BRUNO CATALANO BY BRUSHWORD ART SPACE / MODUS GALLERY

LES VOYAGEURS, WHO ARE THEY?

Bruno Catalano / Modus Gallery

Originally trained as an electrician, Bruno first encountered sculpture in a clay class with Françoise Hamel in Marseille. The artistic influence of Italian sculptor Bruno Lucchesi gave further inspiration in the young sculptor’s fingers. The idea for his allusive travelers (Les Voyageurs) was born from a mistake on a sculpture of Cyrano, which prompted him to dig a hollow in his chest – thus turning the painful realization of a mistake into the birth of a new path. In 2005, Bruno Catalano produced his first exhibition of torn travelers in Paris, which was an instant success.

 

 

 

 

 

Aesthetically, these pieces are simply mesmerizing. Wounded travelers, torn between this world and another, they move quietly, leaving a sense of uneasiness in the viewers’ minds. Contrary to what we might expect, these travelers are not anonymous. They are often artists, starting with Vincent Van Gogh recognizable by his red beard. Often made as a two-piece structure, they represent a mosaic of each individual, turn between two worlds, suggesting a surreal, levitating presence which is not really here, but not really anywhere.  With the present day relevance of displacement of humanity, Catalano’s sculptures strike a very personal and relevant not, challenging the viewer’s perception. Enigmatic and full of emotion, they make us see the world of as a poetic journey – and always with baggage.

Bruno Catalano / Modus Art Gallery

JOSHUA JENSEN-NAGLE BY TORONTO LIFE / MODUS GALLERY

Joshua Jensen-Nagle’s dreamy echoes of the golden age

Joshua Jensen-Nagle / Modus Gallery

Every generation idealizes one that came before—just ask Gil Pender from Midnight in Paris. Another case in point: the Instagram phenomenon. With a quick point and tap, anyone with an iPhone can create hyper-stylized, retro-shabby art photography that looks straight out of the ’70s. The breezy, warm-toned photos that crowd Facebook feeds and Pinterest boards are pretty but soulless—their desperate artificiality shines through the soft-lit patina. New Jersey-born photographer Joshua Jensen-Nagle embraces the romantic nostalgia of the Instagram generation—but he also brings a fine art sensibility to his lush images.

Jensen-Nagle uses toy and pinhole cameras and hand-treats his prints with gold leaf and splattered paint. The photos of the “Quiet Reminiscence” series were taken in Europe with vintage Polaroid film. The distorted dimensions and filters of the film give the photos their texture; after developing the film, Jensen-Nagle scanned them into large archival inkjet prints and mounted them on Plexiglas.

While Instagram photos might look like your mom’s old beach shots, Jensen-Nagle’s wonderful pieces channel French Impressionist paintings. Even though we know they’re not authentic, the gauzy, blurred images feel as though they were discovered in a box lying around someone’s attic—they capture still waters, stately buildings and cast iron streetlights, evoking imagined memories of 19th-century grand tours. Jensen-Nagle’s dreamy photos are equipped with a wondrous ability: they transport their subjects and their viewers back to an elusive (and illusory) golden age.

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Joshua Jensen-Nagle / Modus Art Gallery

BRUNO CATALANO BY NORDESPACES / MODUS GALLERY

L’HOMME ET SA VALISE

Bruno Catalano / Modus Gallery

Le thème du voyage, de l’ailleurs, du mouvement est largement présent dans la littérature, dans la musique, dans les arts de manière générale.

Bruno Catalano, artiste sculpteur a créé une série d’œuvres originales, tant par la technique qu’il a utilisée que par le pouvoir de suggestion ou la force qui s’en dégagent : les Voyageurs. Œuvre d’art remarquable et remarquée, la Série Voyageurs touche d’abord l’esprit par sa beauté intrinsèque. Mais si le sculpteur touche notre sensibilité c’est aussi à notre intelligence qu’il s’adresse.

Un bon professeur m’avait enseigné à vivre par séquence : l’approche semble d’abord compliquée parce qu’elle consiste à se concentrer sur la séquence de vie en évitant de la relier à d’autres pans de notre existence. Je m’en sers de temps à autre et toujours lors de mes voyages.  A l’instant même où l’avion décolle, il faut savoir se détacher de sa réalité solidement construite et abandonner son personnage comme certains animaux abandonnent une peau devenue inutile : puisque les mécanismes et les habitudes n’ont plus lieu d’être, tous les sens doivent être en éveil sans entrave. Observez, écoutez, sentez, parce que désormais vous n’êtes plus cette personne connue de ses voisins ou de ses collègues : en voyage, vous êtes une personne nouvelle, et donc fragile face à l’univers avec tant d’inconnu.

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Le voyageur de Bruno Catalano est un homme laissé à lui-même, à sa fragilité, mais aussi aux possibles : tout son univers et son être sont enfermés dans la valise qu’il emporte avec lui – comme ce fut mon cas autrefois, au tout début de ce siècle, avec ma vieille valise, débarquant en France dans un inconnu total. Les sculptures font écho à l’œuvre dessinée de Shaun Tan « Là où vont nos pères » (Editions Dargaud) mais aussi à ce mouvement qui anime tous les voyageurs qui cherchent cet ailleurs mais partent pour revenir.

Le voyageur de Bruno Catalano marche vers son salut autant que vers sa perte. Bien évidemment Bruno Catalano s’inspire de sa propre expérience d’exil et de sa recherche de vie nouvelle. Sa quête ne se fera apparemment pas sans dommages, sans abandon, sans déchirure. Ses personnages semblent pulvérisés par la vie. Il leur reste leur cœur et leur « bagage » auquel ils s’agrippent, seuls ou parfois à deux, puisque l’ingénierie de l’œuvre en a besoin de maintenir la structure mais pas seulement… Décidément, la symbolique est forte.

Je reviens à Hegel : « D’une façon générale, le but de l’art consiste à rendre accessible à l’intuition ce qui existe dans l’esprit humain, […] C’est ainsi que l’art renseigne l’homme sur l’humain, …». C’est aussi le propre d’un beau voyage, serais-je tentée de rajouter. A chacun son voyage : voulu, forcé, rêvé… vers le soleil, vers le froid, vers autrui, vers la culture et l’histoire, vers des paysages et des villes au-delà de l’horizon.

Aujourd’hui, les Voyageurs de Bruno Catalano font partie des plus prestigieuses collections privées en France comme à l’étranger et présentées dans les galeries de Paris, New York, Singapour, Cannes, Venise.

Bruno Catalano / Modus Art Gallery

JAVIER LEON PEREZ / MODUS GALLERY

PATTERNS AND GEOMETRY

Javier Leon Perez / Modus Gallery

Since he was a child, Javier Léon (Sevilla, 1978) felt a strong attraction to art. After studying as a graphic designer, he worked in a studio for a while but he soon realized that it wasn’t his calling as his true passion was for art. He enrolled in fine arts and he eventually achieved a Master’s degree in arts, at the Complutense University in Madrid. It was during his academic years that he explored new media and techniques and he developed his unique style, an hybrid between sculpture and painting.When asked what kind of value does his artwork generate, the artist answers:

I don’t know that for sure. It’s probably something that can’t be weighed, measured or determined. My artworks act like some kind of an emotions catalyst that somehow attract and infect the viewer, completely captivating him.”

His working process is a sort of a daily ritual, just like a mantra; an endless repetition of tiny inter-wined elements that little by little cover the canvas unsealing the artwork. What strikes the viewer the most is the texture, the colors which reflect natural forms and evoke natural geometries and patterns.

Javier Leon Perez / Modus Art Gallery

Bruno Catalano by RACNA Magazine / Modus Gallery

SCULTURE PER UN MONDO IN TRANSITO: I VOYAGEURS DI BRUNO CATALANO

Bruno Catalano / Modus Gallery

Li seguo da anni, dalle sponde di Marsiglia, fino all’aeroporto di Singapore, passando per le strade innevate di Courchevel. Sono i Voyageurs, i gruppi scultorei di Bruno Catalano, creature eteree , affascinanti nel misterioso rapporto tra vuoto e pieno, capaci di instaurare un dialogo con il mondo circostante, fino ad identificarsi con esso.

Sono migranti o nomadi, muniti di una valigia alla mano e di una speranza nel cuore alla ricerca di una vita migliore. Uomini per così dire “perforati” e forse ridotti a pezzi, come li ha resi metaforicamente l’ambiente circostante.
Con uno sguardo introspettivo procedono con passo incerto verso una realtà sconosciuta.Statue che sembra abbiano perso ogni organo vitale. In questo vuoto paradossalmente vi è rinchiuso il tutto, il mondo intero, quello di un’esperienza di chi ha viaggiato ed è cresciuto ulteriormente nell’avvicinarsi e nello scontrarsi con le culture altrui.
E chi meglio di Bruno Catalano conosce queste circostanze.

Marsiglia è il suo punto di approdo, dopo aver vissuto da marinaio per 30 anni senza una dimora fissa, navigando tra i diversi porti del mondo. Ed è qui che ha iniziato la sua carriera: modellando l’argilla prima, la colatura in bronzo poi.
Ispirato ai grandi maestri come Rodin , Giacometti , Camille Claudel e soprattutto Bruno Lucchesi, da cui apprende la tecnica di modellare l’argilla, lo scultore riesce a superare la sfida dei suoi predecessori, aggiungendo una quarta dimensione nel suo tentativo surrealista, ben riuscito, di creare il vuoto nello spazio.

Nel mio lavoro, sono alla ricerca del movimento e dell’espressione dei sentimenti; faccio emergere dall’inerzia nuove forme e riesco a levigarle fino a dare loro nuova vita. Proveniente dal Marocco anche io ho viaggiato con valigie piene di ricordi che rappresento cosi spesso nei miei lavori. Non contengono solo immagini ma anche vissuto, i miei desideri: le mie origini in movimento”.

Le sculture di Bruno Catalano si innestano nel tessuto urbano; sono corpi lacerati in uno spazio da cui si intravedono scorci e prospettive diverse a secondo delle nostre capacità immaginative.
Li seguo come una sorta di migrazione umana, in diversi luoghi del mondo, laddove sono installati e non a caso questi soggetti scultorei trovano dimora in luoghi di transito, piazze, aeroporti, porti di mare.
L’aspetto più affascinante è l’angolazione che stravolge il concetto di “tutto tondo” cui siamo abituati. Se le statue classiche possono essere viste da diversi punti di vista, girandovi intorno, e si lasciano ammirare per la rotondità delle forme, i gruppi scultorei di Bruno Catalano amplificano, come in una dimensione sonora, il concetto di tridimensionalità nella loro mancanza di volume delle forme, offrendoci metaforicamente il mondo materiale che le circonda. Di fronte ad esse potremmo immaginare come sarebbe quel corpo se fosse munito delle sue parti mancanti.

L’uomo di Bruno Catalano non appartiene ad una sola città, ma diventa cittadino del mondo. La sua ricerca di identità comporta sempre qualche perdita. Il suo individualismo è frutto di compromessi con il mondo circostante, che lo ha forato nelle sue radici.
Non è forse vero che lasciamo un pezzo di noi stessi, nel nostro continuo migrare tra le strade del mondo, sia come turisti, sia come cercatori di identità?
E per chi sa apprezzare la Bellezza viaggiare significa proprio questo: lasciarsi perdersi fino a confondersi nell’armonia e nella ricchezza del mondo e le sculture di Bruno Catalano a pieno titolo sembrano rappresentare questo assunto.

Bruno Catalano / Modus Art Gallery

THE BANKSY REVOLUTION / MODUS GALLERY

Banksy / Modus gallery

We just loved doing graffiti, it was the best thing ever! We used to do them on the bus, coming home from school and everybody did that.” This is how a Bristol child started drawing on public walls, before becoming one of the greatest writers in the world.Banksy’s artworks were born on buses, they crossed the walls of dozens of cities all over the world to eventually land in the halls of the most important galleries and museums.

The reasons why Banksy became so popular is his undeniable ability to take great contemporary themes regarding politics, ethics or culture and translate them into a clear and effective aesthetic. Banksy started working in the nineties, when street art was still in gestation, but he managed to be the first artist to draw attention of such a wide audience to the horrors of war, the contradictions of capitalism and the deception which distinguishes the way we proclaim ourselves “free”.

The subjects of his artworks are diverse: common, anonymous people, political figures, mottos, logos, famous pictures or advertisings. He also uses very often the smiley emoticon as a replacement for human expressions or feelings. His favorite technique is the stencil by which the image is made by applying pigment to a surface over an intermediate object with designed gaps in it, which create the pattern by only allowing the pigment to reach some parts of the surface.

The artist truly communicates through is works, as his identity is still unknown, even though it is believed that he could have born in England in 1975 and raised in Bristol. Banksy is a nickname, his tag, his signature, but he never showed himself in public. Protected by anonymity, which anyway increased his fame, providing him a captivating air of mystery, Banksy works quietly under the radar, just like one of his famous rats, protagonists of his graffiti:  

They exist without permission. They are hated, hunted and persecuted. They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth. And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilizations to their knees. If you are dirty, insignificant, and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.

Banksy / Modus Art Gallery

Adam Lupton’s Attempt to Capture Passing Time Through Disorienting Perspectives/Modus Gallery

Despite the meticulous control and calculated perspectives, Canadian artist Adam Lupton’s oil paintings are constantly fidgeting. They mostly feature youth in various incarnations in a blur of motion represented as simultaneous frames, or with different layers of paint exposed. This jitteriness is revealed both through substance, by showing the layers of material creation, or through time, as the viewer pans multiple freeze-frames overlaid on top of each other. What stands still throughout all his work is an obsession with time and chaos, and the individual’s navigation of the two in the constant present.

Modus Gallery Adam Lupton

Modus Gallery Adam Lupton

Bruno Catalano |Surrealist Sculpture / MODUS GALLERY

Bruno Catalano / Modus gallery

Bruno Catalano |Surrealist Sculpture

BRUNO CATALANO , KHOURIBGA, 1960 IS A FRENCH SCULPTOR,

most renown for creating sculptures of figures with substantial sections missing.

In 1982 he started working at the Société Nationale maritime Corse Méditerranée. He stayed there 4 years until 1986.He cites his experience as a sailor as central to his inspiration.

Catalano was acquainted with sculpting in 1981 in Marseille where he enrolled in Françoise Hamel’s modeling classes. After two years of education, he opened his own art practise in 1985 and secured an oven in which he would bake his first clay figure. Later Catalano began to make big bronze sculptures. His first works were compact and conventional but the later series become increasingly expressive.[5] In 2004 a flaw in one of his characters – a depiction of Cyrano – prompted him to dig and hollow out the chest. A new path of work ensues. An exhibition took place in Marseille in September 2013, to celebrate its status as the European Capital of Culture with ten life-size sculptures exhibited at the port of Marseille.

Nel mio lavoro, sono alla ricerca del movimento e dell’espressione dei sentimenti; faccio emergere dall’inerzia nuove forme e riesco a levigarle fino a dare loro nuova vita. Proveniente dal Marocco anche io ho viaggiato con valigie piene di ricordi che rappresento cosi spesso nei miei lavori. Non contengono solo immagini ma anche vissuto, i miei desideri: le mie origini in movimento” – Bruno Catalano

Bruno catalano / Modus Gallery

Bruno Catalano / Modus Gallery

Bruno Catalano / Modus Gallery

BRUNO CATALANO / ART GOTHIQUE / MODUS GALLERY

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Sculpteur français né en 1960, Bruno Catalano admire l'art depuis sa jeunesse, et débute sa carrière de sculpteur avec un remarquable talent en 1990.

Jouissant d'une renommée nationale et internationale, les sculptures de Bruno Catalano font partie des collections de grandes sociétés et des grandes collections privées et publiques dans le monde. Elles sont exposée en France, Angleterre, en
Chine, en Belgique, en Suisse, et aux États Unis.
Source et site officiel : http://www.brunocatalano.com/sculpture- … telier.php

Personnellement, je souhaite mettre l'accent sur sa dernière série Les Voyageurs que je trouve aussi originale que réussie.

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery 

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery 

 ILHWA KIM / Contemporary Korean Art: Tansaekhwa and the Urgency of Method.

Joan Kee has written a seminal book entitled The book  Contemporary Korean Art: Tansaekhwa and the Urgency of Method.considers Tansaekhwa, one of the most important artistic movements in contemporary art history – yet one that has been significantly over-looked. Tansaekhwa, or Korean monochromatic painting, references a loose grouping of Korean artists who, starting in the mid 1960s, started to manipulate the materials of painting to create mostly large abstract paintings executed in white, black, brown, and other neutral colours.  During the 1970s and 80s, works by artists such as Park Seobo, Ha Chonghyun, Kwon Young-woo and Lee Ufan, came to be seen by critics, curators and artists as representing contemporary Korean art, and more widely contemporary Asian art. Kee’s book provides an informative and clear explanation for the context and characteristics that define Tansaekhwa; but equally it encourages further investigation of this intriguing and important facet of art history. 

Joan Kee holds the first university position in North America specifically created for the study of modern and contemporary art in Asia. Kee is an assistant professor of art history at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Since the late 1990s, she has written widely on East and Southeast Asian art for such publications as ArtforumArt BulletinArt HistoryOxford Art JournalThird Text, and the catalogue for the Korean Pavilion at the 50th Venice Biennale. 

First, before we start discussing the book, a bit about you.  You originally set out to be a lawyer and in fact hold a degree from Harvard Law School- but you then decided to study art history and earned a PhD in art history from NYU. Why the change of direction?

My undergraduate degree is in art history and I had always meant to pursue an academic career in the field; however, one of my university professors very wisely pointed out that it was perhaps a good thing to work for a while in an entirely different field. The inherently interdisciplinary nature of law offered a lot of different ways of thinking about various subjects and how those subjects relate to one another.  In many ways, the study of law is about spotting narrative gaps, contradictions, and logical inconsistencies that are central to how we understand a particular subject.

You have a second book project underway already and I understand its provisionally titled What Art Has To Say About The Law. So this will be a literary meeting of your legal experience and your art historical study?

It was brought about by a desire to think of how art history and legal studies play off of each other in mutually productive ways. Legal studies overwhelmingly treat the art-law relationship as a function of selling, buying, creating and exhibiting artworks. Histories of contemporary art in turn have ascribed to artists and artworks the role of victim: what has the law done to art, or rather, what has the law not done to art? Inherent in these studies is a tendency to insist that artworks contain some kind of hidden meaning, an assumption leading viewers to erroneously, or even wrongfully assign to artists motives unsupported by the actual experience of interacting with a particular work. Analogous is the tendency of many histories of modern and contemporary art to treat the law as a monolithic apparatus of control often complicit with an ethically questionable politics. Such assumptions ignore the matrix of contradictions, debates, and processes by which laws are made, exercised, and changed.

My first book actually helped me start thinking more intensively about the art-law relationship as a large part of it concerns how artists living under martial law in 1970s Korea used materials to compromise, or otherwise elude the restrictions and demands imposed on culture by an authoritarian state. I argued that they were able to work with and beyond numerous limitations on the freedoms of expression and assembly at that time because of their understanding of painting and the kinds of demands it made of its viewers. The current project on art and law looks at the relationship between law and visual art is a primary example of the fundamental tensions defining society, particularly in the U.S. from the early 1970s to the late 1980s. During this time, courts intensified their scrutiny of artistic content while the so-called “culture wars” of the Reagan years saw radical changes in legal doctrines of property, contract, and definitions of identity. The magnitude and speed at which these changes took place instilled in many artists a sense of obligation to respond the force and scale of law’s operation. What these responses were will make up a large portion of the new book; another portion will look at how methods used in humanistic disciplines productively affect other systems of thinking in ways that directly benefit society at large. How does the experience of interacting with these works enable the possibility of imagining more concretely the links between the built environment, politics, and material forms in ways that offer us ways of thinking what obligations must be fulfilled to better achieve a more just society?

Your current book looks at Tansaekhwa - the first contemporary Korean artistic movement to be actively promoted internationally. When and why did you decide to write a book on this subject? 

First and foremost, that they are intriguing works that represent a major contribution to an expanded history of abstraction. One of the major dimensions of this contribution is how certain Tansaekhwa artists grapple with the particular challenges set forth from having been trained in ink painting. Take for example, work by Kwon Young-woo, who was among the first postwar Korean artists to major in ink painting at university.  Some time in the early 1960s, he decided to get rid of his ink and brush and instead use his fingernails, palms, and even elbows to tear directly into the paper used for traditional ink painting -- the result is something akin to process-based works in the West, but at the same time utterly different. Another example is Lee Ufan, who paints using mineral pigments ordinarily found in 'Japanese painting' as well as canvas - an unusual combination of materials that raise the issue of so-called traditional media's place in contemporary art. 

This title of the book references the phrase “the urgency of method”. Perhaps you could discuss the reference to 'method' as a means of explaining the movement?

The works of artists like Lee Ufan, Kwon Young-woo, Yun Hyongkeun, and Ha Chonghyun foregrounded contemporary art as an idea fundamentally based on a series of beliefs and doubts concerning the role of medium and the viability of notions like tradition and cultural difference. Their promotion as the face of contemporary Korean art in the late 1970s and 1980s also emphasizes the degree to which the idea of 'contemporary Korean art' is itself a method, a means of responding to an international art world based on the recognition of discrete national and cultural differences. Whatever the personal and political antipathies of their makers, the works that comprise some of Tansaekhwa’s most representative examples highlight questions ignored, neglected, or even actively suppressed in mainstream Euromerican histories of postwar art. It raises, for instance, the curious position of ink painting – for artists like Kwon Young-woo and Lee Ufan, ink painting was both an ongoing legacy and a renewable source of material challenges that urged them to more vigorously push the question of abstraction.  Such explorations continue to resonate today, as international contemporary art has paradoxically revealed itself to be both more expansive and less inclusive than ever before.

It’s not surprising, then, that Tansaekhwa’s emergence coincided with the frequency with which the word method, or in Korean (pangbŏp) was used in Korean art criticism during the 1970s and early 1980s. The term first surfaced in the late 1950s, not long after critics like Pang Keun-t’aek and Kim Yŏng-ju tried to puzzle out what a distinctly modern, postwar Korean art might entail. Method was widely circulated, however, in relation to the series of Seoul Method exhibitions that took place from 1977, and which involved a sometimes bafflingly diverse array of artists, from Kwon Young-woo to conceptual artists like Lee Kun-yong. As one of the exhibition series founders, Lee stated that “for an artist to have his or her own method is a question of that artist’s attitude and language.” In one sense, method was thus a call for artists to develop their own approaches in the vacuum of the late 1970s created by the increasing irrelevance of the government-run national salon, the Kukjŏn, as a leading venue for contemporary art, the rise of artists interested in media other than painting and sculpture, and the continuing need to think about the position of art amidst the pressures of so-called “everyday life.” Other artists involved with the Method exhibitions regarded the call to individuation as a push-back against what they saw as the reductive, non-pluralistic tendencies of contemporary Korean art. Above all, the question of method, as described in a 1980 edition of the Seoul Method show, meant having to answer the question “what does our time demand of us?”

The word “method” also brought to the fore questions of interpretation with which critics grappled in the early 1970s, when the international circulation of Korean art, particularly in Japan, posed its own set of challenges. As the first deliberate attempt to brand a distinct identity for contemporary Korean art for international audiences, the story of Tansaekhwa’s emergence forces us to ask questions of “why” and “how”: it is a near certainty that the current wave of international interest in contemporary Korean art will soon fade into comparative indifference unless a case can be made as to why this art matters to the construction of a world art history. The most pressing task lies not in enumerating artworks, individuals, and events, but in outlining the main streams of identification and belief on which the idea of contemporary Korean art depends. That contemporary Korean art should matter, particularly to non-Korean audiences, is most apparent when we regard not only its subjects, but also the idea itself as a method for thinking about one’s place in the world.

The importance of Japan to the movement is expressed in the book. I noted that Lee Ufan, whose work is referenced on the front cover, spent much of his time there. Why was there this Japanese engagement with the movement? 

Mainly because Japan, for most Korean artists, was the nearest and most feasible point of access into the international art world after the re-establishment of diplomatic ties between South Korea and Japan in 1965. We’re talking about a generation that was born during Japan’s occupation of Korea, who were largely fluent in Japanese and acquainted with Japan’s artistic infrastructure. A key player in facilitating this engagement was Lee Ufan, whom many artists credit with helping them show their works in Tokyo. Many Japanese critics and gallerists in their turn saw Tansaekhwa as a useful means of visualizing what they referred to as a discrete “Asian” contemporary art, something I talk about in the book’s fifth chapter. Indeed, one of the most important exhibitions of Tansaekhwa, Five Korean Artists, Five Kinds of White at the Tokyo Gallery, was conceived as part of a larger “Asian art” series by the gallery’s owner, Yamamoto Takashi. Another point of contact is with Taiwan; in 1977, a large exhibition of Korean painting featuring many examples of Tansaekhwa took place at the National History Museum in Taipei. The reception of this exhibition suggests future possibilities for thinking about an interregional history of abstraction.

What relationship is there between Tansaekhwa and Western art movements of the same period?

There are a lot of “false friend” parallels, some of which were based in Tansaekhwa artists actually having seen certain works, such as Yun Hyongkeun having seen and admired the works of Mark Rothko. I’m also intrigued with some of the affinities between the works of artists like Ha Chonghyun and Helio Oititica, a Brazilian artist who grappled with the ambiguous separation between two- and three-dimensionality, or regional patterns of circulation through which the idea of abstract ink painting could be viewed; e.g., tracing lines of affiliation between the Filipino artist Fernando Zobel, the Taiwanese artist Fong Chung Ray and Kwon Young-woo. Such resemblances bring us to the heart of what has been pointed out about Korean, or for that matter, many examples of non-Western, art, that the question of whether to keep or omit one-to-one comparisons between Western and Korean works “stands at the heart” of how to think about modern and contemporary Korean art. On the one hand, certain formal comparisons make it easier to decouple Tansaekhwa works from the rhetorical ends to which they were put in the late 1970s and to relate them instead to a much broader conversation on abstraction. This has the potential of introducing foreign audiences to a more pluralized view of abstraction based on how Tansaekhwa both resembles and diverges from its counterparts elsewhere.

An extract I read in relation to the book stated: “Tansaekhwa made a case for abstraction as a way for viewers to engage productively with the world and its systems.” Perhaps you could expand on this?

One example is to look at various examples of Tansaekhwa through the politics of its time, which in the early 1970s was significantly inflected by the declaration of martial law in South Korea in 1972. Present histories of Korean art misread Tansaekhwa’s fidelity to materials as apolitical. Yet for Tansaekhwa artists to really interrogate the idea of painting was quite a radical thing to do if we remember how so many artists in this authoritarian era bought into representation by doing everything they could to forget that they were, in fact, painters – nothing more, nothing less. Tansaekhwa artists were quite transparent about the scope of action – it was both defined and enabled by the limitations of the painting medium. Protest was never the main point. Nor was it mere production. But by making the process of execution so utterly, even viscerally transparent, Tansaekhwa works shifted the burden of figuring out what’s going on onto the viewer, and in so doing, reconfirmed that you were indeed in possession of your own senses – this was quite an important thing to reconfirm in a deeply authoritarian, repressive era that seemed defined by a state bent on taking everything away from you. It is this reaffirmation of the viewer that made Tansaekhwa political in a time when merely walking slowly through city streets might land you in jail (a point vividly made in 1970 by the collective, The Fourth Group, when some of its members carried a coffin in a slow processional in downtown Seoul).

There seems to be an enormous gap between the amount of art being produced in Korea and the numbers of art history texts and departments on Korean art. How difficult was it to research the book?

Very. There’s a lot of really insightful, important criticism but relatively few systematic efforts at historicization. The one exception was the mid-to-late 1970s when you had a spate of efforts to track a history of contemporary Korean art; a notable instance was Kim Yun-su’s History of Contemporary Korean Painting. Published in 1975, it’s a proto-revisionist history of modern Korean painting which tried to explicitly track and evaluate art according to socio-political phenomena. 

More recent scholars have stepped in to fill the gap, and since the early 2000s there’s been a very welcome interest in oral history – welcome, since most of the key players of the Korean art world in the 1950s-1970s are or were in their 70s and 80s. Yet we need a lot more. It’s a race against the clock in many ways. In addition, writing history means much more than gathering relevant factual material. It also demands more than simply putting events in a linear sequence or even about inclusion for the sake of upholding the myth of an expanding art world. The choices made in even the most trivial-seeming acts of interpretation reflect our assumptions about art and its potential for action. Starting points, for example, are crucial. To begin a survey of modern Korean art from 1910, for instance, is to risk having non-Korean readers overlook the particular conditions of modernity in Korea, conditions which far predate Japanese occupation and which can be traced to the mid-to-late 18th century where artists like Kang Se-hwang took as their subject the idea of what it meant to be present, or in short, contemporaneous with one’s own time. Other suggested points of origin include 1953, which leads to a different kind of postwar narrative than has been otherwise assumed in Euroamerican studies of “postwar art,” yet this too risks positioning art as symptomatic, rather than generative, of its context. Possibly a more useful beginning is to start with a close reading of a single work. This would opens up the possibility of constructive failure, in which the impossibility of fully accounting for this work provokes the reader to envision other ways of interpretation, other points of access.

Part of the difficulty is the absence of courses devoted to modern and contemporary Korean art, even at the most elite institutions. It’s absolutely shocking that the national flagship university in Korea (Seoul National University) has not filled the spots left vacant by Kim Youngna and Chung Hyung-min after they assumed the directorships of the National Museum of Korea and the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, respectively. Of course, the teaching of modern/contemporary Western art is implicitly regarded as a priority. One only imagines the uproar in the West if, say, a major university in the U.S. were to lack an Americanist. The problem with this lack is that it affects the kind of writing that gets produced; there's a lot of writing now, but very little is historically informed, which compromises the ability of critics to give useful feedback to younger artists. Small wonder that museum curators and gallerists often complain of a dearth of good younger artists -- there needs to be critical feedback for artists and having some understanding of how works now resonate with what's been done previously is an important step.

Many histories of 20th century Korean art lack citations, bibliographies or other scholarly apparatus which can make it difficult to fact-check or cross-reference claims and observations. I ended up creating for myself a searchable database that consisted not only of newspaper and journal articles from roughly 1953 to the present but also images from the National Archives of Korea – luckily, the software for searching image databases is getting better every day. Image searching is going to be a gamechanger for research as will be the current interest in tracking networks of affiliations; already it’s possible to download large data sets and then track which institutions, events, and individuals actually exerted real impact by looking at both the number and the strength of those connections. As the book reflects, the resulting story is sometimes far different than what’s being told in received histories.

How much does ‘nation’ over ‘idea’ hinder the promotion of Korean art?

Ironically, the biggest obstacle in the promotion of Korean art is the endless insistence on putting the 'Korean' before the art. I hear again and again from senior scholars well acquainted with Korea and from newcomers alike that this emphasis often comes across as a kind of institutionalized insecurity. The new Seoul branch of the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art will be a crucial opportunity to reframe a history of modern and contemporary Korean art in such a way that emphasizes what might be called the obstinacy of art.  The works might look similar to their counterparts in the West or in the rest of Asia but when juxtaposed with certain other works can produce very intense experiences of estrangement through which we really have to rethink what we know of movements like abstraction or genres like portraiture. 

The geopolitics of Korea strongly suggest that Korean art (and culture, for that matter) will always be discussed in relation to the art of somewhere else. For decades critics struggled against this, albeit by pinning their hopes to arbitrary discourses of Koreanness that ironically stifled more productive kinds of discussion.  Yet one of the great strengths of Tansaekhwa and other key movements is how the task of its historicization calls us to restructure a world art history beyond the dichotomies of nationalism and internationalism, center and periphery, or the global and local. Making good on this potential is the next step.

What do you hope the book will be a catalyst for?

It's my express hope that the book would appeal to readers who are non-specialists in Asian art. I’m also hoping to see more studies on modern and contemporary Asian art that pay extensive attention to the artwork.

In terms of reception so far, I’ve been intrigued by the frequency with which Korean interviewers (either based in Korea or elsewhere) have asked about what I think might be done to promote Korean arts and culture overseas. My take is that contemporary Korean art is not yet 'global' until overseas institutions organize exhibitions of such art without heavy subsidies from Korean state agencies or Korean companies. Along the same lines, can there be an exhibition of postwar or contemporary Korean art without having the theme of national identity foreground the works on display? One of the reasons I wrote this book was because I believe that many examples of Tansaekhwa deserve recognition that isn't essentially bought for them by Korean sources. Fortunately others seem to agree as seen by the growing number of non-Korean institutions and galleries interested in collecting or exhibiting Tansaekhwa works.

What other developments would you like to see?

A huge priority is to invest in the development of archives and translators. I could not have written this book without the resources of the Leeum archive of Korean art or that of Kim Dal-jin, who has spent most of his life gathering materials that would have probably otherwise been lost. With the exception of a very small handful of individuals, Korean-to-English translation in the arts is abysmal. And it really has a negative impact on the promotion of this kind of art, not only for non-Korean speaking researchers but for museum collections and courses, many of which are based on histories riddled with glaring inaccuracies. One of the greatest challenges in writing the book was to double-check basic facts like names, dimensions, dates, titles and the like. At present, the majority of histories of contemporary Korean art comprise a kind of system of misdirection in which inaccuracies and generalizations are repeated to the point where they harden into a consensus that is very, very difficult to budge. For example, even today Tansaekhwa is discussed as "Korean minimalism" despite the fact that Minimalism had almost minimal (pun intended!) impact on the postwar Korean art world and was frequently criticized by art critics in Korea the 1960s and 70s.

Will we see an exhibition relevant to this book?

I’m curating a large-scale exhibition on Tansaekhwa that will open in the fall of 2014 in Los Angeles. Details regarding the venue and dates will soon be released, but it will be the first major show of Tansaekhwa in the U.S., consisting of both works that have never been exhibited outside of Korea and those that were showcased in such seminal exhibitions as Facet of Contemporary Korean Art held in 1977 in Tokyo. The exhibition will be accompanied by a scholarly book-length catalogue featuring not only an essay, but English translations of key artist interviews as well as numerous archival images that supplement what’s in the book. There is also a strong possibility that many of the works will make their way to Hong Kong as part of a larger show on postwar Korean art. — [O]

BRUNO CATALANO BY ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST / MODUS GALLERY

13 of the Most Fascinating Public Sculptures

From Marseilles to Melbourne, Vancouver to New York City, AD surveys the world’s most powerful public sculpturesTEXT BY 

NICK MAFI

Posted December 29, 2016

Commissioned public artwork has been part of our culture for many millennia. Over time, as world travel has become easier and safer, commissioned civil works of art have turned into tourist attractions all their own. From the bustling streets of New York City and Chicago to quieter corners of the globe in Howick, South Africa, and Las Colinas, Texas, Architectural Digest surveys 13 of the world’s most fascinating public sculptures. Each one answers a cultural curiosity—a question that was asked by a group or city officials, and answered by the artists. 

1/13

Les Voyageurs, by French artist Bruno Catalano, in Marseilles, France is a sculpture meant to evoke memories and parts of themselves that every traveler inevitably leaves behind when they leave home for a new shore.

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

2/13

Created by Can Togayand Gyula Pauer,The Shoes On The Danube Bank were designed as a remembrance for the hundreds of Hungarian Jews who had to leave their shoes on the bank of the river before they were shot during the Holocaust in Hungary.

3/13

The Unknown Official, which is located in Reykjavik, Iceland, is a monument built in 1993 by Magnús Tómasson. Made of bronze and stone, the work of art shows a nondescript bureaucrat casually walking in no particular rush. What adds drama to the piece is the massive stone atop the body, proof that bureaucrat nor onlooker can have a conversation about the motives of the officials next move.

 

El escultor Manuel Mediavilla gana el Premio Caja Extremadura / Modus Gallery

Un escultor semidesconocido en los círculos artísticos, el malagueño Manuel Mediavilla Crespo (1972), ganó ayer la primera edición del Premio Internacional de Escultura de Caja Extremadura, cuyo fallo se hizo público en Plasencia.

Su obra El entrenamiento logró el consenso de los miembros del jurado, un grupo de artistas y catedráticos, que vieron en la figura ganadora la expresión del mundo contemporáneo.

El entrenamiento representa a un nadador de waterpolo sentado en un banco, en posición reflexiva, que para el presidente del jurado, el escultor Julio López Hernández, "reúne una conjunción de aciertos clásicos para aludir a lo actual".

"Expresa el mundo contemporáneo desde la escultura clásica", incidió Antonio López, artista y componente del jurado .

A partir de este momento, el artista cuenta con un año de plazo para realizar el proyecto escultórico, en cuya creación Caja de Extremadura invertirá 60.000 euros.

A esta primera edición del premio se han presentado 108 propuestas de diversos países.

La obra ganadora se instalará en un espacio al aire libre de Plasencia.

ELBESODELACABRAORIG004.jpg

BRUNO CATALANO, DÉRACINEMENT DES ÊTRES & DÉCHIRURES DES CORPS / MODUS GALLERY

BRUNO CATALANO, DÉRACINEMENT DES ÊTRES & DÉCHIRURES DES CORPS

By Wegotatent

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Le sculpteur marseillais Bruno Catalano sublime et transcendeles déchirures des corps comme pour mieux sonder l’âme humaine.

Né près de Casablanca,  au début des années soixante, c’est à l’âge de dix ans que Bruno Catalano quitte le Maroc pour embarquer vers France et s’installe avec sa famille à Marseille. Le jeune garçon, impatient de découvrir la métropole,  vit sans grande anxiété ce déracinement et semble s’adapter facilement à son nouveau milieu, même si parfois ses jeunes camarades d’école lui rappellent qu’il n’est pas du pays… Dyslexique, il passe néanmoins avec succès un CAP d’électro-mécanicienet commence alors à travailler dans le monde ouvrier, en tant qu’électricien, sans enthousiasme particulier, ni grande passion.

Admirant l’art depuis sa jeunesse, cet artisan sculpteur, comme il se définit lui-même, a véritablement débuté sa carrière d’artiste à 30 ans, à la suite d’un stage de modelage et de dessin organisé par Françoise Hamel dans une petite école de sculpture de Marseille. Dès lors, décide d’arrêter toutes ses activités professionnelles pour se consacrer à la sculpture, n’ayant de cesse de se passionner pour cette nouvelle activité en lisant bon nombre de manuels et d’ouvrages spécialisés, dont celui du sculpteur italien Bruno Lucchesi dans lequel il apprendra tous les secrets de l’argile.

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Inspiré par les grands maîtres comme Rodin,  GiacomettiCamille ClaudelDegasDali,Cesar, Calder, ou bien encore Bruno Lucchesi, il ouvre son propre atelier de poterie et de sculpture, en se dotant d’un immense four grâce auquel il crée ses premières sculptures en argile. Remarqué pour la première fois en 1990 dans un salon d’art contemporain par un galeriste parisien, il évolue de l’argile vers le bronze, et sculpte des personnages de plus en plus grands, réalisant ainsi d’importantes prouesses techniques.

Inspiré par le thème universel du voyage et des personnes qui l’entourent, Bruno Catalano conçoit des sculptures qui nous content l’histoire de tous ces migrants et nomades débarqués une valise à la main sur les quais, forcés à l’exil et en quête d’une vie meilleure bien que fiers dans leur malheur. Des hommes troués et en lambeaux, marchant contre l’adversité, nous touchent et ne nous laissent pas insensibles en éveillant au plus profond de notre âme ce besoin d’évasion et cette quête de bonheur.

« Dans mon travail, je suis toujours à la recherche du mouvement et de l’expression des sentiments, je fais sortir de l’inertie la forme et la cire pour leur donner vie. Venant moi-même du Maroc j ‘ai porté ces valises pleines de souvenir que je représente si souvent. Elles ne contiennent pas seulement des images mais aussi du vécu, des désirs : mes racines en mouvement.»

Depuis qu’il a commencé à pétrir l’argile, des centaines deces « voyageurs » sont sortis de ses mains fiévreuses peuplant son atelier, dans l’attente d’un destinataire inconnu. Jouissant d’une renommée nationale et internationale, les sculptures de Bruno Catalano font partie des collections de grandes sociétés et des grandes collections privées et publiques dans le monde et font régulièrement l’objet de commandes ou d’expositions en France, Angleterre, en Asie, en Belgique, en Suisse, en Russie et aux États Unis.

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Bruno catalano / ModusGallery

Modus Gallery /The Beautifully Imperfect Bronze Sculptures Of Bruno Catalano Are Not All There

French artist Bruno Catalano has created an extraordinary series of eye-catching bronze sculptures called “Les Voyageurs” in Marseilles that depict realistic human workers with large parts of their bodies missing.

The sculptures were put on display in Marseilles to celebrate its position as the 2013 European Capital of Culture. They are skillful works of art even without the omissions, but the missing parts of the sculptures make them truly extraordinary and unique. They leave room for the imagination – are they missing something, or is it something that these “voyagers” have simply left behind? What’s especially impressive is that some of the sculptures seem to stand on very little support, giving them a sort of ethereal and surreal appearance.

Only ten of the life-size sculptures were presented at the port of Marseilles – many more can be seen on his website.

Source: brunocatalano.com

http://www.boredpanda.com/hollow-sculptures-les-voyageurs-bruno-catalano/

http://www.boredpanda.com/hollow-sculptures-les-voyageurs-bruno-catalano/

Modus Gallery / PIMAX, un artiste urbain militant

TAGS Pimax

Pimax est né en 1975, à Montreuil. Il vit et travaille actuellement à Paris.

Cet artiste polymorphe intervient sur les murs de Paris avec des tableaux éphémères, des affiches-pochoirs qui réinterprétent la Marylin Monroe d’Andy Warhol (avec la banane du Velvet ) ou bien Goldorak, au majeur tendu, triomphant, qui sont ses interventions artistiques les plus connues des promeneurs attentifs. Ici, dans le quartier du Marais (Paris)

Pimax détourne les modes avec une touche Pop colorée. Le détournement est un axe important dans son approche artistique. Il s’associe avec ses camarades de rue : WUZE, KROSS, SAN, DRAN.

Point éphémère, Quai de Valmy, Paris Xème

Point éphémère, Quai de Valmy, Paris Xème

Pimax : un artiste urbain militant.

Ses œuvres intriguent, interpellent et dérangent parfois car il ne s’agit pas seulement d’une performance artistique mais aussi de transmettre un message souvent en réaction aux déviances de la Cité.

L’artiste en plein travail dans son atelier :

 

 

 

Modus Gallery / Joshua Jensen-Nagle / This Toronto photographer takes stunning bird’s-eye shots of the world’s best beaches / TORONTO LIFE

BY VIBHU GAIROLA | PHOTOGRAPHY BY JOSHUA JENSEN-NAGLE |  AUGUST 18, 2016 http://torontolife.com/culture/art/joshua-jensen-nagle-aerial-beach-photography/

ModusGallery

Still Moments. Miami, Florida.

As a child, Joshua Jensen-Nagle vacationed at his grandfather’s beach house on the scenic shores of the Atlantic in New Jersey. After falling in love with photography in high school and studying it at Ryerson, the Toronto-based photographer was drawn back to the water—only now he he flies high above the shores in a helicopter, capturing mesmerizing shades of blue. Those shots are on display at Bau-Xi Gallery until the end of August. We asked Jensen-Nagle what it’s like to take photos from on high.

First of all, why beaches?
I started shooting beaches around 2000. I have joyful, youthful memories of pure bliss from spending time at beaches. Generally, people go to beaches to get away from crowds and let themselves go. We get so caught up with work that when we actually get in the water or under the sun, it’s such a happy emotion.

ModusGallery

Kaneohe Sandbar I. Kaneohe, Hawaii.

Of course, you’re not on vacation when you’re at the beach. How do you feel while you’re working?
Usually, I’m very stressed and focused on getting the work done. I have a lot of anxiety until I know that I have something. There’s only so much research you can do: until you actually get to the location, you don’t know what you’re going to get.

What does that research entail?
It starts with a lot of Internet research: Google Earth, finding out how crowded it gets at what time of year, when’s the best time to visit. I’ve built a list of different places I’m working on. The next trip is to Barcelona, then Portugal, France and maybe Sicily.

ModusGallery

An Abstract Expression. Sydney, Australia.

Once you’ve settled on a location, what’s the first step?
I use a network of fixers—usually people who work in the film industry who have contacts all over the world—to find out from local authorities what permissions we need. Typically, we need to get permission from them to fly over certain locations at least a couple months ahead of time, and there are altitude restrictions. In some cases, you can just go and do it, but I always check.

Who exactly is flying you around?
I usually get a senior pilot to go out with me. They have to pull some tricky manoeuvres while we’re flying because I take a lot of shots facing directly down. I talk through it with the pilot beforehand, often back and forth with a translator. Some of them get it right away and some don’t. Sometimes, you get hotshot pilots that really crank it and go a bit faster than I’m used to.

JJN-HanaumaBayI-803x0-c-default.jpg

Jensen-Nagle with his wife, Jessica, in Sydney, Australia.

I’m assuming you’re not scared of heights?
I actually don’t like flying, so it was very nerve-wracking the first time, and it still is when there’s rough turbulence. But as soon as I get my eye into the viewfinder, I completely forget about all of that. I completely relax.

I assume you’re strapped in.
I’m always harnessed in and sort of…hanging out of the chopper. I shoot while my wife, Jessica Jensen, is in the front seat of the helicopter watching Capture Pilot, which is an app that links my camera to an iPhone or iPad. Since there’s a lot of vibration and pressure from the rotors, it’s hard for me to tell if the shot is in focus. We have headsets on to communicate, and she says things like, “No, do another pass, this one was out of focus,” while I look at the technical aspects: camera settings, the composition of the photo. I also give the pilot a focal point to circle around and tell him, “Out 50 metres, down 10 metres.”

ModusGallery

It’s All There II. Sydney, Australia.

What kind of camera do you use?
I use a Phase One camera. It’s 100 megapixels, and it’s attached to a gyroscope so it’s stabilized while I’m in the air. I have extra batteries and lenses, but that’s it. My copter of choice is called the Robinson 44. It’s a small machine compared to some, but it suits my needs perfectly: it’s stable and affordable—about $1,000 per hour. As you get to bigger and bigger machines, the prices are astronomical. Getting permits and flying across the world can get very expensive, you know? On average, a trip costs about $10,000.

ModusGallery

Hanauma Bay I. Hanauma Bay, Hawaii.

Does weather ever get in your way?
There are a lot of environmental things to worry about—the wind, for example, can push the helicopter sideways—but I’ve been very fortunate with weather. I’ve never had to cancel a shoot because of it. Once, though, when I was in Hawaii, I wanted to shoot a stretch of beaches (above). A strange wind came in from a certain direction, so they had to change the main airport’s flight path to right over my area. We didn’t get cleared to fly until the very last day I was there. For the whole time, I was thinking, “Oh, geez. I came all the way to Hawaii for this!”

ModusGallery

Swimmers of Rio I. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Now that you’ve shot so many beaches, do you remember them all individually or do they blend together?
Each piece is different: the water colour is different, the waves are different. For example, I love the waves in Rio de Janeiro (above)—they made the texture of the photo so whimsical.

Melting Away. Algarve, Portugal.

Some of your photos have a wispiness and a watercolour-like blend of pastels. Are they altered?
They’re slightly altered, which comes from my past shooting with Polaroid film. Polaroid film is extremely soft, and the colour palette is very similar to these images. I tried to duplicate that feel with these shots.

What’s the story behind the shots that you take from the ground?
They actually came first and evolved into the aerial shots. But nowadays, when I’m up there, I’m location scouting: I point out areas that I want to check out on the ground.

While we’re on the ground photos, what’s with the polka dots?
That was just a playful, tongue-in-cheek reference to Damien Hirst’s polka dots. I was intrigued by them, and I wanted to add a graphic element to the work. The dots dance through the image; it just adds a little hint of something otherworldly.

Has taking these photos changed your relationship with beaches?
I still get the same feelings from them. When I’m there, it brings back happy memories and simpler times, and I get to relax. When I make the large prints and see them, it immediately calms me down.

So you’re not bored yet?
I often get asked, “Are you going to continue to shoot beaches?” I don’t know. Time will tell. As long as I’m still inspired by beaches and can find new ways to shoot them, I will.

Modus Gallery / Martin Whatson /// Nuart Festival, Stavanger

STREET ART AVENUE

Par vidos , 23 septembre 2015

Martin Whatson

GraffitiNorvègeNuArtPochoirStavangerstreet artTag

Début septembre, l’artiste norvégien Martin Whatson réalisait deux oeuvres pour le festival Nuart à Stavanger, en Norvège.

L’un des deux murs peints par Martin Whatson représente une danseuse en mouvement, dont la robe colorée faite de graffitis et de tags, fidèle au style singulier de cet artiste qui combine les techniques du pochoir photo-réaliste et du tag vandale.

Avec une troisième participation consécutive, Martin Whatson est un habitué de l’un des plus anciens festivals d’art urbain. Crée en 2001, le «Nuart» est pleinement dédié au street art depuis 2005 et réunit chaque année une line-up sélective et prestigieuse avec les plus grands artistes internationaux.

http://www.street-art-avenue.com/2015/09/martin-whatson-nuart-festival-2015-stavanger-12308

photos :
© Martin Whatson via www.facebook.com/martinwhatson84)
© Jaime Rojo (Brooklyn Street Art)
© Ian Cox via le site du festival www.nuartfestival.no