Natures Mortes: I didn’t live, and I didn’t die.

Arriving somewhat fashionably late by bus on Avenue de New York to the VIP performance of Anne Imhof’s Natures Mortes on October 18, 2021 at Palais de Tokyo, turned out to give a certain clarity of vision on the evening, quite literally. While approaching the stairs leading up to the main entrance, the young and fashionable performers that have come to be expected from Imhof’s operatic performances were wading into the pool on one side, and the equally integral Instagram army was squeezed up against the windows facing the pool. Turning around to catch a glimpse from above on the staircase, my attention was immediately redirected to the trees along the Seine, where a projection spelled out “BURBERRY,” lighting up the canopies. Art, fashion and social media in one (un)holy trinity.

Before reaching the main entrance on Avenue du Président Wilson I slipped through a few fences and passed by an elaborate stage rig which later would serve as infrastructure for a red carpet setting. Additional photo-op locations were to be found on the stairs inside and outside, leading down to YOYO later on this evening.

Even if Imhof’s work is anchored in the stuff of nightmares, her career is undoubtably something of a dream come true. Imagine to be able to loose yourself to poetry, painting and music, while having shared production capacities with Balenciaga on standby. Not too shabby.

Many artists who dwell in the territory of fashion and brand marketing often seem do so wantonly, and with the resulting X-collaboration having a very overt sense of flippancy or an over-the-top “wink-wink” quality to it, like for instance with Murakami, Israel, Koons. In this regard Anne Imhof stands out by fitting in, as far as fashion clichés go. More than most other artist working in the realm of fashion, she seems to embody a genuine belonging to her position, lending a certain gravitas to the situation, or maybe inhabiting something like an intimate alienation in her particular case.

Metaphors drawing on networks and platforms have been used to describe the experience of being in Imhof’s performances before, but the prevailing metaphor for Natures Mortes according to its official communication is dissection, a stripping down to the bone – the palais itself being described as a “fragile carcass” by the institution. It is by no means clear what is to be revealed or determined by this autopsy, and somewhat disappointingly Natures Mortes only offers more of the same stuff from Angst, 2016 to Faust, 2017, adding only a new, I’m sad to say, self-gratifying twist by including other artists, living and dead, alongside the main presentation.

It has been speculated that Natures Mortes was a response to the extraordinarily salty review of Faust at the Venice Biennale by Benjamin H.D. Buchloch, and the Natures Mortes catalogue text “After Beauty” also recounts in one part Imhof’s dissatisfaction with the tirade. The main constructive takeaway from the otherwise lampooning response from Buchloch was the newness of fusing “the spheres of art with the languages of corporate architecture, the fashion system, and industrial music production.” To not explicate and remain oblique with regards to these relationships and how they work seems like a missed opportunity for Imhof, and all talk of forensic dissection of systems or society rings somewhat hollow as a consequence.

Given the aforementioned corporate tentacles everywhere, the presence of symbols like the Antifa-flag and an ACAB tag within the highly self-policed and otherwise corona-restricted exhibition space is another stupefying contradiction that is hard to make sense of. The absence of any sort of humor and the droning on and on about death, darkness and depression ultimately amounts to a rather vapid air surrounding the entire show.

I suppose the most exciting thing about all of this in the end, is to see what this newish blend of brands, corporate sponsorship, architecture, fashion, music and award-winning contemporary art will lead to in the future. As a pessimist I am obligated to expect the worst: The operatic punk will inevitably give way to arena rock, à la “Anne Imhof at Wembley Stadium.” All notions of artists’ critical potential will be sacrificed at the alter of harmonious corporate matrimony. The artist will be condemned to a totemic role, becoming a shorthand for certain moods, seasons, vibes and colour-stories. I would like to be proved wrong though.