Curated by Marie Gautier
What is presented here is violence that isn’t so silent—bullet holes, gaps in memory with a loose tongue, illegal and unsettling. Tah Tah Tah Kalash with a paintbrush. Letters that stretch the language. A word too big to fit in the space. The paint dissolves into brambles, winding around the letters; these are entwined bodies—prickly or arousing—that discuss identities. Roses traverse the mountain. Between motif and symbol, printed fabrics and painted figures. They prick; so does the barbed wire. We find shreds of torn fabric; someone must have passed beneath the moon, perhaps clinging to its glow, offering it a prayer.
Here, music inspired me to paint—a Kurdish protest song and Turkish music that I draw inspiration from. “Kîne’em?” means “Who are we?” and “Kime ne?” means “Who cares?” “KÎNE’EM, KIME NE,” once transcribed phonetically, allows me to hear “Who leads, Who loves, Who hates.” There are multiple languages and multiple meanings in this word. It is the oral nature of language that allows us to open up and loosen the grip of linguistic authority. The interplay of languages, accents, and definitions—all these sounds—form a connection, a multilingual language that becomes a psychedelic dance. To paint, I use my brush, my lighter, my saw, my knife, and a rasp. Nothing is set in stone; my paintings are as nomadic as my family. The two black canes belong to the shepherdess, the shaman, the witch, the walker, the healer, the warrior, the wounded woman, and the weary woman on the RER D.
It is a pictorial universe steeped in syncretic beliefs where nature reigns supreme and serves as a source of spiritual faith. Animism and mysticism are the themes that bind these hybrid forms together. The snail symbolizes slowness; the snail is hermaphroditic: it is a formidable ally against capitalism and the fast pace at which we are forced to live. So I transform myself into a snail to take my time observing. The snail can glide over a knife blade; its strength is magical. Its slime—which is sticky and disconcerting to some—is, for me, a sign of sensuality: it’s wet, it glistens, it slides, it’s transparent, it’s exhilarating. It’s as much a shield against danger as it is a sign of a passage that glows into the next day—a morning poem to be seen through its drawn nocturnal lines. Here, the snail climbs onto the picture rail to deliver this message to you.
Peinture à l’huile sur tissus de prêt à porter montés sur châssis, sculptures terre et barbelée, cendres, menthe, cannes sculptés en bois, deux carapaces d’escargots, textes, rose, tissus trempés, + performance lu par Rafael Moreno et Simon Miné Koza.
Performance read by Rafael Moreno and Simon Miné Koza.
In a very narrow black box, a Kurdish word on the wall stares back at us: KINEM—who are we? K is a cowboy, i is an imaginary undocumented immigrant, N is a nomad, E is the prickly star of the borders, M is a monopolized and monitored mountain. They form a shared body leaning against the wall and surrounded by brambles and roses. In this landscape, two twins walk with a shepherd’s staff; their languages mingle, their hair tangles like a connected vine. The staffs transform into a question mark, language deconstructs itself, and friendship holds hands beneath the mountain.