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Winnipeg Free Press
12 hours ago
- Entertainment
- Winnipeg Free Press
Mass tourism a modern ill
Opinion When I went to Paris in 2012, I skipped the Louvre. Sacré bleu! Don't get me wrong: I notably love an art museum and try to go to one in every city I visit. From the Tate Modern in London to the Art Institute of Chicago to the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City to the Denver Art Museum, I've had the absolute privilege — and it is that — to have seen many amazing works by incredible artists at world-class institutions. But the Louvre gave me a particular kind of crowd anxiety. I'd seen the photos of sweaty throngs of people jockeying to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa which, in addition to being famous, is famously not a large painting; Leonardo da Vinci's Renassiance-era portrait is 77 by 53 centimetres. Thibault Camus / The Associated Press Seeing Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa seems to be on a lot of bucket lists. Our girl draws 30,000 visitors a day, which means actually getting anywhere close to her is all but impossible, and I'm sure it's only gotten worse with the advent of selfies and content creators. I just took an exterior photo of the Louvre Pyramid (itself a cultural landmark) and called it a day. On Monday, the Louvre, which is the world's most-visited museum, closed its doors, leaving long lines of tourists stranded outside. The temporary closure was the result of a so-called wildcat strike, an unauthorized work stoppage by unionized employees. Staff are exhausted, trying to work at a crumbling institution that cannot handle the staggering crowds. And 80 per cent of visitors to the Louvre are there to see the Mona Lisa. I'll admit that I don't quite understand this. I get making a pilgrimage to see a masterpiece — Vermeer's The Milkmaid, Kent Monkman's The Scream and Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte are all works I've written about travelling to have a moment with — and I agree that the Mona Lisa is a masterpiece. But why this masterpiece — so reproduced, parodied and pop culture-fied — is harder to parse, especially since the gauntlet one must pass through to see it looks so miserable. The Louvre has what New York Times arts critic Jason Farago dubbed a 'Mona Lisa Problem.' 'No other iconic painting — not Botticelli's Birth of Venus at the Uffizi in Florence, not Klimt's Kiss at the Belvedere in Vienna, not Starry Night at the Museum of Modern Art in New York — comes anywhere close to monopolizing its institution like she does,' he wrote in 2019. That one artwork, he argued, eclipses all the others in the museum, including others right near it, and it needs its own dedicated space outside of the Louvre. I do wonder if the Mona Lisa is, for many people, simply a box to be checked, something people feel they have to do (and I'm using the word 'do' intentionally, as though it's on a list, instead of 'see') because that's just what you do when you go to Paris. In other words, you can't talk about the Mona Lisa without talking about mass tourism, of which this kind of bingo-card box ticking is a symptom. Also this week, Spaniards in Barcelona and Mallorca sprayed tourists with water pistols to protest an oversaturation of visitors they say is contributing to both an erosion of their communities' character and a housing shortage. It's not just Spain. You don't have to search far to find similar complaints about overtourism in Japan, Iceland or Switzerland. The advent of Instagram Tourism, where influencers visit places just to take perfect photos for social media — coupled with the proliferation of short-term rentals — only adds to the pressure on these places, many of which hold humanity's greatest achievements. People are unlikely to stop visiting these hyper-popular locales, even though I think we can agree that mass tourism, at the level it's at now, is unsustainable socially, economically and environmentally, which no one likes to talk about because, well, people want to travel. Travel can be enriching. It can change your perspective. It can give you a better understanding of the world and your place in it. Wednesdays Columnist Jen Zoratti looks at what's next in arts, life and pop culture. But is throwing elbows to see the Mona Lisa really a meaningful cultural experience? Does 'going for the 'Gram' really allow one to have real interactions with a place where, by the way, actual people live? The good news is, there's a whole big globe to explore. Going off the beaten path might yield more discovery of out-of-the-way local economies where you could spend your tourism dollars. Might I suggest Winnipeg? I realize I am probably mostly preaching to residents, but I'm serious. Maybe not while there are wildfires burning in the province, but any other time. We've got history. We've got nature. We've got A+ restaurants. If it's art you're looking for, we've got that, too, and it's not an abject nightmare to go look at it. We've even got a Seine. Just as there are other artworks in the Louvre, there are other cities in the world. Jen ZorattiColumnist Jen Zoratti is a columnist and feature writer working in the Arts & Life department, as well as the author of the weekly newsletter NEXT. A National Newspaper Award finalist for arts and entertainment writing, Jen is a graduate of the Creative Communications program at RRC Polytech and was a music writer before joining the Free Press in 2013. Read more about Jen. Every piece of reporting Jen produces is reviewed by an editing team before it is posted online or published in print – part of the Free Press's tradition, since 1872, of producing reliable independent journalism. Read more about Free Press's history and mandate, and learn how our newsroom operates. Our newsroom depends on a growing audience of readers to power our journalism. If you are not a paid reader, please consider becoming a subscriber. Our newsroom depends on its audience of readers to power our journalism. Thank you for your support.
Forbes
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Forbes
Following Mesmerising Tate Modern 25th Anniversary Performance, KaMag Bring Boundary-Pushing Art Performance To São Paulo Biennial This Fall
KaMag Acclaimed Cuban artist and academic María Magdalena Campos-Pons–whose interdisciplinary work often explores themes of diaspora, memory, ritual and spirituality–has collaborated with Kamaal Malak, musician, academic and former member of two-time Grammy Award-winning hip-hop group Arrested Development on many boundary-pushing performances. The partners in life and in art collaborated in May this year on I Am Soil. My Tears Are Water–a seminal performance at Tate Modern commissioned in celebration of the museum's 25th anniversary. María Magdalena Campos-Pons and Kamaal Malak "I Am Soil. My Tears Are Water" at Tate Modern 25th Anniversary. Tate Modern at 25: A Stage for Radical Love María Magdalena Campos-Pons and Kamaal Malak chose the auspicious occasion of their triumphant performance at Tate Modern's quarter century birthday to reveal their new artist moniker of KaMag. I Am Soil. My Tears Are Water is a multi-sensory performance merging visual installations with choreographed dance, music, food, flowers, symbolic ritual and bespoke costume to create a sonic, sensory experience performed by KaMag with a troupe of dancers and musicians. Campos-Pons and Malak rose to the auspicious occasion of TATE Modern's quarter century with an immersive performance that took the audience in the subterranean Tanks on a sensory journey, inviting reflection on universal themes of healing, resilience and transformation. KaMag created a vibrant tapestry of diaspora and spirituality exploring their concept of Radical Love as a regenerative, healing force in a fractured world. Ritual, Sound, and Storytelling: The Ingredients of KaMag's Alchemy Campos-Pons enacted a metaphor of soil nourished by a Mother's River of Tears with the help of dancers, music and objects, fusing it with a sonic journey composed by Malak to guide audiences through an emotional arc of grief and ultimately of hope. The performance also featured video projections and live drawing curated to create a dialogue with engaging with Tate Modern's architecture. KaMag adapted their performance for London and Tate, sourcing local talent including choreographer Naz Choudhury and emerging designers Omer Asim and Maya Antoun of OMER ASIM. Those who missed the epic Tate Modern performance and are keen to experience Campos-Pons' artwork can view her installation–acquired by Tate from Documenta 14 (2017)–in an exhibition dedicated to 25 works by 25 artists on the occasion of Tate's 25th birthday, until 24th October, 2025. María Magdalena Campos-Pons and Kamaal Malak "I Am Soil. My Tears Are Water" at Tate Modern 25th Anniversary. I met Maria and Kamaal on a balmy day in London's Soho, and spoke to them about the experience of performing their seminal Tate Modern performance and how they are pushing the boundaries of performance art at the intersection of music and dance in a bid to foreground the concept of radical love as a force for healing and transformation. KaMag: A New Creative Union for a New Era Campos-Pons and Malak were still radiating the positive vibrations released during their Tate performance, and they announced that–after four decades of performance practice–they have made a symbolic merger of their names to KaMag, an anacronym that summarises their vision of spreading radical love through art at a time of great distress and unrest for the world and humanity. So where did the title I am Soil, My Tears Are Water come from? KaMag explain: 'For the past three years we were working on a project and we were both thinking about geography, thinking about the Universe and thinking about energy, and trying to find a sentiment of the time we are living in. So I am Soil, My Tears are Water is almost like a continuation of the idea that grounded us together as creators, as individuals, and collectively thinking together about what are the themes of our time that touch us the most, and how do we want to create ways of communicating that. So we are sensitive to everything that happens around us and open to observe that. The complexities and sometimes the gravitas of events that surround us.' It seems like the right moment to push a message of humanity and human beings looking after each other and spreading love. It sounds like a cliché, but it's sad that John Lennon and Yoko Ono were saying this in the 1970s and we are still caught in a cycle of war and destruction, and it's artists and performers like KaMag who digest and comment on seismic world events through their art–whether it's painting, drawing, song lyrics, installation or performance–and propose solutions or reactions to the world around us. So what motivated KaMag to conceive the mantra of Radical Love that is the beating heart of every one of their performances? 'In a very complex, challenging world, we are trying to create conduits we want to find restorative powers that allow new things to come. 'Radical Love' means how to love each other and how to love everything around us.' Installation Photography of Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons & Neil Leonard at Tate Modern, 2025. © Tate Photography. Reece Straw. On Influence and Lineage: From Yoko Ono to Yoruba Traditions Did performance artists such as Ono, Lennon and Marina Abramovic influenced KaMag's work at all? Maria cites Brazilian performance artist Lydia Clark as an influence as well Felix Gonzalez Torres, the ritualistic healing traditions of Maria's Cuban Yoriba tradition, and Yoko Ono's sonic explorations. María: 'Yoko Ono's sonic explorations were quite visceral and unique. I actually met Yoko Ono in 1989 at Riverside studios in London for the first time. I liked these idea of expanding materiality. But Lydia Clark is my Guru, as a woman who opened up extraordinary opportunities of performativity. And also a lot of the influence for my performance comes from my tradition of Cuba, from the practice of ritual and healing process in the Yoruba school.' Kamaal composed the musical score for the Tate performance–which has also been performed at other prestigious arts venues such as the Guggenheim in Los Angeles–and cites as an influence John Lennon's Idea of expanding materiality and the idea of not limiting ourselves to where we are but thinking about where we can go during our performance by using our imagination. Kamaal explains: 'In our performance (at Tate) we had images that were meditative, and also we put calming frequencies in the music. Most of them were subsonic, 40khz frequencies that regenerate brain cells. Our friend is a brain surgeon who developed an apparatus that uses subsonic frequencies of music to regenerate the brain cells of people who've had strokes, and his work was a big influence on the music I composed for our performances.' María tells me that through their performance at Tate and in other cultural venues around the world, KaMag are asking 'How do we create a path of connections and engagement that is new, and is different? Their response to this question appears to be a fusion of María's Cuban heritage, Yoruban traditions and multi-disciplinary artistry, with Kamaal's finely tuned musicality and roots embedded in the Hip Hop scene. This combination of art, performance, ritual, music and dance is sprinkled with a dose of KaMag's 'radical love' and the result is a multi-sensory alchemy that transports audiences to another realm where anything is possible if we project a message of compassion and humanity. Installation Photography of Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons & Neil Leonard at Tate Modern, 2025. © Tate Photography. Reece Straw. Healing Through Frequency: Music as Medicine Kamaal says his musical background played a part in the duo's new manifestation of KaMag: 'Music has been a circle. We are in an area where love is kind of corny. Because Hip Hop started from oppression and disruption–in Brooklyn, New York. It started from that grind, and it stayed in that area of struggle, oppression and trying to get your message out. But in the 90s it kind of shifted and we (Arrested Development) had songs like Mr Wendal (about a homeless man) and Tennessee (a kind of prayer song). Then that changed and we had gangsta rap and hip hop. And now, here we are again, we're at this point–this eclipse–where it's OK to say certain words that we didn't say, and we can say 'let's do some love songs'. I call our music 'feel good music', because we want people to feel good. That's where we're at right now with KaMag, and that's what we want to push–that and Five senses–the taste, the smell, the sound, the touch and the view–that's what we cover in our performance. All of those senses. And I haven't seen that kind of performance lately, although it's out there I'm sure. That's what we want to push right now, to touch all the senses.' Final Reflections: Love as Resistance, Art as Renewal My experience of spending an hour with KaMag–partners in life and in art–was heart-warming. They radiated an infectiously positive aura and I left with a feeling that– despite the overwhelming barrage of the news cycle reporting seemingly perpetual war and conflict–artists with the glass half full mindset of KaMag have the power to change the world for the better, by creating life-affirming art that invites people to look at life through a different lens and manifesting a more inclusive world where we enact positive change through their message of radical love. From London to São Paulo: An Artistic Journey Continues Shortly after my meeting with the enigmatic artist duo, it was announced that they will be performing a new version of I Am Soil. My Tears Are Water at the 36th Bienal de São Paulo–titled Not All Travellers Walk Roads – Of Humanity as Practice–taking place from 6th September, 2025 until 11th January, 2026 at the Ciccillo Matarazzo Pavilion in São Paulo. KaMag seem like a perfect choice for a Biennial whose title is derived from Conceição Evaristo's poemDa calma e do silêncio. The São Paulo Biennial's theme is centred around the importance of nature, humanity and of listening–particularly during times of global crisis–and KaMag's Radical Love sentiment with its humanist roots couldn't be more timely or more vital. Commenting on their selection for São Paulo Biennial KaMag said: 'This is an amazing opportunity. São Paulo has an extraordinary tradition and we are very grateful for the opportunity. The core theme of the edition is very close to the ideas of our practice. We are bringing a new Performance to São Paulo.'
The Guardian
5 days ago
- General
- The Guardian
‘People weep in its presence': how the UK Aids Memorial Quilt became one of our great works of art
A young man is standing face to the wall. He is sobbing, being consoled by friends. An older gay couple walk slowly, hands gripped together, supporting each other. Groups of young queer friends are arm-in-arm, united in grief. In front of them is the UK Aids Memorial Quilt, its panels sewn with images and messages: 'Malcolm', reads one, 'I wish that I had known you longer.' Another panel is dedicated to 'those rejected, denied, alone'. Another reads simply, 'Dear Scott, I miss you so much!' Over the past few days, more than people have visited Tate Modern's Turbine Hall to see the quilt. Many of those visitors have wept openly in its presence, spending hours in the space. The atmosphere has been hushed, reverential. Some said on social media later that it was the best thing they'd ever seen at the Tate. The response suggests it is one of the most significant pieces of British art made in the past 40 years. And yet it is not like other artworks. It has countless makers, many unknown, many of whom will never have made or will make art again. It is unfinished, still being made. This art has no discernible monetary value, nor does it seek one: its purpose is much more transcendent. Until this display, the work had never been shown in its entirety in an art institution. It makes us question our understanding of what gets to be considered art. And yet, its future is unclear. The UK Aids Memorial Quilt is part of the world's largest community art project. It was founded by American human rights activist Cleve Jones in 1985, in grief and rage at the lives being lost to Aids. It is made up of commemorative panels that measure 6ft by 3ft, the size of an average grave plot. This is intentional: at the time, many of those dying of Aids-related causes were denied a proper funeral, either because families had refused to acknowledge them, or funeral homes would not take in their bodies. Thequilt, known in the US as the Names Project, quickly grew. In the late 80s, Scottish activist Alastair Hume visited the US, saw the quilt and met Jones. On his return home to Edinburgh, he opened the UK chapter of the project. Panels were made by friends, partners, family members or colleagues of those who had died of Aids-related illness. They were even sometimes started by the person being commemorated, as a therapeutic act of making in their final days. When finished, the panels were sent to Edinburgh, with documentation about the person commemorated. In those days, homophobia was entrenched, meaning the person was often only identified by a first name. Indeed, many panels are dedicated to those whose names could not be said. The panels were then sewn into blocks measuring 12ft by 12ft, with no hierarchy about the placing of panels. Those of recognisable names, such as Freddie Mercury or Bruce Chatwin, are placed among those who never sought fame. The majority of panels commemorate gay men, but the quilt represents all who died from Aids-related causes, such as those who became infected with HIV through intravenous drug use, and those infected by contaminated blood, including children. Each panel is unique, some expertly crafted, others by those who had never worked with textiles before. Some panels are plaintive, raw in grief; others are soft and love-filled; some are defiant. There are panels that remember a loved one's humour and sensibility, others that show the anger at their death, as well as anger at governmental and societal failure to respond to the pandemic. One panel was made, and then covered with a white sheet, with a note declaring 'the Parents do not want this panel shown anywhere. The Stigma still exists – Until this changes this panel will remain covered.' The majority of the panels were made before 1996, when new treatments made it possible to live a full life with an HIV infection. But the Aids crisis continues, with around 40 million living with HIV worldwide. Many millions are now newly imperilled due to President Trump's cuts to USAID, threatening access to HIV treatments and services. Trump has also jeopardised future treatment breakthroughs by cutting funding to HIV vaccine research programmes at Duke University and the Scripps Research Institute. Globally, HIV stigma is still rife. The quilt galvanises as a call to action in the fight against HIV/Aids. When the Turbine Hall display opened on Thursday, Jones told the crowd that the quilt is 'not just a memorial, but a weapon'. This five-day display came about after I, on behalf of the UK Aids Memorial Quilt Partnership, emailed the director of Tate, Maria Balshaw. Across the duration of the display it was extraordinary to watch the coming together of people, communities and generations. Those who lived through the 1980s and 90s could mourn loved ones who had died, as well as process their often-repressed grief. At the time, even though friend after friend was dying, society at large expected them to carry on as normal. For younger people, the emotional power of the quilt gave them a visceral insight into the trauma experienced by an older generation. All could reflect on the continuing legacy of these underacknowledged deaths, and the absence in our cultural and social lives of all that these people could have done. Twenty-five years after Tate Modern first opened, it remains one of the most iconic spaces for art in the world. Before we installed the quilt , it was seen more as a grassroots protest project. But laid out on the Turbine Hall floor, in three long columns, the it revealed itself to also be a piece of art. The implications for this are seismic. It is rare to experience art with multiple meanings that are deep and complex yet clear. There is no side to the quilt, no irony or knowingness to its essence. This is unusual in a British contemporary art landscape still dominated by the effect of the YBAs, a group of mostly straight artists who came to prominence in 1988, seven years after the first reported Aids deaths. I believe the ensuing dominance of the YBAs came about, in part, because of the cultural vacuum caused by Aids deaths. Bluster and cynicism won out over emotion and sincerity. The quilt shows us what else art can do, other than be a career-building tool for profit. It has a purpose. It is also genuinely, harrowingly beautiful. Art can be both these things: purposeful and impactful. It can be made by those who have no interest in becoming part of the art industry – and still be of international importance. My position is not anti-art. My husband is an artist, my parents were artists, I was a judge for the Turner prize in 2019. I believe in art as a life's vocation, and that artists should be able to earn a livable wage from their work. Yet recent reports suggest that artists earnings are more unstable than ever. The current art industry infrastructure does not work for the majority of artists, only for a few star names and the high-powered galleries which represent them. If we acknowledge that the UK Aids Memorial Quilt is one of the most significant works of British art of the past 40 years, the dialogue immediately changes. It asks us to reconsider the value system placed on contemporary art, where a work's market price is what defines its worth. If we can break free from this obsession with art's monetary value, we can perhaps move to a more enlightened, more nourishing, more compassionate relationship with art and art-making. Pressingly, we must now ensure the future of this art. The quilt is currently in the loving care of a partnership of volunteers from six HIV charities. For nearly two decades it had been in storage, before the Quilt Partnership formed in 2014 to become its custodians. They currently have no funds to carry out vital conservation work. It has no suitable long-term home. I believe the quilt should be seen as the next Prospect Cottage. Just like the successful 2020 campaign to save Derek Jarman's home in Dungeness, we must now fundraise to preserve this vital part of our social and cultural history. It is not about the quilt entering a permanent collection like that of Tate or V&A, since it needs unique ongoing care. The quilt requires its own bespoke permanent home, where it can be properly stored, conserved and made available for research. We must act now to save this artwork as a weapon in the fight against Aids. The quilt still grows. On Thursday, a new panel was symbolically added to the Turbine Hall display, to represent the many new panels that are being made. Panels that have been created by those who, for decades, have been too grief-stricken to face the task. Others are by young people, who want to commemorate a relative who died before they were born. Hopefully soon, the quilt will be on display again, both in London and around the country. Now, more than ever, we cannot forget its vital lessons. To support the future preservation of the UK Aids Memorial Quilt, please visit
The Guardian
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘How could you not be body dysmorphic today?' The twisted selfie sculptures of Christelle Oyiri
'When I was a girl at high school,' says Christelle Oyiri, 'we didn't talk about plastic surgery. Now it's normal for 18-year-olds to talk about what kind of lip-fillers they're going to have. Something extraordinary has happened over the past 10 years.' What has changed? It's not simply about keeping up with the Kardashians, though Oyiri recognises that the reality TV sisters have revolutionised the desires of some. 'Kim Kardashian,' she says, 'made it fashionable for women to want to look like how I and other black women look naturally because of genetics.' The bigger picture for Oyiri is something of primary concern to any visual artist: the power of the gaze. 'We are seeing ourselves and being seen more than ever. That is what digital culture does. The gaze is omnipresent. Not just the gaze of others, but also the internalised gaze.' Oyiri, who is talking to me from her Paris studio via video call, says she often thinks about her mother and grandmother. 'At my age, they weren't seeing themselves as much as I see myself. Today, how could you not be body dysmorphic?' The 33-year-old Parisian artist and DJ explores these vexed concerns in a multimedia installation entitled In a Perpetual Remix Where Is My Own Song? She made this for the new Infinities Commission at The Tanks in London's Tate Modern. In the gallery's basement, Oyiri's bronze sculptures have been mounted on sound systems, each one representing the artist in a different guise. One sculpture is called Raw, depicting Oyiri naked but modestly clutching her breasts. A second, called Surgery, depicts her with legs toned, abs sculpted, hands on hips, pose defiant, as if a physical makeover has given her a confidence boost. A third, called Mutant, shows Oyiri still naked but with little horns peeping from her forehead. This upgraded Oyiri comes with cloven hooves, a monstrous tail spooling from her coccyx and a diabolical gaze. It's as if she's refashioned herself as an avatar for some Tolkienesque video game. In a fourth, called Data Liquid, Oyiri's head is apparently in the process of being dematerialised by some toxic wind. An allegory, perhaps, for how our human essences risk being destroyed to feed machine-learning AIs. 'My art is inquiry-driven,' Oyiri explains. 'I didn't want to have surgical procedures, but to inquire what happens to us when we stage and correct our images.' In a sense, what Oyiri is doing in her art is not new. When she was born, in the Parisian suburb of Nogent-sur-Marne in 1992, a few miles across the French capital a feminist artist called Orlan was undergoing a series of cosmetic operations because she believed surgically changing her body could be a powerful work of art. 'My goal was to be different, strong – to sculpt my own body to reinvent the self,' Orlan told me when I interviewed her for the Guardian in 2009. So, from 1990 to 1995, the woman born Mireille Suzanne Francette Porte underwent nine plastic surgery operations, intending to rewrite western art on her own body. One operation altered her mouth to imitate that of François Boucher's Europa, another altered her chin to look like that of Botticelli's Venus and a third involved two little implants – usually used to enhance cheekbones – on either side of her forehead like little horns. Perhaps the horns Oyiri sports in Mutant are little nod to Orlan, whose work she admires. That said, Oyiri's art hardly sees cosmetic surgery as liberatory, as Orlan seems to have done. One gets a sense of what is at stake for Oyiri with another element of her installation. Behind the speaker stacks that pulsate with electronic music (including Squarepusher's 8-bit computer classic from 1997 Journey to Reedham) is a vast video backdrop including footage from black strip clubs filmed in the American south. What interested Oyiri about these clubs is that they are both places of seeming self-realisation but are also places where, as Oyiri sums it up: 'How women make a living depends on male gaze and satisfying the male gaze.' She adds: 'We always change ourselves under the gaze of the other.' That's to say societal norms and other people's desires are always at play when we perfect our digital selves with Instagram filters or submit ourselves to Brazilian butt lifts. Oyiri's Tate Modern installation has come about because she won the inaugural Infinities Commission, designed to 'showcase the limitless experimentation of contemporary art'. One reason why she's such a worthy recipient is that she is from what could be called the margins. 'Where I came from, being an artist as I am now was not a thing,' she says. Of Ivorian and Guadeloupean heritage, her creative heroes were musicians, not artists. She looked up to black divas like Chaka Khan, Whitney Houston, Lil Kim and Nicki Minaj. 'They're the women I wanted to emulate. They're my icons.' Her mum was a nurse at a private hospital, while her dad – 'one of those three jobs dudes' she says – worked as a guard at Parisian museums. 'I used to explore the collections with him. That's why my first dream was to become an archaeologist.' Sign up to Art Weekly Your weekly art world round-up, sketching out all the biggest stories, scandals and exhibitions after newsletter promotion She was catalysed into creativity not by art schools or the canon of western art, but by hip-hop, electronic music and Caribbean dub pioneers such as Lee 'Scratch' Perry for whom quotation and appropriation are key creative elements. Oyiri makesan interesting point in her Tate Modern installation: it's not just musicians who quote, sample, remix and appropriate – that's pretty much what happens when we undergo cosmetic surgery or create digital personae. In her late teens Oyiri started DJ-ing under the name Crystallmess. But for the influence of a now defunct New York-based collective and magazine DIS, she might have remained a turntablist rather than what she has become – a multidisciplinary artist working in film, sculpture, music and writing. 'There were certain themes I found difficult to explore in music such as colonialism, consumerism and body images that I saw other artists and writers in the DIS collective working on,' she says. 'What I learned from these guys is that you don't have to choose between being a DJ or a visual artist. They created the cross-disciplinary and commercial community I benefit from. You can be multidisciplinary and have it all.' In only a few years, Oyiri has created a dizzying array of installations and multisensory artworks, exhibiting in Europe and the US. For her 2023 solo show in Zurich, she explored her Caribbean heritage with an installation called Venom Voyage, in which the office of a faux travel agency was built. It boasted the chilling business slogan 'spreading the travelling bug since 1972' and had its walls emblazoned with paradisiacal images of Caribbean heritage. Venom Voyage showed Oyiri fulfilling her childhood dream of becoming an archaeologist in a way she might not have imagined. She dug into the Caribbean's paradisal glamour to unearth what lies beneath. 'I used to go on holiday as a kid to Guadeloupe and I loved it there,' she recalls. 'What I wanted to explore was how our images of paradise conceal the opposite. If you ask someone from the UK or France or Spain, all of which are former imperial nations, what paradise looks like they will say some Caribbean island, right? But I wanted to draw attention to the opposite – beneath this paradise is really crazy wealth disparity. And it's not really paradise: in Guadeloupe pesticides used in farming cause cancer. Paradise and poison are right next to each other.' I ask Oyiri what it's like to be a black woman of Caribbean ancestry exhibiting at Tate Modern. After all, it was Caribbean sugar that made this temple to art possible – and you don't have to look too far into the history of sugar to find enslaved people working in plantations. True, neither Tate nor Lyle were slave owners, but as the Tate's own website puts it, both were connected to slavery in 'less direct but fundamental ways'. 'It is very strange for me,' Oyiri replies. 'I have been made aware. Throughout my life, I have had to kind of reverse-engineer all this history.' She mentions Kara Walker – the great African American artist, whose work similarly explores colonialism, race and identity – as one of the people who helped her reverse-engineer herself. Walker's monumental 2014 sculpture A Subtlety or the Marvellous Sugar Baby, which depicted a white sphinx with an African woman's features, was displayed at a derelict Brooklyn sugar refinery, in homage to 'the unpaid and overworked Artisans who have refined our Sweet tastes from the cane fields to the Kitchens of the New World on the Occasion of the demolition of the Domino Sugar Refining Plant'. Four years later Walker's 13-metre tall working fountain Fons Americanus was installed in Tate Modern's Turbine Hall looking like, as Bidisha put it in her Guardian review, 'a monumental rebuke to the evils of empire'. How do you follow that? 'I don't! I don't dream of competing with what Kara Walker did!' Oyiri laughs. 'But whatever I do is kind of inspired by the conversations she created. I started to look at the Caribbean in a different way. What was paradise becomes something very different indeed. You just have to look in a different way.' In a Perpetual Remix Where Is My Own Song? opens at Tate Modern, London, on 17 June
Telegraph
12-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
The 15 best museums in London
London is a city built on stories – royal, radical and artistic – and its museums offer portals into every era. Visitors flock for blockbuster exhibitions, national treasures and stunning architecture, while lesser-known gems offer quieter moments of discovery. From world-famous collections like the British Museum and Tate Modern to small wonders like the Fan Museum or the quirky Old Operating Theatre, there's something for every taste. The best part? Many of London's museums are free to enter. Below, find our selection of 15 of the best museums in London. And for more London inspiration see our guides to the capital's best hotels, restaurants, nightlife, shopping and things to do. Find a museum by type: History British Museum With over eight million artefacts, the British Museum showcases the breadth of human history. Standouts include the Rosetta Stone, Parthenon marbles and ancient Egyptian mummies. Its Great Court, crowned by a spectacular glass roof, is as iconic as the exhibits. Be sure to allow several hours to explore. Insider tip Head to Room 3, the free 'Object in Focus' gallery, for rotating highlights often overlooked by the crowds.
