I think this ties into what you mentioned earlier about being curious to see how people will react and interact with your work here. What do you think about this? Do you consciously think about it when you’re working, or is it something that’s so ingrained in people of our age and generation that we just absorb this contradiction and live with it?
I think, for me, I realized that nostalgia had crept into my work so much that it started to feel like I was looking backward, not appreciating what was around me. I grew up in a suburban area in Sheffield, in the north of England, in a post-industrial village where much of the industry had been lost. I lived on a new-build estate, and my comfort was found in shopping centers, retail parks—new spaces that, in a way, reflected America. Every time I go home now, I notice how rapidly it’s all changing. Everyone drives around with huge Stanley Cups, buys doughnuts, grabs coffee, and goes to the movies—it’s surreal. But is that a bad thing? Can you actually love these things? I think you can, and that’s what I’m trying to explore with my work. I’m trying to find a balance, a kind of level ground, where something like a McDonald’s toy holds as much emotional significance for me as a historic monument or flag. I feel emotionally attached to it, so why not value it as a cultural object? In England, the class system is so deeply embedded that what’s considered valuable or not is tied to hierarchy. It’s a classic thing that runs through everything. But there’s something sad about it in Britain—especially in fashion—where working-class culture gets fetishized. It’s appropriated by middle- and upper-class people, and then, all of a sudden, it’s seen as valuable when before, it wasn’t.I’m really interested in that tension between the high and the low. Words like “kitsch” are so loaded.. It’s aggressive, almost. I try to work around this question: What does it mean to take objects that are deemed “unimportant” or “alien” and reframe them as valuable in a gallery setting? For example, in my work, I’ve taken an inflatable plastic sword, something that would usually deflate or fade, and I’ve cast it in stone. I like the idea of freezing time—preserving something that would typically be temporary, turning it into something that lasts, just like plastic itself does.
That’s fascinating—taking something “disposable” and making it timeless. It makes me think of monuments. Historically, they were grand symbols of a culture’s values, but today’s equivalents are different, like you said. They might be something as mundane as an iPhone or a McDonald’s toy.
Yes, exactly. It’s about finding meaning in the “everyday monuments” of my time, which might be shop signs or commercial objects. I love Baudrillard’s idea that everything in our society has become a simulation—meaning is fluid, almost arbitrary, yet we find ourselves living in this “nightmare” where we can’t help but participate.
This reminds me of a larger conversation about culture in an era of globalization. Everything is blending, borders are dissolving, yet there’s a resurgence of nationalism. Do you find this paradox influencing your work?
Absolutely, it’s like we’re witnessing the collapse of any singular cultural identity. I think that’s what I’m questioning: What is British culture now? Is it the historic landmarks, or is it the commercial plasticity of modern life? As artists, we’re kind of forced to reckon with this fragmentation. It’s exhausting because things change so quickly, yet there’s a deep sense of nostalgia for what’s been lost, even if we didn’t live through it
This is a discussion I’ve been having with a lot of the people I work with. I think this is the most contemporary predicament we’re facing right now. Is a predominant culture even possible anymore? And if so, what would that mean today? In a way, this relates to the fact that there are no longer clear borders, but politically, the new right is trying to reintroduce them. I think it comes from a shared fear—the fear of dispersion, of complete fragmentation—and we all internalize it and express it differently. You as an artist might channel it in your work, while I try to write about it. But at its core, it’s the same fear: the fear of not being able to keep up, or even worse, not knowing what we’re trying to keep up with.
I think it’s strange. I feel like capitalism has hijacked creativity in a way that distorts what I believe creativity was originally meant to do. For me, art and artistry were about connecting with others—expressing myself through writing or physical objects is just a way of trying to relate to someone, or to describe a feeling, a setting, or anything happening in our lives. But now, everything is moving at such a fast pace that so much gets lost. We don’t spend enough time with what’s being presented to us. You could even say that about this exhibition—it’s only up for a few days, maybe four or five. In my head, it seems crazy. I can’t believe how much time and effort go into something so grand that ends so quickly. We live in an era of the “moment.” Everyone wants to be at the event when it’s happening, to get that photo and say, “I was there.” And it’s exhausting. Honestly, it makes me want to lock myself away in a house by the seaside, be completely alone, because I think that’s important for an artist. But at the same time, I want to be immersed in the culture, react to it, experience it all. It’s such a tough balance. You can’t do everything, right? It’s hard. I think this is the experience we’re all living now, especially as creatives trying to make work—it’s incredibly complicated. I don’t think anyone before us could have really understood it.
The levels of complexity are definitely different now. It’s also about the continuous pace of change and the sheer amount of information we now have access to.
I don’t work in one specific way, and I actually find it almost backwards when I think about artists who limit themselves to one medium. I don’t know if that sounds like a bad thing, but I can’t see myself creating work in just one form. We have access to so many tools and opportunities—why couldn’t I be a weaver, an embroiderer, a sculptor, a video artist, a performer, all of it? I think a lot of young creatives in London feel the need to work in just one way because they believe that’s how they’ll sell. But I don’t feel that pressure. I love being an artist because I approach my work as a question or an exploration, and I’m always trying to find the right medium to best fit the concept or the idea.
The word “brief” itself says a lot about how we’ve become accustomed to balancing the art world with the commercial side. I think the most effective way to work within this framework is to make those two coexist. With younger artists, like those of our generation, there’s a growing awareness of how capitalism, or whatever system is in place, has infiltrated art—something that was once meant to be its antithesis. More and more, artists are internalizing that contradiction and starting to work with it, exploring how to express themselves within that tension.
At the end of the day, people need to make money to pay bills, rent, all of that. But I think the bigger issue is that it’s stifling creativity. So many interesting ideas are out there, but they’re just not being funded. Big companies, or filmmakers and funding bodies, would rather back the same formulas over and over again. They’d rather fund another blockbuster movie than take a risk on something new and experimental. There’s this fear, and I think fear is what’s strangling a lot of creativity right now.
Do you think new pockets of resistance are emerging in response to this?
Absolutely, there are always new pockets of resistance. I don’t think that creativity is dead or that interesting things aren’t happening—I know people who are doing amazing work. But I do feel like there’s a big difference between now and, say, the 90s. Back then, people just went for it. We did what we wanted, how we wanted, without worrying about how long we could keep it up. It was more spontaneous. Now, when I talk to people from that time, it feels like it’s not like that anymore. Everything has become more commercialized, and the spirit of creative freedom feels restricted.
Do you ever get frustrated by that?
Sometimes, yeah. I know it sounds a bit like a tantrum, but I think it’s justified. I just wish past generations understood that things aren’t the same anymore. I know they faced their own challenges, but it’s different now. It’s harder, really hard. But at the same time, great things are still happening. People are resilient, and there’s still faith in the creative process. I just wish more opportunities were available to more people.
It’s a big issue—sustainability in culture and expression. How do you see that changing? What do you think about new models for supporting culture and creativity?
Yeah, that’s a huge topic. It’s not just about environmental sustainability but also about creating a sustainable model for culture and artistic expression. We need new ways of supporting the creative community, and I think institutions need to start thinking outside the traditional structures. There are places like Sponsor Mayock, which operate at these intersections between art, commerce, and culture. They take money from one pocket and use it to support new platforms and give people a space to be heard. That’s what more people should be doing—providing space, providing opportunities.
Speaking of space, I’m really intrigued by the sound section of your show. Could you tell me more about that?
Sure! James Massiah is a poet, rapper, and musician. I first came across his work through the Baby Father album, which captured such a specific, vivid snapshot of life in London at that time. After hearing that, I dug deeper into his spoken word, and I ended up spending some time with him—though not personally, I followed his events in London and watched a lot of his talks and podcasts. I’ve always been drawn to artists, especially men, who manage to balance hyper-masculinity with vulnerability. They express themselves in ways that feel so raw and authentic, especially considering the environments they come from. When I heard James’s words, it really painted a picture of the London experience—of love, loss, and everything in between. I thought it would be interesting to showcase two different perspectives on life there, especially with the contrast between my background as a white northerner and his as a Black man from London. There’s an intriguing interplay in how our experiences overlap, and I think that contrast makes for a compelling conversation about identity and experience. I just really admire his work, and I felt it would be an interesting addition to the show.
Circling back to the questions about a different audience, would you think say an italian audience might get the same contrast? Or perhaps not? Are you also interested in the possibility that this contrast might fly over their head?
Well, I chose to make work referencing an airport, which is such a sterile, liminal space—almost without any fixed identity. It’s hard to pin down to any one country. But, of course, there are elements in airports, like signs or symbols, that make it clear you’re in a specific place. I like that idea—there are subtle elements of me in there, but mostly, the space is so clean, almost like a white cube, that the addition of James’s words would really paint a different picture. His words would recontextualize everything in a new way, almost creating a suspension of the usual narrative. His work could shift the whole atmosphere in the space.
Exactly, it would create a new kind of suspension in the moment. Maybe his words, when played, would generate something different, a kind of re-contextualization happening in real time.
Yeah, definitely. And reconnecting to what you said about being so obsessed with the moment—being at an opening, being in that experience—it makes me think about how we engage with shows. There’s this element of site specificity that’s inherent in the medium itself, and how we experience things in museums. You go for the experience of the opening, and that specific moment—something that can only happen there, and then.
Right, it’s almost like the temporality of the show itself, being here for just a few days, really makes you reflect on how events like this are tied to a specific site and time. It’s a fleeting experience.
Yes, exactly. That temporality is key to the experience—it adds another layer of meaning. I think there’s something really interesting in that. i like the idea of doing something as grand as this outside of London. A lot of the time, I look at New York and think, everything’s happening there, and I wish I were there. I think the same probably happens in London—people look at the city and say, great things are happening here. But for me, I like the idea of moving my work outside of London, even outside the UK altogether. There’s something intriguing about stepping away from those established centers of culture. I’m just curious about how people react to it. I want to know how people from outside view it. Like, if an Italian were to look at a British person, how do they see that? It’s interesting how we boil down cultures into symbols—through history, football teams, political leaders, and so on. You know, Italians have their own stereotypes, and so do the British. It’s fascinating how these perceptions play out across different cultures.
Well, Britain has had a rich subcultural history, especially in London. My father, for example, was a modernist—he collected things related to that movement. He would always tell me that being a mod is more about an attitude than an aesthetic. He was big into Northern Soul and the Manchester club scene, so I grew up with that influence.
That’s really similar to me, actually. My father also had that mod influence, with skinhead culture and fashion. Britain was really defined by things like mod culture, skinhead culture, and even ska, fashion-wise, but also as a reflection of the working-class attitude—living clean under difficult circumstances. It was a real expression of resilience.
Yeah, exactly. That’s why Simon Reynolds’ essay on Mods really resonates with me. His exploration of how kids would save up for certain clothes, dress up—they were making a statement. It’s essentially where streetwear culture was born, just from a conceptual standpoint. This idea of attaching pride to what you wear, even when it means making sacrifices elsewhere—like, do you eat or do you dress? And they chose to dress. It was that important.
Exactly. It’s fascinating how that culture was built on wanting to be part of high culture, but doing it on a shoestring budget. Look at the mods in post-war Britain—they were watching the Italians, drinking cappuccinos, riding Vespas, listening to jazz from America and France. All of that was aspirational for the working class in Britain. They wanted to be part of that “cool” European vibe but in their own, more affordable way. They were looking at European and American culture and trying to recreate it with what they had, making it their own. What’s overlooked in the UK now, I think, is how deeply that ethos still lives on, in some form. That’s the beauty of culture, isn’t it? Things don’t belong to anyone, really. When something becomes a pure symbol—like the Vespa—it doesn’t matter where it came from anymore. It’s a symbol that represents something else entirely. It becomes something significant in its own right, without needing its original signifier. That’s where it gets interesting. Yes, there’s a lot of confusion, a lot of loss of meaning, but there’s also a lot of freedom in that.
That’s why you’re wearing a MoMA hoodie, right?
Absolutely. Even though me wearing a MoMa hoodie comes from a completely different place, if you’d like, culturally.
It says a lot about the state of things today. I think it’s time to rethink what culture even means now. I’ve been thinking a lot about the relationship between art, aesthetics, and politics, and whether there’s still a meaningful connection between them. Can art even be political today? That’s a tough question, one that’s kind of provocative. But, when you look around—especially with figures like Donald Trump or Berlusconi—it’s hard to make sense of it all. When politics feels so absurd, everything kind of seems to make sense at the same time.
It’s true. We live in a time where deep fakes and AI are making it harder to tell what’s true and what isn’t. It’s all very confusing. But somehow, we just carry on, don’t we?
Yeah, it’s a strange existence. And it reminds me of the Form Follows Fiction show at Castello di Rivoli in the early 2000s. 20+ years later, it feels like life is more and more similar to being in a movie sometimes—like when you look around, you feel like you’re playing a part. And that, oddly, becomes your reality.
Exactly. And we were kind of getting into this when talking about my show, but we got sidetracked a bit. The fountain concept in my work, though—it’s something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve always wanted to use a fountain because it’s such a sharp reference to art history, but I also wanted to play with that in a more subversive way. In a city like Milan, you have these beautiful, crafted fountains, right? But in places like Soho in London, you get these grotesque, plastic public urinals where people piss. I thought it would be interesting to transform something so raw, so hyper-masculine, into something beautiful and reflective—turn it into an art object. And I wanted to play with the idea of it “pissing backwards,” which felt pretty nice.
Is the fountain, conceptually, “taking the piss?”
Yes, exactly. But it’s more than that. There’s something about the space a fountain occupies in a city. At night, when you walk by one of those public urinals, it’s like the atmosphere shifts. Soho transforms from a daytime café and bar culture into a nighttime, more aggressive drinking culture. And as a woman, you’d probably feel some fear walking through that, right? But what I wanted to do was take this hyper-masculine, charged object—this four-way urinal—and turn it into a soft, inviting space. Something where people could reflect, sit, maybe throw a coin in, and make a wish.
That’s an interesting inversion of the object’s usual use.
Yeah, it’s about giving a sense of serenity back to a place that is typically more charged. In a way, it’s a nice contrast—a beautiful, calm fountain where you can wish for a better, more peaceful world. Even in all the bleakness, that’s the kind of hopeful gesture I want to end with. But then there’s also the billboard. The picture on it is from when I was driving down to Dover. Dover’s this big, white, chalky cliff area in the UK, and it’s where ferries to France or the Netherlands depart. What’s interesting about Dover is that when you’re there, your phone network changes to a French one. It’s like being so close to another country, but still so far. I’ve been working a lot with chalk recently, so I’ve been carving and playing with the white cliffs of Dover in my work. I took this picture driving down there, and it’s the first thing you’d see when you arrive by ferry into Britain. But it’s not exactly exciting—it’s actually quite bleak and boring. It’s real. And when you arrive, you see these road signs in different languages, like French and Spanish or maybe French and German, telling you what side of the road to drive on. It kind of looks like I’m driving on the wrong side, which I thought was interesting. I liked the idea that it could be a foreigner just arriving, confused about which side to drive on. It’s a simple but effective picture, and the font used on the signs also has a certain feel to it. It reminds me of a type used in Britain by organizations like the National Trust, which is responsible for preserving natural landmarks like the white cliffs of Dover. The National Trust protects these places from being built on or altered, allowing people to walk through and enjoy them as they are. In a way, it felt like an advertisement for Britain, especially with how some ads in Britain today try to promote domestic travel. They encourage people to leave London for the countryside, like Suffolk or the seaside, to escape the nine-to-five grind. It feels almost a bit surreal, but it’s true—people in London rarely leave London. There’s a disconnect between London and the rest of the country, just like the difference between cities here in Italy, like Milan and Naples or Rome.
Yeah, Milan is its own world, separate from the rest of Italy. It’s the same with London and the rest of Britain.
Exactly. There’s a huge divide between the North and the South of Britain, just like there is between the North and South of Italy. It’s a different reality in each region, and it’s something that’s really apparent when you travel outside the big cultural capitals. There’s this weird thing about regional pride, too. I was thinking about this when I was in New York this past August, working on ideas for this show. I came across a story about graffiti artists replacing white flags with star-spangled banners on the Brooklyn Bridge, and it got me thinking about the symbolism of white flags and surrender.
That’s really interesting. It’s almost like a stripping away of national identity.
Exactly. I thought about how, if the far right got their way in post-Brexit Britain and created a “white utopia,” they might try to erase all color—like bleaching everything white, almost as if to cleanse it. That’s what I liked about the idea of the white flag—it symbolizes surrender, but in a very daunting way. It felt like a metaphor for what was happening in Britain, especially with the way they want to hold onto the past, with all the imperial history and the constant pomp and circumstance. The actions don’t match the rhetoric.
Right, it’s like they want to hold onto this image of Britain that doesn’t exist anymore.
Yes, and the way things are now—the ceremonies, the national symbols like the poppy—have become detached from their original meanings. For example, the red poppy was meant to symbolize ceasefire and remembrance for fallen soldiers, but now it’s become more of a detached ritual. Last year, on Remembrance Day in London, people marched for the fallen in World War I and II, but there was also a Palestinian freedom march happening at the same time. There was conflict between the two groups, but both were essentially marching for the same thing—a desire for peace. Yet, it became this battle over meaning, and that’s where language, history, and symbolism get distorted.
So, the idea of the white flag in your work reflects that loss of meaning and identity?
Exactly. The flag, in its pure white simplicity, is a surrender—there’s a kind of haunting finality to it. But it’s also about the bleaching of something—removing all the color to create this sterile, empty ideal. It’s also about the way Britain tries to elevate itself by clinging to the past while ignoring the realities of the present. This all ties back to that idea of “peace, prosperity, and friendship” that was stamped on the commemorative coin made when Britain left the EU. It’s a joke because the reality is so far from that ideal.
It’s interesting how these symbols that once meant something have now become empty gestures.
Yes, and it’s like the ceremonies and parades continue as if nothing has changed. The poppy, for example, has become detached from its original meaning, much like the national identity itself. It’s a cycle of forgetting what something truly stood for and replacing it with a hollow version. We only start to realize the consequences of this once it escalates into something even larger, like a global conflict. History tends to repeat itself, but people often don’t recognize the patterns until it’s too late.
Spanning three floors of 30 bis Rue de Paradis in the 10th arrondissement of Paris, a historic location that once housed the Baccarat crystal factory, The Salon is designed as an alternative cultural experience during Paris Art Week, showcasing a dynamic selection from over 50 galleries, art spaces, and non-profit organizations spanning 18 countries and 24 cities, including Basel, Cologne, Dubai, Glasgow, Oslo, Guayaquil, Los Angeles, Mexico City, New York, Paris, Tokyo, and Warsaw.
NR’s comprehensive media coverage will highlight The Salon’s unique model and amplify the fair’s vision for a cultural experience that challenges standardised models, emphasizing the importance of supporting new voices and underrepresented creators in the art world, while bringing together new, and established, voices in contemporary culture.
As part of our coverage, we spoke with Louis Shannon, founder of Entrance Gallery, one of the most interesting Lower East Side spaces in NYC.
Let’s start by taking a little step back. This is not the first time you work with The Community, right?
We had a show in The Community’s space in Pantin last November, titled LA RENTRÉE. It was the first of The Community’s invitationalformat, which I guess they also expanded, in a way, with The Salon. It was a beautiful, very spontaneous show –the reasoning behind it was bringing everything that fitted into a single suitcase. [laughs]
This time, with more preparation, we brought a fuller range of works reflecting our gallery’s vision in a more organic, and complete, manner. The selection gives an overview of what we’re aiming to accomplish in New York—primarily supporting artists ready for their debut solo exhibitions. I love working with emerging artists, and here at The Salon, we’re showcasing artists who’ve never shown before. For instance, Ethan Means, a remarkable oil painter from Flatbush, Brooklyn, is showing his work for the first time here, at The Salon, and it has been an exciting experience to see the public’s response.
Alongside him, we have pieces from more established artists in our program, like Hannah Lee, whose work references Caillebotte, whose work is currently being exhibited at the Museeè D’orsay. Having these artists side by side captures the essence of our program, emphasizing new voices and ongoing dialogues.
How’s working with artists who are just starting out?
It definitely adds a layer of curiosity and collaboration, allowing us to nurture meaningful relationships from the outset. This approach aligns with the salon’s ethos and its conversational format, fostering open interactions, much like NADA’s broader mission to connect communities in art.
As we’ve already said, this isn’t my first collaboration with The Community—I’ve known them for a long time—and it’s always been about intellectual curiosity, introducing fresh voices and keeping things innovative.
Was supporting emerging art always part of your mission from the start? Since you began collecting, has that focus always been there, or do you feel it developed over time as you gained experience?
It is a mission, 100%. Since opening our gallery in 2017, our goal has been to elevate emerging art. It started as a DIY space, driven by an underground spirit, and that ethos remains central to everything we do. For instance, Pat McCarthy is one of the artists I brought to the salon; his background in zine culture and punk aesthetics reflects our gallery’s roots in alternative art scenes, and his work blends high and low art in a way that resonates with our values.
I see each show as a collaborative journey that connects me with the artist on a deeper level. The Salon has been especially rewarding because it feels less like a conventional fair and more like a community of art lovers sharing ideas and engaging in meaningful conversations.
And those conversations become part of the story. Just like the way you work with artists, that same deep involvement in their practice. The way you described Pat’s work really shows the thoughtful, long-term relationships you seem to cultivate with artists. Is it challenging sometimes to keep that up?
Honestly, it’s good. It’s my everyday, my whole life—I live and breathe it, so I don’t think about anything else. For me, it’s all about the relationship, and when your work becomes your life, that’s when it’s truly rewarding. That personal, enduring connection with the artists and their work is central.
Speaking of connections, have you had a chance to attend any talks or activations here?
Not yet, but I’m excited to see Nick Sethi and pick up one of his books. He’s a friend and a talented artist, also involved with The Community for years.
Is there a particular medium you’re interested in curating right now? Or that perhaps you wanted to specifically focus on for a fair setting?
Not really. For me, it’s more about the artist’s intention. I enjoy working with artists at various stages of their practice, especially when they’re deeply engaged and obsessed with their chosen material. If they’re passionate about oil painting on panel, that’s fantastic. If they’re drawn to English porcelain ceramics or performance, I’ll support that too—as long as it’s an authentic pursuit. It’s not about creating what sells; it’s about creating because they have an undeniable drive to express through their art. Also, The Salon’s format is less costly than larger fairs, allowing us to take more creative risks.
How’s your feedback on The Salon experience so far? How would you describe it?
I think that there’s a more relaxed environment that lets visitors, including collectors, approach the works with an open mind, which fosters a greater receptivity to new perspectives. It’s refreshing compared to the high-stakes, high-commercial settings of other fairs. Plus, it’s nice to see students and young creatives engaging with the art, it’s different.
What are the next steps for you after The Salon?
Right now, we’re in the midst of our season, with several shows lined up through the end of the year, including a fair in Miami. I’m also working on a sculpture garden in Red Hook in collaboration with the gallery, an exciting new project focused on expanding our sculptural offerings.
Credits
Entrance Gallery booth at The Salon by NADA & The Community, Paris, 2024. Photography by Gabriele Abbruzzese.
Ethan Means, Fashion parents, 2024. Oil on wood panel. Photography by Stephen Faught.
Ethan Means, Doing some rooftop reading, 2024. Oil on wood panel. Photography by Stephen Faught.
Lizzy Gabay, Building at Night II, 2024. Oil on linen. Photography by Stephen Faught.
Lizzy Gabay, The Water Statues, 2024. Oil on canvas. Photography by Stephen Faught.
Spanning three floors of 30 bis Rue de Paradis in the 10th arrondissement of Paris, a historic location that once housed the Baccarat crystal factory, The Salon is designed as an alternative cultural experience during Paris Art Week, showcasing a dynamic selection from over 50 galleries, art spaces, and non-profit organizations spanning 18 countries and 24 cities, including Basel, Cologne, Dubai, Glasgow, Oslo, Guayaquil, Los Angeles, Mexico City, New York, Paris, Tokyo, and Warsaw.
NR’s comprehensive media coverage will highlight The Salon’s unique model and amplify the fair’s vision for a cultural experience that challenges standardised models, emphasizing the importance of supporting new voices and underrepresented creators in the art world, while bringing together new, and established, voices in contemporary culture.
As part of our coverage, we spoke with Alex Meurice, founder of Foreign & Domestic Gallery in New York.
Hey Alex! How’s it going?
Last day vibes, you know? I guess we are all more relaxed, and tired. [laughs] But I am definitely happy.
Should we start this with a little introduction about your work?
Sure. The story actually traces back to 2018. I first used the project name “Foreign & Domestic” when I participated in The Salon de Normandy’s first edition, back in 2019. The name originated from an exhibition I held in London in 2018, titled “European Foreign and Domestic,” which was inspired by a road sign advertising mechanic services in Los Angeles. You see signs like “Foreign and Domestic” throughout the U.S., often referring to parts from both Europe and America. But the phrase sparked a question for me: What’s truly foreign nowadays? So, everything kind of revolved around this theme and wordplay.
I held the show in a big abandoned hotel in London, and one of the artists showing was actually The Community. There’s an exact replica of an English town in China, It’s called Thames Town. This town, a near-exact recreation, even down to its decor, served as a fascinating setting for their work. Replicating European architecture like this isn’t allowed in China anymore, as recent policies under Xi Jinping restrict European-style designs. But back then, they were able to create almost identical replicas.
The Community contributed with a video filmed in Thames Town. They sent two of their members to stay in an Airbnb that looked like a stage set for an English home, complete with decor that imitated traditional British interiors. The effect was surreal—like a TV set with three walls, furnished to mimic a scene straight out of the UK. That’s what they brought to my space, capturing this unique blend of cultural imitation.
How did, from there, Foreign & Domestic become what it is today?
In 2020, I moved to New York. I kept the original name, dropped European –The shadow of the old continent. One of the first artists I showed in NYC was Michael Iveson, a British artist whose work I had shown extensively in London. He created a significant installation there, featuring double-wrapped sculptures and smaller prints. It felt right to bring Michael back into focus, and his work is also here at The Salon. Now, five years on, in 2024, things have evolved. I’ve been running a more established gallery program since December 2022, with Michael set to have his next show in November. My presentation at the Salon this year is straightforward, showcasing snapshots of recent gallery highlights: the previous show with Joseph Brock, the upcoming one with Michael Iveson, and the show I did with Greg last year, which I also curated for another exhibition.
You were there for the first Salon de Normandy, The Community’s project that served as the baseline for where we are right now. How would you say the project evolved?
It’s definitely more professional now, but the spirit remains the same. NADA and The Community might operate slightly differently, but they share the same mission. There’s a special energy of support and innovation. They even had artists giving away work for free—a beautiful gesture. I’m referring to Nick Sethi’s performance. I think they managed to elevate and translate to a bigger framework what the original Salon was. A very diverse mix of people visited the fair, and the presence of music and art roaming through the halls adds a unique touch.
Would you say your role as an exhibitor, or perhaps how audiences interact with your work, has shifted over these years?
Yes, in some ways. It’s a more diverse audience now, and it’s exciting to see people interact differently with the pieces. I’m showing at NADA Miami next, where I’ll explore this further.
What drew you to participate in fairs? Is it just about exposure, or something deeper?
Mostly, it’s about connecting with new audiences who resonate with the gallery’s programming. Fairs like NADA’s or The Salon attract a unique crowd, and the community among exhibitors is strong—each gallery has its own story and perspective, which keeps the experience rich and varied. Which I think it’s what made this experience very interesting. Each exhibitor had its own very individual aesthetic, program, history, but we managed to create a communal experience. A certain kinship I’d say. Neighboring galleries often collaborate, and friendships emerge organically. These “invisible lines” form between spaces, making the event feel truly communal.
How would you describe your curatorial approach?
I’m interested in the personal connection and experimenting alongside the artists. The results come naturally through these collaborations. Some artists I work with are known for using found or recycled materials—like magazines, old t-shirts, or even candles—giving their work a raw, sustainable quality.
The relational side seems essential in the way you work, beyond just what ends up on the walls.
Absolutely. A gallery is like an iceberg—the art on display is just the visible tip of a much larger social and creative context. I still very much believe in the idea of social scenes, and I mean that in a more meaningful way, not just you know, going to openings and the social side of being in the art world, and I see that a lot in the interactions we managed to build here during these four days.
Credits
Minotaurs, 2024, group exhibition curated by Harris Rosenblum. Installation view. Photography by Stephen Faught.
Nicholas William Johnson, Apparatus (Henbane viewed in a convex obsidian mirror), 2022. Photography by Damian Griffiths
Michael Iveson, Boots, 2024. Photography by Stephen James
Meriem Bennani is really funny. But don’t forget that it’s often said that the best humor comes from a place of truth.
On talking about the process behind For Aicha, the film commissioned by Fondazione Prada for the event, Bennani (Rabat, Morocco, 1988) remarks, “I don’t know if everyone has this experience, but because I’m going back home [to Morocco to film], it feels like I’m a child again in my old room. I’m back to being a virgin, you know? But at the same time, I know I’m an adult. I make art. I can have these kinds of interactions. I think that makes my relationship to home more complex and dynamic and fun and helps it all come together.”
From 31 October 2024 to 24 February 2025, Fondazione Prada Milano hosts Meriem Bennani’s solo exhibition, For My Best Family. In this two-part show, Bennani and her collaborators bring to life cigarette-smoking jackals, rubber flip-flops, and a poignant nostalgia for home. The exhibition features the film For Aicha alongside the sprawling sound installation Sole Crushing, immersing viewers in Bennani’s playful yet evocative vision of family and belonging.
To see For Aicha, one must walk through the cacophonous installation, Sole Crushing, composed by Morocco-based music producer Cheb Runner (Reda Senhaji). The slap-slap of the flip flops, speaking to each other from polyphonic groups, traps the viewer in a lively conversation. The shoes are adorned with an eclectic collection of accoutrements: metal rings, a rainbow of plastic cord, and wooden nubs are the secret instruments in this orchestra. It’s like walking into a room with aunts fighting over a recipe, siblings squealing over a video game, or parents dancing to an old favorite song of theirs – there is an odd, yet familiar, feeling of absurdity that most only find in the comfort of their own homes.
It’s this rubber, soul-filled arrangement, that got the docents dancing and even the most stoney-faced journalists chuckling. Chanclas, pantofole, slippers, and off-brand Havaianas reminiscent of summers past respond to the puff of pneumatic tubes to welcome all to Bennani’s solo exhibition.
Ascending into the upper level of the Podium space, visitors find a miniature version of Fondazione Prada’s, Cinema Godard. A portion of the theater’s chartreuse velvet chairs are waiting for audience members, ready to hold on to them as they sit for the 73 minute, animated work, For Aicha. Alongside co-directors Meriem Bennani and Orian Barki were Net artist John Micheal Boling and actor, filmmaker, and teaching artist Jason Coombs. From the labor of these four creatives, a micro production studio came together in New York for this project.
Created over the course of two years, the team produced work that sits familiarly in Bennani’s oeuvre anthropomorphic characters. Barki, who some might recognize as the other mind (and lizard) behind Bennani’s 2020 series, 2 Lizards, has a background in documentary filmmaking that contributes to the texture of the film. In this blend of cinematic styles — documentary, traditional filmmaking, animation — a layered, experimental work emerges.
For Aicha follows the journey of Bouchra, a 35-year-old jackal filmmaker living in New York creating an auto-biographical film about coming out to her mother. She (referring to both Bouchra and Bennani in this case) explore themes of queerness, coming out, and the profound effects of living between worlds—worlds shaped both by cinematic fiction and by borders such as those between the US and Morocco.
The film is filled with clever details that reflect the team’s shared experiences and the joys of working in animation. In creating the film, Coombs references a quote from Peter Chung: “I often remind myself that animation is the creation of the illusion of spontaneity. Because nothing is in fact less spontaneous than the process of animating.”
Nonetheless, For Aicha immerses the viewer in its narrative through a series of playful visual moments that are characteristic of Bennani’s style. A truck door printed with the image of toothpaste container folds open like a squeezed tube; a POV sequence of a descent down a glowing, singing elevator shaft; a series of high-contrast, fast-paced radio station introductions that harken back to talk-radio shows of the 2000s.
Even thinking of Bouchra’s presence, the tiniest of details were considered to construct her aura. Orian reminisces, “it was the folly artist’s idea to make the character of Bouchra very squeaky. She’s just wearing this leather jacket, but even that can create this presence for the character. When she sits down, she moves a tiny bit, and it squeaks.”
Integrated into the film are real conversation between Bennani and her mother, spoken in smooth, familiar, and affectionate French. This dialogue exemplifies how the film draws on documentary filmmaking techniques, not simply to replicate reality, but to use the very fabric of real life to evoke emotion. By framing these intimate moments in her animal kingdom, Bennani prompts the audience to reevaluate their everyday connections to home.
For long-time followers of Bennani’s work, her mother pops up in another Prada-related creation. Among a display of flying animated papers, her mom popped up as the star of the SS22 Miu Miu runway video.
In discussing mothers, homes, and family, the team behind For Aicha reflects on how this work has affected their notion of what home is.
Born in Isreal, Barki remarks, “in the past year, I’ve seen where I come from going down the drain, committing insane war crimes and genocide. Because of this—even unrelated to the film—my perception of home was shifting while making it.”
Barki later goes on to say on how the split of narratives in the film mimics the “split” sensation of diaspora. “In regard to living in a different country: at first, I expected that I’ll move to the new place [the US], and slowly, I will feel more like I belong in that new place, which I do. I realized that as more time goes by, I feel like I belong less in where I come from, but there’s never a full transfer. It’s just kind of like two vessels that becomes split, and this split is what makes you whole.”
Coombs follows up by adding, “one of the things that really drew me to this project was the beautifully complex, nuanced, philosophy and politics of both Meriem and Orian… It was really beautiful to be brought into this world, to be brought into their homes and their families, and see things that are so outside of my world. It’s been transformative for me. It’s hard to put into words exactly how home and family have changed, but they’ve definitely been very much affected by these two women.”
In discussing My Best Family, the team effused a sense of admiration for each other and their contributions. Bennani’s extensive collaborations on this project for Fondazione Prada embody the values at the heart of her exhibition—a sense of community and connection. In bringing together so many creatives, pulling in the voice of her mom and family, selecting a music producer from her own country, Bennani created a family within the exhibition space.
Before leaving the interview, Barki says, “I’ll say one more thing! Today [30 October 2024] is going to be a very special event because our families came from all over to watch the opening of the film and be part of it. Also, about 30 of our friends from New York are here. In a real sense, that is just so fucking special!”
In a final remark Boling adds about Fondazione Prada, “yeah, so home’s gonna be here today.”
Meriem Bennani (Rabat, Morocco, 1988) lives and works in Brooklyn, New York. Her work has been exhibited at the Whitney Biennial, MoMA PS1, Art Dubai, Fondation Louis Vuitton, the Public Art Fund, CLEARING Gallery, and The Kitchen. Her animated series, 2 Lizards, in collaboration with Orian Barki, was premiered on Instagram in spring 2020 and was described by The New York Times as “hypnotic . . . deploying a blend of documentary structure and animation surrealism . . . both poignantly grounded in actual events and also soothingly fantastical.”
Orian Barki (Tel Aviv, Israel, 1985) is a filmmaker based in New York. Barki both shoots and edits many of her raw character-driven documentaries. Her work 2 Lizards, co- directed with Meriem Bennani, was acquired by MoMA and the Whitney Museum for their permanent collections. Barki’s work has been featured on ESPN, PBS, Fader, Vogue, Nowness, Le Cinéma Club, Dazed Magazine, and more.
Cheb Runner (Reda Senhaji) is a music producer based in Morocco. Inspired by various musical cultures, his sound is innovative and blends North African and European influences.
John Michael Boling is a Net artist, former Associate Director of Rhizome, co-founder of the Internet surfing club NASTY NETS and co-founder of Are.na, a platform for creative research.
Jason Coombs is an actor, filmmaker, and teaching artist from New York. He has produced several short films that have screened at festivals around the world.
All images courtesy of the artists and Fondazione Prada.
