Gemma De Angelis Testa

A desire to connect artists and art lovers led Gemma De Angelis Testa to establish ACACIA in Milan in 2003 and to instigate the ACACIA award. Here, she speaks to LUX about her extensive collection and the artists close to her heart

LUX: Did your love of art draw you to your husband, the late Armando Testa?
Gemma De Angelis Testa: Armando was one of a kind, with an extraordinary sense of humour and imagination, a creative approach that he applied to work and life.

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From left: House of Pictures, 2001, by Peter Doig and What to Do, 2008, Richard Prince, in Gemma De Angelis Testa’s guest room

LUX: You made a huge art donation from your collection to Ca’ Pesaro, Venice. Why was that?
GDAT: It is the realisation of a dream. Before becoming a collector, I dreamt of creating a collection to donate to a museum. It felt right to let people enjoy artworks that have given me such joy. It also ensures a future for the collection. And in Venice, during the Biennale, I met my husband and fell in love with contemporary art.

LUX: Tell us about some of the donated works.
GDAT: Vengeance of Achilles by Cy Twombly and Untitled by Gino De Dominicis are especially dear to my heart. The Twombly was the first piece of my collection; the De Dominicis one of the few purchased with my husband

Head (Miner), 2016 by William Kentrige, and Microcosmo (2001-02) by Francesco Gennari, in Testa’s entrance hall

LUX: Tell us about the art in your home? It feels like one is immersed in art there.
GDAT: With many artworks going to Venice, I created new art stories for the house. You are greeted by William Kentridge’s steel Head (Miner). The drawing room is otherworldly, with highlights by Ed Ruscha and Anselm Kiefer. The dining room includes Homage to Mondrian by Armando Testa and Homage to Armando Testa by Haim Steinbach. Relationships made in the guest room include Elizabeth Peyton and Peter Doig, and in the studio Lucio Fontana and Ettore Spalletti. The bedroom includes portraits by Marlene Dumas, and Aquile meccaniche by Testa. Artworks by Rebecca Horn, Pat Steir and Joseph Kosuth in the hallway lead to the kitchen, where you find humorous food works by Testa.

From left: Small Many, 2000-2001, by Pat Steir; Drawing from Faustus in Africa, 1995, by William Kentridge; and 5/7/63, 7.30am, 2016, by Robert Pruitt, in Testa’s drawing room

LUX: Are collectors’ donations more important, as funding diminishes?
GDAT: They are essential, especially in Italy, where the lack of public funding is an issue. It is a way of giving back. Private and public institutions should engage to develop ideas around the lack of venues for private collections.

Read more: Italy Art Focus: Patrizia Sandretto Re Rebaudengo

LUX: How important is it for art to be available to the public?
GDAT: It is a priority, as art would not exist without sharing. Art is part of our culture, opening our minds and hearts. It is the right of everyone to have access it.

LUX: Is there a philosophy to your collecting?
GDAT: Only the desire to explore new paths and new worlds.

Find out more: acaciaweb.it

William Kentridge is one of the great artists to span the last century and this one. Recently the subject of solo retrospectives at the Royal Academy of Art in London and The Broad in LA, the South African maestro sits down with LUX Editor-in-Chief Darius Sanai to discuss extremism, absurdity and politics in art

Sitting with William Kentridge ahead of our interview, as an assistant takes our order for coffee and biscuits, I can’t help playing a little game with myself. What, I wonder, would I think the great artist did for a living, if I didn’t know already?

We are backstage at the Barbican Centre, London, in the staff canteen, a windowless space that is empty for the moment as it is mid-morning. We have seated ourselves at a small square table in a corner, beneath a couple of framed newspaper cuttings of theatre reviews. Kentridge is wearing a white collared shirt and navy round-neck sweater – as, coincidentally, am I. Well built, with plenty of white-grey hair, slightly tousled and prominent white eyebrows, distinguished and just a tad authoritarian in his demeanour, he gives the vibe of being a professional.

Maybe he is a lawyer, like his parents, two of the most celebrated human-rights lawyers in his native South Africa? His father, Sir Sydney Kentridge, represented Nelson Mandela at the Rivonia trial of 1964, at the height of the apartheid system, which saw the ANC leader jailed for 27 years for campaigning for racial equality. Sydney, now 100, only retired in 2013 at the age of 90. William’s mother, Felicia, who died in 2015, founded South Africa’s Legal Resources Centre, which gave legal aid to those being prosecuted by the apartheid state.

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But no; William Kentridge looks like a doctor. That’s it. I feel like I’m sitting with a veteran family doctor, a GP who has seen years of woes and is used to answering the same questions over and over. There’s his dryness, the sense that his mind has experienced the best and worst of humanity, his ability to anticipate a question and have an answer ready, delivered in a highly articulate, slightly deadpan way.

My silly thought exercise is no more than that. Artists come in types as varied as humanity itself. And I already know that Kentridge comes from a highly learned, cultured family of Jewish humanist professionals. But still, it does connect with something else: the breadth of knowledge, reading and intellect that is packed into Kentridge’s works.

In many ways, this old white heterosexual male (by current societal definitions), with a specialism in charcoal drawings, is an unlikely global artist of the moment. His show was the centrepiece of the Royal Academy of Arts in London last autumn, and he had a similar solo show at the equally prestigious The Broad in Los Angeles after that. Much of the political and societal challenges he explores are from the last century: apartheid, the Soviet Union. Kentridge himself is 68 this year.

And yet his works, which range from charcoals to animations, vast tapestries to sculptures, theatre shows to his poster-like rubrics, have never had more relevance in a world where the absurd is becoming integrated into the cultural norm, and where the Enlightenment liberal humanism he displays is being sidelined by winds of unreason.

Coffee delivered and biscuits to hand (which are being nibbled at by Kentridge), I ask him exactly what type of artist he is. He is famous for his charcoal drawings, but he also creates stop-motion videos, animations, tapestries, opera and theatre productions, operatic films, operatic historic films… we are meeting at the Barbican because he is directing a series of short diverse performances here, developed by artists at his The Centre for the Less Good Idea in Johannesburg, which would, I tell him, for the uninformed viewer seem like quite a different art form to drawings. How would he explain what he does, in a nutshell, say to an ancestor from 100 years ago?

“I would say I make drawings, which would be familiar from 100 years ago. Sometimes those drawings are set in motion as animated film, so, if we’re in the 1890s they might have recognised that. Sometimes those projected images are used as backgrounds for theatre performances, which they would have known from 18th-century theatre-projection techniques. And so sometimes they shift between drawing and animation and theatre production and sculpture. But they all start off as drawing. Drawing is the heart of it. Even if it’s working with an actor onstage, the logic is that of making a drawing.”

There is a precision in his answer, almost jarring with its immediacy. He gives thoughtful answers but doesn’t seem to take time to think – a sign of a sharp mind.

Walk around one of Kentridge’s grand retrospectives, like the one at the RA, or the simultaneous selling show, “Oh To Believe in Another World”, around the corner at Goodman Gallery in Mayfair, and you immediately notice how prominent the themes of politics and society are in his works. At the RA, a 1997 animation playing on a loop, Ubu Tells the Truth, referred to the horrors of apartheid South Africa, including state-sponsored murders. In Goodman Gallery, we saw glimpses of the brutality of Soviet communism in his latest film (of the same name as the exhibition) and other works.

And yet there is a feeling that Kentridge, while amplifying these extremes of negative humanity, is not ideological himself, not campaigning for some political end. “No, it’s not ideological,” he agrees, referring to “Oh To Believe in Another World”. “What it is, is saying, ‘Here are the paradoxes’; that something that started with such optimism descended into such instrumental brutality. And so it sets the question of how does one find emancipation? We understand that it’s not okay for the inequalities in the world to exist, but that some of the huge-scale plans to change that have really not worked.

Illustration by Jonathan Newhouse

“That’s the paradox it sets itself in. More specifically, how did Shostakovich navigate his way through the Soviet Union? How did an artist do it? It’s a mixture between making a space for anarchic stupidity and learning from what you do, rather than telling the world what it has to do.”

Speaking with Kentridge, you soon realise that every answer gives rise to another question, which is perhaps an allegory for artistic inspiration. I ask, for example, whether he is commenting on events in these works.

William Kentridge created the artwork The Dead Report For Duty, for this issue of LUX

“I don’t see it as a commentary,” he says, “because in a commentary you need a sense of what your comment is at the beginning. At the end we discover what it is we have made. For me, the most interesting artworks are the ones that end with a riddle. You know a riddle is the edge of knowing a meaning and you can’t quite put your finger on the right word, exactly what it is, and then you become complicit in trying to construct what it is, to fill the gaps, to leap over the gaps, and that’s the place where we are. One of the phrases that comes up is, ‘There is no good solution’. There are less bad ones, though.”

So am I correct to see a kind of dark, absurdist wit in these works, despite, or perhaps because of their subject matter: apartheid, communism in the Soviet Union and the Cultural Revolution in communist China?

“Well, there’s certainly an absurdism,” he says, and then qualifies it. “In England, the absurd often just means the silly or funny. I mention the absurd as a logic that has gone astray, and then following that bad logic with complete clarity and assiduity. And if you think of what apartheid was in South Africa, it was absurd. We decide who you are by whether a pencil will stick in your hair or not, and that will determine your future. So there’s an absurdity in that, but it gets followed through with all the violence of the state behind it. It would be impossible to describe what happened in South Africa without invoking the category of the absurd, so I find it a very central way of thinking. It’s also about giving an image the benefit of the doubt – doing it and seeing what happens. And that would be like in psychoanalysis, where you use free association on the basis that something may well come out, even if you don’t know what it is in advance.”

I mention, as context, that I feel I can understand his works a little because I studied Soviet history, and worked in post-apartheid South Africa as a foreign correspondent. Do people viewing his works need this kind of knowledge?

“Hmm,” he ponders briefly. “It’s like in one of the films at the RA, where there’s an image of headphone speakers put on a pig’s head, and then the pig’s head is exploded. If you’re from South Africa, then you’ll know that was actually an experiment done by the security police to check boobytrapped headphones – they put them on a pig’s head and blew the head up. If you don’t know that story, it’s nonetheless an image of extreme violence, dichotomies and the vulgarity of putting Walkman headphones on a pig and then blowing it up.

“I think people are very good at creating or either understanding or constructing a context – which may not be that accurate, but nonetheless fulfils us. So I don’t believe that you have to understand all the context. But it helps to understand what apartheid was, to understand there was a cultural revolution in China.”

I wonder what he thinks of the current cultural battles and universalisation of identity in the Global North. Identity was, after all, the basis of apartheid, its justification for an institutionalised racial categorisation that put white people at the top, black people at the bottom, and so-labelled “coloureds” and “Indians” somewhere in the middle – although, effectively, near the bottom. I mention that when I worked as a foreign correspondent in the 1990s, the only times I had been required to state exactly what race I was on a form, were in apartheid South Africa and left-wing councils in the UK.

Do these conversations come into play in his works? His answer is, typically, a deep one that slides into a riddle before it quite gets to its point. “Not directly, but I think they do come into it. I mean, there’s a polemic against an identity politics in the world, both in the way I work with different people and in the way that if you say, like in South Africa, we had all those years of apartheid, of identity politics, black people must live here physically, this is the type of music they can listen to, white people can listen to classical music, black people must listen to jazz.

“Part of the struggle against apartheid is saying, ‘No, a black person can listen to opera, can be an opera singer.’ So there is a polemic in that. There’s a polemic in saying, ‘Why do you do it – art that is connected to politics, without it having a political message?’ It says it clearly: politics is much less clear cut, much more paradoxical, ambiguous. Much less certain.”

We turn briefly to the politics of South Africa, where the institutionalised brutality of the apartheid era briefly gave way to hope when Nelson Mandela became President in 1994, and has now degenerated into corruption and mismanagement. Is he pessimistic?

“I always feel that in South Africa to be an optimist or a pessimist is wrong, because there were two futures unfolding, an optimistic one and a pessimistic one, but the difficult future feels harder to escape. I made a film called In Defence of Optimism, which is about life in the studio: what is the optimism in here, in making something, in not leaving the paper blank, in resisting entropy? And that became a strong action rather than a theme. Downtown in Johannesburg, shockingly, they have seven hours a day without electricity, sometimes two days at a time with no water. So it means that the well-off have a generator, they have a 4 x 4 vehicle that can go over the potholes in the road, but if you’re anyone else your life is really, really difficult and messed up.”

But he is loyal. He is still there. “I am still there. And two of our three children are there. But so many of the collaborators, musicians, actors, are still there – that’s a strong pull. I would feel quite dislocated, I think, if I moved. In a way, I stay in South Africa because I don’t have to. Also, it is depressing when things are falling apart, but it’s a very interesting place to be. It would be interesting to see, when you see the whole series of performances, whether it’s, ‘Oh, my God, I’m just going to go home and slit my throat’, or whether it actually gives energy.”

Is he disappointed in the ANC – once banned under apartheid but which has governed South Africa since 1994, and has, post-Mandela, proved such a poor governor? “Yes, I think we really messed up badly in the years of the Zuma presidency [2009-18]. And it’s difficult to get out of it – our new president hasn’t done much better.”

I say that I remember Cyril Ramaphosa, whose current presidency has been marked by corruption and mismanagement scandals, when he was an ANC negotiator in the optimistic years of the 1990s: he seemed like a perfect future president – wise, thoughtful, considered. “He was, and everyone kept giving him the benefit of the doubt, saying, ‘It just takes time, it just takes time’, but now it’s been many years.”

Read more: Christopher Cowdray on the Dorchester London’s Latest Renovation

Kentridge doesn’t give much away, but you cannot create monumental, moving works like his (and the occasional funny ones) without a big emotional burden. I ask, is drawing therapeutic?

“Drawing is completely therapeutic,” he says. “However bad I’m feeling, after two hours in the studio just quietly drawing, everything seems manageable.”

At that point, the powerful intellectual sitting next to me sounds, briefly, like any vulnerable, creative artist.

Portraiture and exhibition photography by Maryam Eisler

Find out more: kentridge.studio

This article was first published in the Spring/Summer 2023 issue of LUX

Liza Essers and Durjoy Rahman in discussion at Goodman Gallery, Mayfair, London

In the first of our series of online dialogues, Liza Essers of Goodman Gallery and South South speaks with philanthropist Durjoy Rahman about the western eye on art, and the future of culture in the Global South. With an introduction and moderation by Darius Sanai and created in association with the Durjoy Bangladesh Foundation

History is always written by the winners. Whether or not that is true, there is more than an element of truth as far as art history is concerned. The West, home of most of the world’s wealth for most of the past millennium, is where the biggest auction houses, collectors, galleries, institutions, and market-makers are based. When the average LUX reader thinks of art history, they are more likely to think of Michelangelo or Monet than Khmer sculptors or 12th century Chinese visual artist Zhang Zeduan.

The art fair is now a global phenomenon, and Art Basel and Frieze, the two biggest players, have editions in Hong Kong and Seoul, as well as London, Paris, Basel, New York, Miami and Los Angeles (note the weighting there between East and West). But they are American and Swiss-owned organisations driven by legitimacy from heavy-hitter galleries in New York and London. When Abu Dhabi wanted to gain instant credibility in the art world, it opened a Louvre (with a Guggenheim coming soon).

Yet art did not start in the West, and is unlikely to end in the West. One of the most significant organisations seeking to loosen the western grip, and accompanying neo-Orientalist viewpoint, in the art world, is South-South. Co-founded by the esteemed Johannesburg-based gallerist Liza Essers, owner of Goodman Gallery, who represents William Kentridge, among many others, it bills itself a resource for artists, galleries, curators and collectors across the global south.

Liza Essers. Photographed by Anthea Pokroy. Courtesy Goodman Gallery

For the first in our series of online dialogues, we brought Liza together with a growing force in the rebalancing of east-west art relations, Durjoy Rahman. Founder of the Durjoy Bangladesh Foundation, Durjoy is a multifaceted collector and philanthropist supporting artists and institutions across South Asia, the Middle East, and Europe. The foundation supports a residency at Amsterdam’s Rijksakademie, is launching a new partnership with India’s Kochi Biennial and London’s Hayward Gallery, and supports the esteemed Sharjah Art Foundation, among many other initiatives.

The dialogue between two intriguing leaders in art in the Global South was moderated by LUX Editor-in-Chief Darius Sanai, himself from Iran, in Essers’ Goodman Gallery in Mayfair, London.

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LUX: Liza, you set up South South as an organisation which does not just promote dialogue and art action, but additionally serves as a way to provide artists and galleries with a new way of interacting and selling work.

Liza Essers: Absolutely, it goes back much further than I think most people realise. South South started in 2010 after visiting Brazil and being completely inspired by walking through the streets of Sao Paulo and thinking about Johannesburg. These two places I felt had shared histories and realities of their current situation. South South then started as a curatorial initiative that I began with Goodman Gallery. There were two strong curatorial initiatives; South South and another project called In Context, that was looking at the dynamics and tensions of the place. I was really interested at the time in the term the ‘Global South’ which was very much established by Lula da Silva, as an economic term around foreign policy. I suppose my background in economics got me thinking about seeing these real distinctions within the Western art market and The Global South, in a context of underlying political and economic realities. Over the last 12 years, there have been big multi-place projects with galleries around The Global South.

Samson Kambalu, Beni Flag- Sovereign States (this is not what I meant when I said bang bang), 2019

LUX: Durjoy, do you see any parallels between the work of your foundation which is focussed around supporting south Asian art, artists and organisations, and the work of South South?

Durjoy Rahman: Durjoy Bangladesh Foundation (DBF) was founded in 2018 and our mission was to support artistic, socially-activated practices. Not only do we promote South Asian artists, but also all across The Global South. There are many similarities between artists living in Asia, Africa and even South America with a lot of their work being interwoven as they live in similar social positions and environments. We also work with artists from Africa whose practices are aligned with social contexts that exist in South Asian countries like Bangladesh. For example, we hosted an artist from Ghana whose work we collected back in 2017 and his practices are very similar to those that we see in Dhaka. When I found his work and I realised the similar socio-economic environment, we started working with him and donated his work to a museum in the Netherlands for his first show in 2018, which is now in their permanent collection.

LUX: As part of the driving force behind the gathering momentum and support for artists from The Global South, is there a need for more organisations like yours?

LE: I feel that there is a need of course, but more importantly, we need collaboration. Instead of everyone trying to individually reinvent the wheel, the whole art world needs to shift together. Collaboration is so much more powerful if people work together to achieve better things for the arts.

DR: I agree, but I also believe that we need to make these artists more visible in their role throughout European history. A lot of South Asian or African artists came to Europe in the 50s and had shows alongside Picasso or Miro, there was a real cultural exchange. Unfortunately, due to the economic situation right after the end of colonial history, in Asia we became less visible and prominent. There is an urgency to work together to establish the position of the global south so that we are equally important in the development of modern art.

LE: Absolutely.

SP-Arte 2022

LUX: Is there a challenge for people to become artists in some countries in the global south, due to the lack of recognition of an art as a viable career? My father, who was Iranian, was a huge art lover and collector but he would have been aghast if I had wanted to actually be an artist.

LE: You are spot on. It is much better than it was, as there are more museums and contemporary art spaces, but there is still a long way to go concerning cementing arts and culture as central to education. For example, in our school system in South Africa, it isn’t part of the mainstream education system, so it is not something that kids are even growing up with. People who are struggling and are below the breadline want their kids to go and become professionals rather than artists due to the perception that they would be unable to make a living.

DR: Regardless of which class, middle or upper, the concept of your child having an arts career, has always been looked at with scepticism from the parents. Every family wants their children to be prosperous and this is not something that has traditionally been considered with an art career, as it is a high-risk option. I think, however, that the times are changing with the increase of museums and art spaces. I think more and more people will be interested in creativity and artistic practice because of the larger income generation.

LUX: Let’s talk about the Western Eye on the Art world. People might say “I’m going to go to an African Art Fair” or “going to look at some Asian Art” but they wouldn’t talk about a “European Art Fair”. Should that change and how important is it?

LE: I think it is of critical importance and one of the main reasons why I felt that it was not constructive or positive for Goodman Gallery to associate with the term African Art Fair. I do think we have to move away from the confines that come with these labels, and consider art as a global language, which is about the human condition globally. I think it is too driven by economics and markets in the West.

Yinka Shonibare CBE, Un Ballo in Maschera, 2004.

DR: I agree! Art is global – it’s not about Asian, African, American. I also think that it has a lot to do with the influence of a lot of organisations that have a ‘South Asian Sale’ or ‘Asian Art Week’. It doesn’t matter how much we think that the art is global if the branding or wording pushes us further into the corner that we want to come out of. This seems to be shifting as the West is looking more at the East. Of course, it will take time, but eventually one day art will be global, and for now we must work together to create global branding rather than regional.

LE: I will say that where it has been useful, if one thinks about a counterpoint, is something like the Johannesburg Art Fair. There has been a benefit of this as it becomes an educational opportunity to build a local collective and for artists to make money. I think we need give a little bit of credit as these regional fairs help to build art markets within our particular communities where there is an absence of cultural institutions and big museums.

Read more: Alan Lo On The Next Asian Art Hotspot

We also encourage these regional fairs to focus on quality and moments, bringing international art into the programme. That’s why for the Johannesburg Art Fair this year, being on the advisory board, South South have an interesting role in creating this shift. We included a video program with international galleries showing artists within the art fair context. It would be too expensive for galleries to show up at international art fairs, but it is an interesting way for audiences to experience international artists and galleries through the South South platform. This has been successful at art fairs this year as audiences can see international art.

LUX: Do you think there is a form of colonialism within the art world, whether conscious or unconscious, from major galleries and auction houses?

LE: I do feel so, although this is probably a bit controversial. We have all got a broader responsibility within our lifetime that I think we generally don’t necessarily take seriously enough and many of the big galleries will colonise or take the artists from the galleries in the Global South. They could be supporting artists and the community in a more productive way. Many galleries want William Kentridge, for example, but how many of them have actually shown up in Johannesburg and understood the context. It just becomes about brands and markets.

Nolan Oswald Dennis, notes for recovery (touch), 2020

DR: In these galleries the financial aspect is a very big factor and a lot of emerging galleries are not able to participate in the big fairs. I think it is more about the financial strength of certain galleries and their ability to dominate space rather than colonialism.

LUX: Looking to education and the consideration that many people who move in the Western art world have Art History Degrees, a.k.a an education dominated by the teaching of the European History of Art and 20th Century US history. Does there need to be a shift in the way the history of art is taught and its many origins and truths?

LE: Definitely – I think that is one of the fundamental pillars of South South. It is much more about the curatorial aspect and the archive than it is around the selling of art. We have a whole archive section on the website where we are looking to gather in one central place and repository of the history of art from The Global South. It is amazing how all of these histories or particular moments in The Global South are not written into the history books, so the idea is really around gathering all of them into a central space.

DR: Information, which is a big factor, was not available or generated in our part of the world – it always generated from Europe, for example there was a huge printing industry in Germany. Due to the fact we, politically and financially, relied on the Western world, they became the authority of information through their dissemination. That is where a lot of things have been influenced, it is not because of colonialism but because of the financial strength they had, that they told their own story, rather than The Global South.

Installation at FNB Art Joburg

LUX: Liza, Durjoy, what would you like to ask each other?

LE: For us at South South, we are now in a place where we want to recognise that post-covid we are returning to ‘business as usual’ with exhibitions and art fairs. I suppose what I am struggling with is how to make South South post-covid meaningful in the art world going forward, when we have to deal with the art world in its old form which is being on the road every few weeks for another fair. I am interested to know if you have any ideas while we are in a moment of reflection on how to move forward and make a success out of it?

DR: The South South platform must be balanced between commercial and non-commercial activities, because ultimately no activities can be successful long term if the business is not culturally sustainable. I think that covid has given us all a realisation of what the world needs, but I always say that art is an object too. We need to ensure its commercial viability. But on the other hand, what we have seen pre-covid at the art fairs is everything attached to the commercial sense. If we can encourage all the stakeholders and beneficiaries associated to work together to create a programme that is designed to give The Global South a stronger presence, I think that would be brilliant and give more representation and visibility to these artists.

Find out more: 

durjoybangladesh.org

south-south.art

Originally called the Prinzessinnenpalais, Deutsche Bank’s PalaisPopulaire opened in September this year

Featuring over 300 works by some of the art world’s biggest names alongside emerging artists, Deutsche Bank’s new exhibition space, the PalaisPopulaire, presents a museum-quality show of inter-generational exploring the numerous ways in which artists work on paper – and with surprising results. Anna Wallace-Thompson hopped over to Berlin to check out its inaugural show, The World on Paper

What would be the art world equivalent of a kid walking into a candy shop? Probably something akin to walking through swish, space-age sliding doors into a room to find oneself surrounded by names such as Joseph Beuys, Marcel Dzama, William Kentridge, Imran Qureshi, Katharina Grosse, James Rosenquist, Dieter Roth, Andy Warhol, Bruce Nauman, Gerhard Richter… the list goes on. And on. And on. To say that the inaugural exhibition of Deutsche Bank’s new arts, culture and sports space at the fittingly titled PalaisPopulaire is something of a showstopper is to put it mildly.

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Opening in late September after extensive renovations, the 18th century venue – originally called the Prinzessinnenpalais – has been remade twice during its colourful history, once in the 1960s, when it became a sort of ‘it’ destination, and now by architectural firm Kuehn Malvezzi. In its newest shiny incarnation it offers over 750 square metres of exhibition space, and The World on Paper brings together 300 works (you guessed it, on paper) by 133 artists from 34 countries. “The focus of this show was really to present the heart of our collection,” says Friedhelm Hütte, curator of the show and head of Deutsche Bank’s worldwide art programme. “Paper is so interesting because artists write on it, they use it as a kind of diary, they can cut it, make three dimensional works, and so we thought – this is almost like the laboratory of an artist, you can see what they are thinking, watch that process of how they develop their ideas. Paper is a very authentic medium and often so innovative – first ideas are often fixed on paper.”

Study for “The Swimmer in the Economist,”, 1996/97James Rosenquist

The exhibition is divided into three sections, with visitors invited to explore these different ‘worlds’ across three floors, wandering through investigations of the body and self-image, abstraction on paper, and examinations of urban spaces and technology. It could be a messy combination of disparate subject matters, yet somehow it’s not. “It was also important for us to present more than just the big names, the ‘hit list’, as it were,” says Hütte. “We wanted to have some surprises and show artists either who aren’t that widely known, or little-known works by well-known artists, such as the early works by Gerhard Richter we’ve selected.”

“DeLuxe”, 2004/05 Ellen Gallagher. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photo credit: Alex Delfanne

In fact, it would be easy for an exhibition like this to pay lip service to big names and act simply as a promotional tool for that ‘hit list’, and the grandeur of Deutsche Bank’s (admittedly impressive) corporate collection. In fact, what is so interesting about The World on Paper is precisely that it is not a ‘safe’ show – after all, corporate collections can so easily become bland lists of big names, ticked off with due diligence but with little willingness to push the envelope into uncomfortable territory. Not so here. See, for example, Iranian artist Parastou Forouhar’s untitled pieces from her series Take off Your Shoes (2001/2002), which depict women in chadors dealing with the bureaucracy of the Islamic regime. Then there is the riot of delight that is American artist Ellen Gallagher’s multi-piece grid of photogravures, DeLuxe (2004/05). Take an array of magazines and promotional materials from the 1930s to 1970s, then remake them with interventions in screen print, embossing, laser cutting, tattoo engraving (yes, really) and Plasticine and what do you get? A bitingly witty investigation of cultural identity and race through the countless advertisements for beauty creams, hair pomades, wigs and more, that have been targeted at African Americans. “Of course we could have put together a show without any risks,” says Hütte. “We could simply have focused on the big names and the big works, but this is what one would expect, and what would be interesting about that?”

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One of the most delightful surprises is the sense of delicacy that winds its way through the works. There are the bold heavy-hitters, of course – the Rosenquists, the Kentridges – but there is immense tenderness too, such as in the evocative Heartbeat Drawing 24 Hour (1998) by Japanese artist Sasaki, or Evelyn Taocheng Wang’s witty take on traditional Chinese manuscripts in My History (2008), in which traditional Chinese painting meets life in the UK (complete with punting in Cambridge). “There are very special pieces here that one wouldn’t expect,” agrees Svenja Gräfin von Reichenbach, director of the PalaisPopulaire. “I find the three drawings by Bruce Naumann we have on display particularly special, as well as the paper works by Richter – they are so private.”

“Moondiver II” by Zilla Leutenegger at Deutsche Bank’s PalaisPopulaire

Ultimately, The World on Paper is a great barometer of our times – it stretches from Post-war Modernism all the way to the present day, and marks the increasingly international nature of Deutsche Bank’s collection. “We wanted this so be our first really international show,” says Hütte. “The character of the collection has completely changed during the last decade, and of our 50,000 works, here we have 134 artists from 34 nations represented.”

Perhaps the best indicator of what the show represents – and what it promises for the future of the PalaisPopulaire – is the playful intervention in the main space’s rotunda. Here, Zilla Leutenegger has installed a multimedia mural and video projection entitled Moondiver II. As visitors wander through the impressive space with its winding staircase, a large, starkly-drawn black construction crane carries a delicate, luminous moon back and forth. It’s that combination of bold and delicate, traditional mural and contemporary video projection that sums up The World on Paper: everything is possible, and this is just the beginning.

“The World on Paper” runs until 7 January 2019 at PalaisPopulaire

As the globe’s art lovers gather at Frieze London, Anna Wallace-Thompson interviews one of the world’s greatest living artists exclusively for LUX.  The expansive career of William Kentridge has seen him design opera sets, stage multidisciplinary performances and create hard-hitting and poignant drawings and animations. His work explores the legacy of apartheid, as well as the human condition, and the ever-repeating cycles of history and memory.

When William Kentridge was three years old, he wanted to be an elephant. At 15, he declared his intention to become a conductor, but was somewhat crestfallen to discover one needed to know how to read music in order to do this. In his twenties, he decided to attend theatre school, and it was there, he says, that he found the confidence to realise he would never become an actor. At 30, a friend broke the news to him: stop calling yourself a technician, or a set designer. You’re an artist! No more talking about ‘falling back’ on a sensible career – time to sink or swim. This should have come as no surprise, for Kentridge had always been drawing and creating – “to make sense of the world”. At 34, he had a breakthrough. His 1989 animated film Johannesburg, 2nd Greatest City After Paris introduced an intrigued audience to the first of what would become nine films chronicling the rise and fall of the characters Soho Eckstein, his wife, and her lover Felix Teitelbaum – all brought to life, in charcoal, through a unique draw-and-erase stop-motion animation technique.

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Carnets d’Égypte (2010), a multimedia ‘excavation’ of ancient Egypt

In fact, the world of William Kentridge is defined by those dark, deft lines of charcoal, which, as he explains to me, “make us aware of the work we do in recognising what we are looking at”. They capture, in a few strokes, the nuances of bodies and personalities, joy and heartache. When animated, they appear and disappear over and over to create living, breathing figures; the erased traces of lines remaining in the background, marking the passing of time and the endurance of memory. Now, at 63, Kentridge is often referred to as South Africa’s Picasso, and his fiercely intelligent oeuvre encompasses those signature charcoal drawings and animations as well as sculpture and theatre. He also creates vast, multidisciplinary performances using shadow puppetry, music, dance and sculpture – so that theatre school wasn’t wasted after all. His work has appeared in museum shows around the world, most recently Thick Time at London’s Whitechapel Gallery (2016–17), and O Sentimental Machine (2018) at Frankfurt’s Liebieghaus. He also debuted a special performance at London’s Tate Modern in July, titled The Head & the Load. The latter is, he admits, is “filling all my thoughts at the moment. It is the most ambitious work I’ve done… even though it is not necessarily the largest.” For, of course, in addition to theatre, Kentridge also has decades of opera design under his belt – and that means whole choirs on stage.

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Kentridge is also a striking man. He is not particularly tall, yet appears tall. His sharp features, marked by dark bushy eyebrows are at once stern yet kind, lending him a sort of old world grace and gravitas (it is telling that Linda Givon, founder of his long-time gallery, Goodman, has referred to him as “a genius and a gentleman”). His parents, Sydney and the late Felicia Kentridge, were anti-apartheid lawyers. During his career, the now 95-year-old Sydney defended Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu as well as the family of activist Steve Biko in the infamous Biko Inquest – investigating the death of the Black Consciousness Movement founder at the hands of police. Kentridge has spoken of the pervasive sense of “indignation and rage at the dinner table” during his childhood, as well as a now-famous story during which the young Kentridge, thinking it was full of sweets, accidentally stumbled upon a box full of police photographs of brutalised bodies being used as evidence. Those images, he recalls, percolated in his subconscious and found their way into his work decades later, and it was only then that he himself recalled the incident, and told his father.

‘O Sentimental Machine’ (2015) at Liebieghaus in Frankfurt

With this backdrop of apartheid, it is natural that there is violence in Kentridge’s art, but there is immense, overpowering beauty too. Much of his work is political – a ruthless yet contemplative exploration of the human condition and the ramifications and consequences of apartheid in South Africa in particular, but also events in general. History, for Kentridge, is a collage – a series of intermingling events each affecting the other, and it is his insight into ‘the other side’, the understanding that “everyone’s triumph is someone else’s lament” that gives it such an edge. “I imagine working with Kentridge is what it must have been like working with Charles Dickens or Shakespeare,” the Whitechapel’s Iwona Blazwick tells me. “He is a phenomenon. Of all the artists we’ve worked with, he’s the greatest polymath, and so open and excited to work with other people.”

Scenes from ‘The Head & the Load’ (2018) performance at London’s Tate Modern

This is the reason why, to define Kentridge’s work as exclusively South African would be misleading in many ways. Its impact and appeal lies in its ability to transcend cultural boundaries. Speaking in the documentary, Certain Doubts of William Kentridge, he has explained, “The work is political in that it takes the political part of the world as one of its subject matters, in the same way one could look at love or deception or the structure of personalities, as a subject to endlessly investigate and play with.” For him, it is the ambiguity of any ‘message’ in his work that allows him such freedom – and part of why he loves, and often uses, Dadaist elements, as reflective of a process of not making sense in order to make sense. In many ways, this is the essence of Kentridge, as is his interest in what he has dubbed ‘the less good idea’. He often quotes the adage “if the good doctor can’t cure you, find a less good doctor” – if one idea isn’t working, find the less good one, for that is where the interesting stuff truly happens.

When I meet him, he is in London to unveil a slightly different artistic project, namely, this year’s Vendemmia d’Artista, an annual artist commission by Italian super-winery Ornellaia. The collaboration feels natural, for Kentridge has something of a special relationship with Italy – evidenced most recently by the vast, 550-metre-long processional fresco, Triumphs and Laments, ‘reverse stencilled’ along the walls on the banks of the Tiber (high-pressure water was used to remove layers of dirt from the wall’s surface and create the images).

Kentridge’s Salmanazar creation for Ornellaia’s Vendemmia d’Artista

For Ornellaia’s 2015 Il Carisma, now in its 30th vintage, he has created special wine labels, drawing in charcoal on the pages of old Italian cash books sourced by him from flea markets in Tuscany. On them, he depicts grape pickers and wine secateurs, a shadow procession, as it were, of the people and tools involved in making wine, celebrating “a great harvest of hard labour”. And the secateurs? “I’m interested in things with hinges,” Kentridge explains. “It gives objects an anthropomorphism, and creates things that can walk.” Two of these figures will be realised as three-metre-high, painted steel sculptures and placed in the Ornellaia vineyard itself.

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The sale of these special bottles by Sotheby’s raised £123,000 for the Victoria & Albert Museum. The star piece, which went under the hammer for £50,000, is a Salmanazar with a mirrored casing. When placed upon a special drawing, it reflects a series of figures, bringing to life Kentridge’s vineyard procession. “The thing about mirror reflections is that you get an image without end,” Kentridge explains. “There is no edge to the form: it has a top and a bottom, but you can keep circling around. In this case it’s a static drawing of wine pickers, growers and makers, and at the Tate it will be humans carrying shadows along a long curve as they circle around a stage.”

Kentridge is referring to his most recent project, an expansive theatrical production marking the centenary of the First World War – and more specifically, the role of the millions of African porters and carriers who served (for the most part unacknowledged and forgotten in the historical record) in that war. The Head & the Load takes its name from a Ghanaian proverb (‘The head and the load are the troubles of the neck’) and draws on Kentridge’s vast experience of operatic production, set design, shadow puppetry, mechanised sculpture, dance and film projection. Debuting over the summer at Tate Modern, it saw Kentridge team up with his longtime composer collaborator Philip Miller as well as choreographer and dancer Gregory Maqoma to create a theatrical, musical procession.

“I am interested in processions for a couple of different reasons,” Kentridge muses. “One is that they have to do with human foot power – people moving themselves along. Obviously, this has echoes of migration, of refugees walking and the idea of human power moving from one part of the world to another.” The other aspect, he explains, is to do with lateral movement, referencing the analogy of Plato’s cave, in a processional work the figures move sideways to the viewer, rather than backwards and forwards (towards and away from). When they pass by us,we become passive, witnesses to the passage of time. “The world is filled with people, with loads on their backs and their heads, walking across the world,” he explains. “What is our relationship to that passage of passing?”

Stills from ‘Johannesburg, 2nd Greatest City After Paris’

Plato is also key, as shadows have become one of Kentridge’s signature motifs, the use of monochrome (greatly influenced by what he sees as a rather bleak landscape around Johannesburg) evident in his animation works as well as in the use of large-scale shadow puppets and mechanical sculptures. “Colour had so many problems for me, associated with how one used it, that it stopped the question of what one was using it for,” Kentridge has said. “Charcoal, black and white, it’s much closer to writing… instead of writing with a pen, one’s writing in a shorthand with images and the images can always be at the service of something other than themselves – an idea, a theme, a question that’s being asked.”

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The use of shadow processions in his theatrical work, then, is an evolution of his schematic moving figures, as seen in films such as Ubu Tells the Truth, in which he combines moving puppets with charcoal animation. “There is something very simple about shadows, in that you take a basic shape, and when it’s cast as a shadow, one still recognises it,” says Kentridge.
“For example, without having to make a real model of a boat, you can cut out the silhouette of one, and everybody will recognise your boat – even though it’s just a few sticks and some cardboard. So in that sense, it is a sort of poor art form, yet it has a real richness of both allusion and illusion when you watch it.” There is a lot to be said for the democratising abilities of the ‘poor art form’ of silhouettes and puppets – indeed, in the 18th and 19th centuries, cut-paper silhouette portraits became a cheap and affordable alternative to photography or painting. “I hadn’t thought of them in that form specifically, but there is something very simple about them,” Kentridge responds. “A silhouette has a kind of life and a presence. We’re so good at recognising and putting meaning to a shape, so even if we don’t know how to draw something, we can recognise it as it appears in front of us. A lot of the pieces I create, when I look at them on the ground, I can’t quite tell what the image in front of me is, but as soon as it’s held up, and its shadow is cast, it reveals itself completely. I’ll be surprised, even though I made it – you can’t always predict what the shadow will be.”

When it comes to the theme of The Head & the Load, as with much of Kentridge’s work, it deals with historical events, human flow and facts that might otherwise slip through the fingers of history. During the First World War, there were over a million African casualties – of these about 30,000 were soldiers, but a staggering 300,000 were carriers, another 700,000 civilians. “I was astonished at my own ignorance at the start of the project, and the way in which these fatalities devastated different sections of Africa,” he says. “I also had no idea of the 300,000 Chinese in the Western Front, or the hundreds of thousands of Indian sepoys that were in Africa and in France.”

Kentridge’s fresco ‘Triumphs and Laments’ (2016) along the walls of the Tiber in Rome

It seems unfathomable that something like this could be so unknown. “I think this is because, all the air, as it were, has been taken by [the Eurocentric experience of] All Quiet on the Western Front and Wilfred Owen – that’s what we learned in school,” says Kentridge.
“That’s what one found so moving, and had such a strong connection to.” As a nod to this, The Head & the Load does feature a fragment of Owen’s poetry – translated, in true Kentridge Dadaist fashion, into forgotten French as well as a dog barking (“well, it might have metamorphosed now into a crow rather than a dog,” he twinkles) – Kentridge’s way of saying it’s time to remember other things as well, to be aware of someone else’s lament. The work stands as emblematic of the fraught relationship Africa has had with Europe since colonisation of the continent began, what Kentridge characterises as, “Europe not understanding Africa, not hearing Africa, and Africa having all of these expectations and hopes of Europe.” He pauses and smiles sadly. “As somebody said to me: ‘Not one of our dreams came true. Freedom! Oh, we missed the boat again.’ So yes, it’s incomprehensible.”

View William Kentridge’s portfolio: mariangoodman.com/artists/william-kentridge

William Kentridge, “The Refusal of Time”

William Kentridge, “The Nose”

Travelling from the Whitechapel Gallery in London to Museum der Moderne , Salzburg, “Thick Time” by William Kentridge is an intriguing and comprehensive exhibition investigating the South African artist’s multimedia dialogues with themes such as colonialism, racial capitalism and revolution. Sketchy, charcoal animations, video installations and drawings fill both of the museum’s spaces in a giddy insight into Kentridge’s complex and macabre aesthetic.

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Yet it’s the theatrical elements that are perhaps the most captivating and revealing. As an actor, producer, set and costume designer, Kentridge’s visual art is heavily influenced by performance and narrative; the exhibition’s opening was timed to coincide with the premiere of Kentridge’s production of “Wozzeck” at the Salzburg Festival and tracks the artist’s theatrical career from the late 1970s to present through a display of posters, designs, models and costumes. Kentridge is a maker of worlds. His work across all mediums is textured, dark and completely consuming.

William Kentridge, “Second-hand Reading”

Millie Walton

“Thick Time: Installations and Stagings” runs until 5th November 2017 at Museum der Moderne, Salzburg