"Adel Abessemed or the art critic silenced" by Eric Mircher

[This is a continuation of my translations of Eric Mircher's original articles.  Please read this introduction for the background behind this project.]

     The exhibition of Adel Abessemed at the Centre Pompidou here in Paris is a contemporary Mass, the penultimate model of its genre.  Everything has been prepared for a blockbuster hit where everyone is made to comprehend, and most importantly, to applaud, the bride that is so well gowned even during these hard times of economic downturn.

     In the forecourt for the poor of the museum, there is an enormous sculpture that one can visit without paying the entrance fee.  It is an image that is instantly recognized by the masses; namely, Zinedine Zidane, the hero of French football (soccer) giving his infamous head-butt against a rival player during the final of the 2006 World Cup.  The press release, a true pocket-sized book of common prayers, even dares to evoke, with an absolute straight face, the antique heros Hercules and Antaeus.  The endless flashing of cameras sizzle around the sculpture, which appears to have been adopted by its people.  Let's enter the museum with our museum passes and celebrate the marriage.

     The young French artist (he is really Algerian but his all-round success has replaced the actual naturalization) is in reality a mature man of 42 years who unveils at the Centre Pompidou a mid-career retrospective of his work.  Background noise dominates the exhibition: a well-known billionaire art collector has acquired a number of his pieces.  In fact it is very much a fairy tale to which we are all invited to attend—the unimaginable and miraculous meeting of one of Forbes' Top Ten Richest and the son of immigrants who crossed the Mediterranean.  This union has been blessed by the popular cultural magazine Les Inrockuptibes.  And the centerpiece of the exhibition is an awkward and enormous boat, so explicit that it does not risk any pitch and roll because the stakes are so high.

     Of course, one had been warned ahead of time, the exhibition is a violent and powerful spectacle.  In reality, it is mostly rather flat and swollen.

     The large bas-relief of burned stuffed animals is the defining image of this exhibition: big, flat, and rather bête.  It will no doubt be enough for the bourgeois (this middle class that is situated between Mr. Adel, henceforth a VIP amongst the elite, and his Collector), the social class from which the dollars are to be milked.

     I present to you the airplane worms that curl into each other at the entrance of the exhibition, or yet again the carpet that comes from a very weak video “in homage to Goya” (so says the press release).  Look, there are the crucified Christ figures crowned in thorns, the best pieces of the exhibition, and bought by our fore-mentioned art collector.  It is all very much a beautiful engagement ring: two million euros for the four Christ figures, and half of it goes to the artist if everything was done correctly.  If it is the contrary, then it will be  divorce, and no doubt this was the story behind the unhappy adventure between the Parisian art dealer Kamel Mennour and his now prodigal son who no longer has gallery representation here in Paris.

     But coming back to our Christ figures, there was a Youtube video where the artist justifies his work, dressed in blue-collar pants, naturally the obligatory costume for someone of his origins, he but signing autographs like a pop-star.  At the end of the video, there is even a Baroque chorus, the Culturus Populus shed tears; it's ridiculous enough to cause death from laughter.

     But one must not laugh, everything here is like a prayer: from the unhappy childhood of our adopted bambino to the road he took in the snow up to Colmar, including the assassination of the director of the art school in Algiers.  It is all repeated endlessly by the godmothers of the Pompidou in order to claim a spirit of seriousness and to muzzle definitively the critic who would, as a bad nun, beg to differ.

     Swollen enormity, facile imagery, obsequious immediacy, and trite provocations are the breasts that feed this art, which by its simplistic monumentality tries to render us speechless. 

• Article written by Eric Mircher
• (Translated from French by Roy Forget)