It’s all this Nouvel Art Brut’s fault
I get the intuitive feeling that there’s something going on in Delphine Coindet’s sculpture, even though, truth to tell, nothing much goes on in her sculpture; and it’s also true that these two statements are twin slopes of the same Ozone Peak. Tired (this moment of astonishment), when you come within a hairsbreadth of slightly intoxicating asphyxia, and when “formally” (as it’s said in the diplomated tongue that serves as the urban dweller’s vernacular) things continue to follow their course.
In a text that’s as exploratory as it is jubilatory (and so far unpublished; though not, I hope, for much longer), Elisabeth Wetterwald – it’s her again – puts forward the idea (all relations, however aesthetic, being undone) that the present age is opening itself up to a principle of vacancy (regarding which one quickly begins to wonder if it isn’t the only accessible and positively sought-after outlet for Pierre Huyghe’s “liberated times”). At this world-juncture, which in principle imposes no sense, the work might be seen as – in a charming expression that one could swear came from a song by Mylène Farmer (and don’t read any irony into it, any more than you would into a Delphinic utterance) – “a witness to nothing, an orphan of everything”. With the further addition: “No more in refusal than acceptance, because fundamentally heterological”.