Eventsevery flower seems to burn by itself — Une proposition d’Eloise Sweetman
Exhibition
every flower seems to burn by itself
Une proposition d’Eloise Sweetman
Ends in 23 days: December 6, 2024 → February 9, 2025
Every Flower Seems To Burn By Itself
curated by Eloise Sweetman
(…) it was the moment between six and seven when every flower—roses, carnations, irises, lilac-glows white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself, softly purely in the misty beds and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses! (Woolf, 1925, p. 13)
This passage from Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf has captured my attention. The golden hour that lingered in my mind over the years. The image of flowers glowing “white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself” intrigues me, as though the present’s intensity drifts a little longer. At this hour, we know the burning surprise in the sky will sink, shifting purples to blues, into the inky blacks of night.
Like a sunset, the exhibition Every Flower Seems To Burn By Itself momentarily suspends time. Each artwork slowly burns and blossoms in its own heat like Woolf’s flowers: vibrant, full and lingering before disappearing into the rhythms of daily life once more. By curating artworks by (in order of appearance) Maaike Schoorel, Tanatachi Bandasak, Marlie Mul, Jason Hendrik Hansma, Elif Satanaya Özbay and Damon Zucconi, I aim to evoke the sensation of time stretching out, pulling your viewing experience along, like spun sugar candy elongating into delicate, airy threads.
By creating such an experience, I hope you’ll return to each work and see more than you initially presumed to see. Most of us have heard the phrase ‘take time to smell the roses’ throughout our lives—a cliché, perhaps, but for good reason. When we pause and dilly-dally away from our regimented agendas, we’re often surprised that the sweet scent inspires us to look more closely at what surrounds us. Taking (or sculpting?) time means giving time. During times of crisis, as societies worldwide confront challenges across many facets of life, attentiveness and reflection become more essential, not less.
Every Flower Seems To Burn By Itself invites taking a moment to pause, to remain in place for a while. The exhibition is composed to change in texture and light as you move in and out of the artworks. Each work burns slowly from within, generating an internal heat that radiates outward, lingering before finally dissipating against your cheek as you step back outside.
Maaike Schoorel’s minimalist painting Lily in the Kitchen (2016), for example, initially appears as a dying fire, flickering at its outer edges. As you are drawn in (again and again), the work reveals more of itself to you, until you think you know what you are seeing, only to forget what you thought you saw. Working with reference images taken on trips or provided by others, Schoorel’s paintings seem to pour off the canvas, as if reaching out to join us in the space where the work is exhibited. One might assume that paintings like hers require quiet, still attention but speaking about and walking past her works allows you to enter the space of the reference image. Each time I have stood before her work and discussed it with an audience member, sooner or later a glimmer appears in their eyes, when they notice something they hadn’t before.
Schoorel’s painting is presented alongside the wash of the words in Tanatchai Bandasak’s Untitled (a flower of extraordinary size) (2021), which, from afar, appears as nothing more than a stain. It’s easy to walk past, unaware of its presence, but for those curious enough to approach, the work gradually reveals itself—a text stained with spoiled wine, pungent and fading. The text describes the Rafflesia, a parasitic flowering plant native to Southeast Asia. Rootless, it relies on the systems of other plants to survive. Its flower—the only visible part of the plant—is the largest in the world and smells of rotting flesh. Bandasak’s practice draws from daily life, using found materials to create works that offer the viewer a quiet “turning the corner” moment, where something hidden unexpectedly reveals itself.
Returning to the main exhibition space, you’ll encounter the dankness of Marlie Mul’s Puddles (2014). Puddles of resin, asphalt, plastic and stones that resemble oil slicks or pools of rain in an empty parking lot. Or, as I read them, as sculptural sludge melting away from an artwork’s internal heat while our focus was elsewhere. To fully engage with Puddles, we must kneel or crouch, looking a little harder and longer. I expect that when you leave the exhibition, you will notice puddles on the street, wet cigarette butts burnt down to the filter anew, and Mul’s work will likely return to you. This work should evaporate, but it will probably live with us, like a memory, smoke blown away into the air.
As you move through the spaces of Les Bains-Douches, you may notice other works I have not yet described. One such work is Something About A Double-Edged Sword (2023) by Elif Satanaya Özbay. Drawing from memories, popular culture and Circassian folklore—particularly the myth of the goddess of War, Nart Sane—Özbay’s performance began before we entered the space and continues after we have left. There is a sense that we should understand what is happening, and the characters seem intent on encouraging involvement, implicating us in the narrative. By creating a feeling of repetition, Özbay encourages us to pause and question what we just heard. Her practice extends to finding objects, materials and notes to set the stage. If you look closely as you move through the space, you may notice elements of the performance waiting to be reengaged, ready to be picked up again when the next cycle begins.
As winter nips at our ears and opens the door to the outside, the slowed-down voice of Rhianna fills the room. At the far end, the glowing embers of Jason Hendrik Hansma’s video In Our Real Life (2021) flicker. In response to extreme weather events, the artist gathered footage of tsunamis and wildfires documented by citizens and volunteer firefighters on social media. The video is hypnotic, but unlike the soothing trance of watching a fire at night, the slowed-down version of Rhianna’s Close to You (2016) stretches time, draws you into an altered state of imagination. I paired Hansma’s video with Schoorel’s painting, imagining that, upon returning to the beginning of the exhibition—carrying with you the experience of extended time and the glimmer of discovery in your eyes—you might view the other works anew, approach them a little closer this time, and see something different.
Out on the street, a little past the entrance of Les Bains-Douches, the doors lead down to the basement, where you will find My Attraction May Fade, But I Will Not (2020) by Damon Zucconi, a locked room filled with light and fog. Described as “a kind of sculptural casting”, this work comes as close as one can to sculpting time, evoking the idea that “[n]othing is emptied. Rather, the scent of the incense fills the room, even turns time into space; it thus gives it a semblance of duration” (Han, 2017, p. 57). My Attraction May Fade, But I Will Not draws you in, prompting you to press your nose to the window, trying to get your reflection out the way. Sometimes, all you see is yourself and the street behind. But give it time, as time will tell, such is the experience of the artist’s work.
REFERENCES
Han, B.-C. (2017). The Scent of Time. John Wiley & Sons.
Woolf, V. (2009). Mrs Dalloway. Oxford University Press.