Claude Lalanne

Claude Lalanne

La Pomme Bouche

circa 1975
(gilt bronze)

     Simultaneously humorous and disturbing, this apple looks surreal. It seems to constantly morph back and forth between its fruity side and its human side, like an undecided shapeshifter. In fact, is it an apple with a human mouth, or is it an eye-less, nose-less human with an apple head? 

     Perhaps plucked directly from Magritte’s The Son of Man (circa 1964), the idea of pairing humankind with nature brings to light a similar question as that of the chicken and the egg: though undoubtedly related, which came first? Was humankind really borne from nature, or is humankind the (or at least one of the) reason(s) for which nature exists in the first place? Without nature, would woman and man cease to exist? And without woman and man, would nature perish or weaken in some way? Questions as these always bear more of the same, and eventually those doing the questioning find themselves caught in a circle of complexity often riddled with the redundant and the inexplicable, all with a strange sense of clarity. But choosing to remain ignorant or uncurious with the fear of being tangled in one’s own web of natural confusion is foolish. Two facts to realise and to accept as solid truths are that without questions there are no answers, and that when lost, always return to simplicity. 

     That said, which stage of thought could Lalanne’s so-called apple represent? That where, after a long and tiresome self-orientated debate, it has reached its personal level of clarity? Or that where it has become so muddled within its own never-ending labyrinth of questions that it no longer recalls its original form? In which case - is it really only an apple with a mouth?

19th Century Metalwork: the Mould

Austrian or German (maker(s) unknown)

Chocolate Mould (?)

circa 1890 to early twentieth century

(aluminium)

     If you can, imagine yourself as a person in the late nineteenth century. You are in fin-de-siècle Vienna, or in a modest town or a mountain village and winter is near. The leaves of autumn are scattered and pasted on the pavements you walk along every day to and from your university or work, or anything. For some reason, whether out of habit or for an occasion, you choose to step into Charlie of Willy Wonka's very own shoes (though Roald Dahl's story has yet to be published nearly seventy years on) and buy yourself a bar of chocolate.

     The kiosk from which you buy it, the very same from which you sometimes buy le Figaro or a pack of Samum's Zigarettenpapier, momentarily fades into the background as you slowly peel back the wrapping paper. You feel its waxy texture, smell its first hint of bitterness - you lose yourself entirely in this small slab. Its face is a vignette of current life as you know it, held in your palm, showing the recent invention of automobiles, the evolving fashions for both men and women and the new luxury (only for those who are rich, though) of being able to visit the country-side at ease without the hassel of public transport. Its process of creation is also a testimony to the recent discovery of aluminium in the 1830s and, most important of all, the bar of chocolate (which was probably wrapped individually rather than in a set) serves as the earliest form of a cheap, accessible-to-all advertisment for the progress of human-kind. It emulates the dawn of the coming industial revolution. Mass production will fade the details and originality will be lost (though not for long) to a prevailing need of quantity over quality. One mould, hundreds of chocolate faces.

Peter Doig

Peter Doig

Paragon

circa 2006

     An instant reminder of Paul Gauguin's The Vision after the Sermon (circa 1888). A glowing red centre, like fire, separating one thing from another (which in this case is ground, so green, from water); lazy leaves bending into the frame from the top; and an odd trio of human beings, one of whom seems to be a ghost. Unlike Gauguin's group of devout Christians passively watching the struggle between Jacob and the angel, Doig's characters interact with each other. They remain unbothered by the red degree of division, and yet they are, in fact, part of the division. The upper body of the foremost leans into the greenery (thus 'connecting' the trio with land) while the farthest almost disappears with the current, and yet firmly stands on a surface. The middle figure, though obviously holding a cricket stick, could additionally be 'pointing' to something, but to what?

     Their line cuts the canvas in two, receding into the distance and pulling the eye to the valley beyond where a blue sky peeps through, nearly touching the marble-grey waters. Everything in this scene appears to melt, to merge, but at the same time remain independent of each other. On second thought, are the three characters one in the same person? From different angles does the figure twirl and twist - first with his back to us, then in profile and finally in full frontal? Is this a process of growth whereby life is treated like a game, where at each new stage we learn to hold and master a different tool? If so, then the last most 'mature' figure supposedly half-floating, half-standing is the ideal prototype of adulthood. He has merged with both land and water, and with the division between both things itself. A true paragon?