Curtain Rhetoric

Welcome to the exhibition! Inès Geoffroy invites you to experience the day a few months ago when all the exhibiting artists came together for the first time. Meeting outdoors for a barbecue at the Thundercage, they talked about books they had read and art. So, make yourself comfortable and listen as she tells the tale.

In the exhibition, there is one room per artist and the following conversations go hand in hand with the visit by providing an in-depth insight into the artists’ ideas and practices.  Before visitors discover the artworks, the first room, rather in the manner of a preface, looks back at the origins of the project. And it is indeed a story we are telling here, a story in the making of which the exhibition at the ICI constitutes the second chapter.

The initial idea was born in October 2024 on the banks of Aubervilliers canal during Thundercage, an ephemeral, outdoor exhibition that takes over the public space for a day whose format was devised by Romain Vicari. When I was invited to imagine its 41^st edition, I brought together Meryam Benbachir, Emma Bert Lazli, Reda El Toufaili Kanaan, Mehdi Görbüz, Amine Habki and Sido Lansari – who are all taking part in this exhibition today – as well as other artists who contributed readings. Together, we set out to bring to the surface everything that unites us – caught as we are between Muslim cultures and personal lives on the margins of mainstream norms.

For a few hours in the midst of all the artworks and books, readings and performances, the artists and the public came together to form a veritable community. This rainy day, rightly felt to be a moment of cohesion and enjoyment of the pleasures of activism, was truly heartwarming. It made us want to ensure these voices were heard more widely in the world of art. This first room resonates with the events and spirit of the founding day. It invites visitors to relive its emotions by means of photographs and an audio creation that encapsulates my memories of the day. The books that provided inspiration for our personal and artistic actions are also assembled here. Both bibliographic and audio references can be found online on the ICI website, or by using the QR code here.

Have you noticed that you are controlling the light with the sound of your footsteps? Reda El Toufaili Kanaan remembers shared moments cooking with his mother, making the small concrete cakes that you can see on the floor using cake tins she brought with her on leaving Lebanon. She used to tell him that if he spilt any salt, he would have to pick it up with his eyelashes in the afterlife.  By covering the floor with salt, he is inviting the viewer to ignore what is forbidden and move closer to the light and all that’s holy.

Inès Geoffroy (IG): What role does the light play in this piece and how does it relate to the other elements of your installation?

Reda El Toufaili Kanaan (RETK): The light is at the heart of the installation, both spatially and symbolically. It is this light that allows visitors to see the entire piece, as it is the only light source and because it is activated by the sound vibrations created when a person enters.

Light connects every element, passing through the curtains and illuminating the small concrete cakes. This light is immaterial, almost like a breath. It underlines what is inside and out and breaks down the border between the two. Contrary to a door that establishes a separation and even if the curtain initially suggests a limit, here the light opens out. There is a constant back and forth between opening and closing, between interior and exterior.

IG: It seems to me that this fragile light that disappears and then returns is also trying to give tangible form to a sort of doubt, possibly constituting a spiritual approach. Would you agree?

RETK: Yes totally. This light becomes the image of a faith that is wavering, always in a state of tension and continually trying to restore itself.  This faith is permeated by the presence and gaze of others. And it this gaze that either makes us move forward or, on the contrary falter – sometimes encouraging introspection.

This gaze is very present in religious places, as well as within the community. The connection with the other is central and this light in the installation embodies the connection, while going beyond the sole question of religious belief.

It illuminates a place of transmission, in particular in connection with the kitchen, making movements, gestures and presences visible. It’s a simple reminder that even if we have eyes, we cannot see without light. Here, this physical reality becomes a metaphor for spirituality.

IG: You mentioned transmission, can you tell us about the concrete cakes you made with your mother

RETK: The cake tins used for these cakes come from Baalbek in Lebanon, my parents’ hometown.  My mother brought them with her when she fled Lebanon during the civil war. They are the same ones she used to use for making ma’amoul, which are traditional pastries prepared for Eid, family gatherings, celebrations and periods of mourning. We used to make the real pastries together and we made these concrete ones together as well using the same cake tins. It was a collaboration. I wanted this transmission to be visible, not like a form of knowledge that is handed down vertically, but an exchange. A shared moment.

IG: This connection with your mother is also apparent in the salt on the floor. You explained to us that it evokes a family anecdote, which brings me to my second question. You say you want to grasp “the whole breadth of the taboo” and turn it into material for visual expression. In your practice, taboos lose their negative connotations; what makes this question such a rich source of creative inspiration for you?

RETK: Taboos become a space and the more you maintain them the thicker they get until paradoxically they become tangible and almost inhabitable. They exist as a tacit agreement in certain relationships, in particular in families and for example with my mother. The fact that we don’t tell each other everything and keep each other in the dark about certain things is also a way of making our love last. It’s a balance and it’s not something I find negative. I think taboos in the West are seen as being necessarily pejorative, but in other circumstances a taboo can convey beauty, respect and connection. I create my art in the space between these opposing forces. 

The salt references an anecdote: whenever I used to spill salt, my mother would tell me that I shouldn’t do that because I would have to pick it up with my eyelashes in the afterlife. It’s a powerful image. She always encouraged me to be careful and to do things right. Here I have deliberately spilt salt, spreading it all over the floor and inviting the visitors to walk on it, to be part of this forbidden act together. It’s a way of saying that we all caught up in contradictions and rules. And the closer you get to the centre of this installation, the more holy everything becomes – even things that were not holy at the start.

IG: The leitmotif of this exhibition is the notion of “curtain rhetoric” and indeed in your installation you use net curtains for their effects of transparency. What does this notion mean for you?

RETK: It is totally in keeping with my approach. A curtain creates a delicate in-between space, like a veil that you can choose to lift or not. You can see through it and make out certain things, but not everything is revealed. And sometimes, you simply have to accept that you can’t see everything. It is a filter, a protection and an area of respect. In my work, this rhetoric joins the rhetoric of taboo, intimacy and love. Family love, love that is given. I grew up in an environment where it was easy and completely natural to say, ‘I love you’. This allowed me in turn to express myself freely in my relationships. And yet, this ability to say ‘I love you’ is also steeped in taboo, but it is this mix that provides my inspiration. The curtain is exactly that: a sort of delicate way in how you approach and address subjects.

IG: And indeed, you actually told me that you wanted your work to be infused with delicacy and politeness…

RETK: Yes, it’s a line I always stick to. I never want to be blasphemous or to use provocation. Growing up, I had a religious education that taught me respect. I have no desire to call that into question. It’s part of who I am. This education made me calm and respectful and I think that comes through in my work. The veil underlines this gentleness. The aim is not to attack, but to suggest. To show that you can say things differently in a gesture of appeasement.

Do you like football? When she was young, Emma Bert Lazli wanted to play football, but her father signed her up for dance classes instead. They discuss the subject together in this video, but he has no memory of it. They do however remember she didn’t like dancing. This conversation shows how there are activities girls simply aren’t allowed to do. Today, Emma Bert Lazli is in an inclusive football team, in other words one in which everyone is welcome.

Inès Geoffroy (IG): In your film But I’m not a cheerleader, we are almost like a fly on the wall listening in on a conversation between a father and his daughter. Although the subject is football, it is above all an opportunity to address something much more personal and political. How did you manage to implement this shift?

Emma Bert Lazli (EBL): In my work, football is like a common language that allows me to address delicate subjects without being too direct. This shift occurred quite logically when thinking about memory. When I started playing football again, I realised that something was being replayed via my body: a memory that was both intimate and collective, one that I share with a lot of my friends.

I have always wanted to tackle fragile spaces in my work, abandoned sources that are sometimes on a subconscious level, or things left unsaid.  One analogy I rather like is that buried materials only become visible once they are no longer offensive. It’s the same here: I was only able to recreate this conversation because it no longer hurts. And I think that apparently anodyne exchanges can allow much more profound issues to emerge implicitly. I found it interesting to hear my father’s point of view, both through what was said and what was left unsaid.

IG: I get the feeling that there is also a form of redress at work. For example, you talk about these ballet classes you were enrolled in and how they were not at all where you wanted to be. The title of your film, But I’m not a cheerleader, would seem to provide a clue. Can you develop on that?

EBL: Yes. I often like to use titles that are more explicit than the actual content of my work. This title is a reference to a cult queer movie from the 90s, But I’m a Cheerleader, in which a teenage girl is sent to a conversion therapy camp because her parents suspect she is a lesbian (although she doesn’t realise it). It’s funny because I only saw this film once when I was a teenager myself and I don’t even remember having particularly enjoyed it at the time. It remains nonetheless a vivid memory. And that’s the parallel with my film: people trying to assign a gendered role to somebody to whom it does not correspond. Going back to playing football helped me understand that this is a shared story and that a lot of queer people are affected by this attempt to assign identity.

IG: When you’re talking about this video, you also speak about a continuum…

EBL: Yes, it’s a reference to Adrienne Rich and her concept of a lesbian continuum. This term designates a range of woman-identified experiences of solidarity, connection and resistance, whether the women are explicitly lesbian or not. I think that it is meaningful here: all our stories, however different, join together to create unique ties. As our trajectories are often rendered invisible, it is essential to recognise what brings us together and helps build our collective history.

IG: We could also mention Nouvelles Archives, your series of photos that brings together both the artists from the exhibition and people who have already taken part in the Thundercage project. Why did you choose this title and how is this series part of a reflection on queer archives and futures?

EBL: I’ve been thinking for quite a while now about memory and archives and about how to write a history of the present times. I wonder if the archives of the past were aware of their value when they were created. I think that an archive only truly comes into being when it is seen. That was my thinking when I chose the title Nouvelles Archives. Even if the gesture was initially intuitive, in this series I take photos of my environment and create new models of identification. These images do not only have a documentary value, they also convey traces, possibilities and futures. They are destined to become archives. They are also a nod to how we live, a way of asserting: “this is our existence”. Finally, they also represent places where we can dream, secret inner worlds, places of both personal and collective memory, places which are simultaneously places of movement and anchor points.

IG: It’s true that at the end of the day, working on archives does not necessarily mean looking backwards: a lot of it is also about looking to the future. In your work, you also claim the right to complexity. How does this idea resonate with the notion of “curtain rhetoric » that is the leitmotif of this exhibition?

EBL: For me, laying claim to the right to complexity is a way of asserting every aspect of my identity, without one aspect effacing another when observed from the exterior. It’s a way of escaping from labels. “Curtain rhetoric” resonates deeply with this idea as it provides a way of muddying the waters and making unequivocal definitions of different lives impossible. It asserts that several truths can exist simultaneously and that you don’t always have to be explicit about everything. It is also a sort of remedy; it alleviates suffering by recognising that each individual’s chosen path is, to a certain extent, cobbled together as a result of a negotiation with oneself. It’s about taking back power on our own terms, in terms of how we choose to exist. It is in this in-between zone, between the right to complexity and “curtain rhetoric” that I feel nuances may be possible. This is not just present in my photos – between the development and disappearance of the negative – but just as much in a darkened room where a delicate conversation is taking place, or the imaginary world glimpsed through a neighbour’s window. Complexity weaves its web in such places.

Imagine the artwork caressing your skin. Its soft embroidered wool reflects the gentle nature of the men that Amine Habki portrays. Sensitive men who dream and cry. Men who distance themselves from the clichés of masculinity and who are just themselves. In his work, Amine Habki questions how Arab men are seen by society and how they are represented in art.

Inès Geoffroy (IG): Your work seems to propose a sort of self-representation that subtly thwarts expectations around so-called subordinate masculinity. Do you also see it as a way of developing a counter discourse?

Amine Habki (AH): Yes, by definition my presence in all social strata is political. I am a political being, although I don’t necessarily employ a direct political discourse. I am pursuing a process of iconographic redress in which I am trying to go against the flow, not by opposing a person’s nature, but opposing a projection that has been imposed upon their body. This work of redress has a political significance because it questions and confronts neocolonial projection bias. I prefer the term “neocolonial” to “postcolonial” because, in my opinion, the latter would seem to imply that there is no longer a balance of power, whereas “neocolonial” recognises that institutional domination is still at work. Even I have had to deconstruct things – myths, projections – that I had internalised.

IG: In what you say, it is obvious that you are also working on the idea of perception: thwarting certain projections, shifting or decentring people’s perspectives. The pieces that you have assembled in this exhibition often use the theme of the gaze of others: sometimes it is isolated and frontal and at others elusive.

AH: Talking about my treatment of how people see each other, you could say that it’s a sort of striptease, a desire to show bodies, but without slipping into a form of voyeurism. I only want to show things in part:  isolated gazes, bodies lying down, turned to one side and not facing the viewer. As such, a poetry of bodies is created, but a sort of non-body too, a portrait stripped of any notion of identity. This allows me to protect my relationship with the body and establish a certain pudeur, decentring the image so that it shifts into a quasi-fantastic, fictional register. However, my work always remains rooted in a realistic iconography composed of real images I come across. For example, this face framed in a rear-view mirror is a motif you often see in action movies or in French films in which Arab men are seen from a certain perspective (with the subtext being the question of racial profiling). I make use of these images to say something different. In my work, you can also see men who are asleep: it’s a way of refusing the performance and postures imposed on these bodies.

IG: I have also heard you say that you lay claim to a form of softness and gentleness in your work, in particular in your use of textiles. I get the feeling that that is also a way of resisting the expectations of tougher and more virile portrayals.

AH: Yes exactly. It also allows me to literally repair these bodies, to allow them to regrow and acquire sensitivity once more, to gain access to truth. This truth is also a quest to create a more complex vision of these bodies without essentialising them.

IG: The same motif of looking can be found in your series of football gloves arranged as if on a football pitch. The are all turned to face the qibla, in other words towards Mecca, the direction in which Muslims turn to pray. What does this piece represent?

AH: The starting point for this series was the way Muslim footballers pray before the match. I find this gesture really interesting because it points to feelings of submission, fragility and doubt. We put ourselves in the hands of a higher being because we are unable to guarantee our performance. In a place that is as symbolic of toxic masculinity as football, I found it pleasing to capture an act that gives the lie to this supposed state of confidence. In my opinion, the gesture of praying – kneeling in front of thousands of spectators – is both very beautiful and a sign of vulnerability.

IG: And so, we come to my last question. Pudeur occupies a central place in your art; how does the notion of “curtain rhetoric” – which is a leitmotif running through the entire exhibition – resonate with your approach?

AH: I feel that it resonates on many levels. It converges with several notions and postures we adopt in a condition of intersectionality. It is a less abrupt way of saying what we do or do not want to reveal, to whom and when. It applies to every layer of one’s identity:  familial, social and institutional. To quote Édouard Glissant, curtain rhetoric embodies “the right to opacity”, i.e., the ability to choose what we give and how we give it. For example, if I am asked where I come from during a professional appointment (when the answer is not at all necessary to understanding what I do), I can use this curtain. I can say that I am French and that I have lived in both Cergy and Nantes and that my parents were born in France. It’s the same in the family circle: there are some things that I prefer to keep to myself. It is a system of layers, of layering. Marc Jahjah says: “We are the site of a thousand enunciations, layered spaces where different temporalities, beings, figures and ghosts co-exist, all of which are rewriting, correcting and neutralising each other, but always leaving their mark” And I find this image of a millefeuille to be completely complementary to the idea of a curtain.

IG: You’re quite right. The notion of pudeur here makes perfect sense from many points of view, from the most private to the most public.

AH: Indeed, and more importantly, this modesty is both chosen and consensual. In my career, I have often been lumped together with artists who are more direct in their work. Their approach also leads to emancipation; my emancipation however requires this ambiguity. Expecting me to produce more sexualised representations would be placing constraints on – and even fetishising – me. Having said that, I have great respect for these more direct, subversive approaches and even the deliberate play with tokenism. All of these different approaches are complementary and allow us to be unique and free individuals.

What secrets is the artist hiding between all the full stops and commas? What images is she trying to erase? Meryam Benbachir wrote a text for this exhibition, but she is the only person who knows what it is about and the only one allowed to read it. She is keeping her words to herself so that nobody can steal them. In her videos, she erases tattoos that she does not want everyone to see, choosing who she wants to be depending on the people she comes into contact with.

Inès Geoffroy (IG): In your videos, you show a process of erasure by making your tattoos disappear. What made you choose to remove certain elements of identification or belonging?

Meryam Benbachir (MB): For me, it is a way of making visible this action of erasure that we inflict upon ourselves when entering certain places. It also points to the different ways in which subaltern cultures are rendered invisible. Above and beyond this explanation, there is a more intimate dimension: the things that remain hidden and which only exist in certain places. It is a way of adapting to where we find ourselves, one that can be both violent and restrictive.

IG: You already made this video once before, why did you choose to remake it?

MB: I feel that this act is still very pertinent as far as I am concerned. Making this video a second time with my body as it is today – and not the body of three years ago – recognises that this feeling persists. It’s a way of saying that the action of erasing is present and active in my everyday life.

IG: You are exhibiting a text written on the wall of which only the punctuation remains. We have no access to its content, except that is if you choose to read it to us. What remains of language in such a context? 

MB: This piece creates a framework for the recuperation of my discourse. My words and my ideas are often recuperated and reformulated, then used in other places by other people and organisations. With this creation, I am recognising this fact and making it visible, while preserving a framework. People can imagine what I am saying and try and insert words between the punctuation marks, but this framework and this punctuation is fixed and unchangeable. It creates a sort of authority, a way of re-empowering my message while preventing it from being taken and used out of context.

IG: So, you have written a text in connection with exhibition, but actually you are only exhibiting the punctuation?

MB: Yes, it is the framework of language as it were. I am presenting this structure, this skeleton of my discourse, but the text only really exists if I decide to read it. This act allows me to keep control of the message, to choose to whom it is addressed and to convey it in a coded manner.

IG: Would it be correct to say that when you talk about a coded language, you are referring to a language that can only be understood by certain people?

MB: Yes. For me it is a facultative language that does not necessarily need a classic verbal form. It is also a language that remains beyond the reach of all those who are not concerned by what it evokes. On the other hand, those people who are concerned by the subject have the subconscious keys to understanding it. They can read between the signs.

IG: This act of erasing also seems to be connected to a way of protecting yourself, of preventing something shared – a feeling of belonging or a story that only concerns some people – being generalised.

MB: Yes exactly. It is also a way of getting away from inappropriate identifications. It’s a way of setting myself free.

IG: You often talk about tokenisation. I feel that these strategies of erasure and coding represent a form of resistance. Can you talk more about this notion and its role in your practice?

MB: Tokenisation is false inclusion. It’s like quotas: at the beginning they resulted from legitimate demands, but they have finally come back to bite the very people they were supposed to benefit. Tokenism puts certain people from minority groups in the spotlight – for example on a company photo – but without changing the structures of power, nor reflecting on the violence of the system. It is representation without real inclusion.

IG: Your work proposes a radical means of controlling the conditions of enunciation and therefore the conditions of reception as well. In this respect, how does your position resonate with the notion of “curtain rhetoric” – which is a leitmotif in this exhibition – and challenge the construction of our interventions?

MB: I am not looking to make things disappear. On the contrary: you can see the erasure, you can see that I am effacing my tattoos, you can see the structure of the text. Something is happening, but it is happening in the private sphere – a private sphere that is often invisible. These are things that exist but which are concealed. And my actions take place in this form and in this zone of withdrawal

What do you feel when you look at the length of green velvet in this sculpture? Sido Lansari drew inspiration for this piece from the shape of a grave. If you want to read what is written, you have to come closer and bend over as if in a moment of private prayer. The precious, golden-braid edged fabric almost seems to be floating. Its embroidered text is an extract of a homosexual Arab man’s story published in a magazine in the 1980s. In his work, Sido Lansari explores archives so that forgotten voices can be heard.

Inès Geoffroy (IG): You combine your artistic practice with a research activity that is fuelled by forgotten archives, in particular those dealing with the experiences of Arab Muslims and LGBTQIA+ people in France. How does this research that is rooted in the past also open out onto a utopian projection?

Sido Lansari (SL): It all started when I came across a classified ad from 1982 about a queer Arab Muslim collective called Lahzem. From then on, my art and my research became totally inseparable. What I am trying to do with these archives is to bring them into a new regime of visibility, a regime that is not connected to history, sociology or academic knowledge, but to representation. I produce a lot of text-based pieces by collecting personal accounts and short texts – often by persons unknown or just signed with a first name – found in long-forgotten newspapers. They are the words of ghosts. I sometimes extract a sentence that I find essential. I make it visible and I put it into circulation. My work consists in bringing these words closer to the real world within an imaginary space of my creation, but one that is rooted in the present. That is why I never put a date to the archives in my creations and there is no reference to their source in the piece on show. Of course, I can provide my sources, but rather than looking to the past, I am trying to make these words exist in the present. I like this to-ing and fro-ing between the living and the dead, between presence and disappearance and I believe that is where the utopian projection is born.

IG: It’s true that you don’t just dig up items from archives, you give them a whole new lease of life, a life in the present. It is as if you were building the foundations that will allow us to look to what comes next.

SL: You’re right, but it’s also a way of establishing a line of descent. In our milieu, we often talk about chosen families. With these archives, I am giving us ancestors as well. I am connecting us to people who were here thirty, forty, or fifty years ago, people whose names we may have forgotten but who paved the way. It is a way of paying tribute to them. For example, in the grave-like piece entitled Passion, there is a contemplative aspect, one of remembrance as the viewer has to lean down and adopt a position to listen.

IG: It is also a way of creating a continuum. You also present personal archives, for example in your film La Danse du printemps, we see you as a child dancing at a family picnic – a family that you describe as still being unaware of your “secret”. By looking back at this moment from an adult perspective, this memory is transformed into the first trace of your queer identity. Can you talk about the relationship between this film and Passion?

SL: There is indeed a form of continuum. La Danse du printemps is a fragment of my own life story that I have chosen to revisit. What I find interesting is that it takes place before I became aware of my queer identity. Society hadn’t decided for me yet. The child in the film – I don’t specify that it is me – is very different to the person I am today and yet I want to honour and take care of him.

IG: What is particularly powerful in La Danse du printemps is that you are choosing a moment that precedes the affront, the normative straitjacket. This little child is dancing without a care, apparently still free from any restrictions.

SL: And at the same time, we can already see the premises of adaptation. The child changes his posture depending on who is looking at him, whenever the camera changes hands. When his father is filming, he stands up straighter and dances less freely. That is already indicative. And that’s where an identity begins to be built. It is subtle, but very real. What is important for me is creating supports for identification. Micro-fictions.

IG: I would like us to talk but the notion of “curtain rhetoric”. Your practice is very direct in a manner that is somewhat at odds with the other artists in the exhibition who employ more coded forms. What does “curtain rhetoric” meaning to you?

SL: At a certain point, I realised that all I could do was rip the curtain away, tearing it down with a sort of anger and determination. It was my way of ensuring that my work could serve as a support for identification for others. That doesn’t mean my expression is devoid of nuance, but I don’t leave any room for doubt. People think that if it’s that direct, that out, then it must be erotic, sexual and provocative, but it certainly isn’t frontal in the commonly-accepted sense of the term. Everyone can see it without being shocked and yet there’s a charge, an intensity. It’s also linked to my background. I’m not from here. I’m a foreigner in this country. I come from a place where all of this is frowned upon, where it isn’t accepted, where there was very little space for these identities. So, when I had the opportunity to go for it, I really went for it. There are no half measures.

IG: It’s interesting to see how positions change depending on the context. In the exhibition, I refer to “curtain rhetoric” as a form of discretion that one chooses. It is not about hiding, but rather about controlling one’s discourse. But the very fontal act of coming out is of course important as well.

SL: Yes, even if I don’t advocate an unconditional coming out, I very soon decided to situate my work in terms of queer visibility. It was also a question of context: in 2013, my first pieces were a direct response to the violence of the “Manif pour tous” (a group of organisations in France opposed to same-sex marriage and adoption – translator’s note). It simply wasn’t possible to remain neutral anymore. The violence of their demonstrations profoundly marked the beginnings of my artistic activity.

Do you have a secret passion? Mehdi Görbüz likes to create garden-like installations. He sees gardens as calm, soothing places. Over time, seeds become stronger and increasingly resilient, changing in the same way as one’s cultural and family heritage. Mehdi Görbüz also finds inspiration in the things his aunts and grandmothers like, such as the little ornaments that decorate their living rooms or the gifs they send him on special occasions. These images are memories, private and personal stories that are like myths, fictional tales of the origin of peoples but on a personal level.  

Inès Geoffroy (IG): In the installation that you are presenting here, you talk about a garden of resistance and the concrete incarnation of a queer utopia. Why did you choose the garden as a motif and what does it represent for you?

Mehdi Görbüz (MG): First of all, the term “garden of resistance” comes from an analysis of my work proposed by curator Zeynep Kubat. I’ve been fascinated by gardens ever since I was a little boy. I feel the need to sow things and watch them grow over time: the seed turns into a plant, becoming stronger and more resilient day by day. In a life in constant movement, the garden is a place in suspension, somewhere I can meditate and feel the passing of time. Of course, in this work there is also the idea of a secret inner world (described in French as one’s “secret garden” – translator’s note). I am reminded of an event from my childhood that had a profound effect on me. When I was young, I used to love playing with so-called “girls’ toys”, something my parents thought was “abnormal” for a boy. As a result, they took me to see a psychiatrist. The first thing he said to my parents in response to my silence was: “He’s got his secret garden”. This made a deep impression on me and I remembered it for a long time. I think that from then on, this inner world, this “secret garden” became my first garden of resistance.

IG: Yes, because in your practice, in this idea of seeing things come into being and gradually grow, I feel that there is almost an analogy with working the land. There’s a huge potential for self-determination in all that and I get the impression that it is in this very process that utopia is to be found.

MG: I find it very interesting that so many things come back to this idea of a horizon, of a utopia. I’ve worked a lot on the question of utopia and where to find it. When Thomas More talks about utopia in his book, he says that utopia is in the whisper, in an almost silent moment. But we shouldn’t forget that he is describing utopia in a colonial political context: it is an imaginary city located “nowhere”. So, I’m not saying that I’m decolonising utopia – that would be a very big claim indeed and that’s not who I am – but I’m trying to look at it from another angle with a view to envisaging a different horizon, as outlined by José Esteban Muñoz in his reconsideration of utopia.

IG: Yes. José Esteban Muñoz provides a counterpoint to Thomas More. Muñoz talks about a concrete utopia, something that is already rooted in a possible future, not something that is a distant, dreamt-up projection, but a movement that has already been activated. In addition, to return to the question of the image, you say that although one never loses one’s familial and cultural heritage, it does however evolve and become queer. That reminds me of how you have incorporate the legend of Shamaran into your work, or gifs taken from family chats on WhatsApp. How does this idea of transfiguration permeate these images and the very way you work with materials?

MG: It’s true that everything I do is connected in some way to events from my childhood that have shaped who I have become. When I was young, my father used to tell me the story of the Legend of Shamaran. I would imagine this goddess in her garden in the mountain and I felt very sad to think that she was going to be betrayed and killed by her lover.  I have always been able to imagine myself in a story and truly immerse myself in the narrative. That’s why stories have inevitably taken on importance in my work today. It’s the same for gifs, which are a part of my day-to-day life. I see these pictures every day, morning, afternoon and evening and share them in chats with my family. The gifs I use address this multigenerational conversation, a family connection, a heritage that evolves and reinvents itself.

IG: And at the end of the day, bringing a queertouch to these stories and family images means there is no need for rupture. You can perpetuate this heritage, change it and take it elsewhere without having to choose between the two. You said yourself that you now consider Shamaran to be a queer icon. Perhaps you could rapidly remind us about the Legend of Shamaran and its context?

MG: Yes, of course. Shamaran is a goddess who is half woman and half snake. She has a lover, but he betrays her in the end. However, Shamaran is well aware that he is going to betray her and, in a sense, she sacrifices herself for him. And yet this legend is not about being a victim or the virtues of pain. Shamaran is cunning and preserves a position of power. She pardons her lover, but finally uses her cunning to kill the patriarch who is to blame for her loss. That’s why she has become a queer icon in the Middle East and Turkey and why communities have adopted her image as an expression of their struggles and resilience. 

IG: To finish, I would like to ask you how the notion of “curtain rhetoric” resonates with your practice. It would seem that for you it joins with the notion of polysemy. Would you agree?

MG: Absolutely. For me, “curtain rhetoric” is not only a way of putting up a smokescreen as it were but also of multiplying possible interpretations. During my career as an artist, people have often told me that an artwork must be “universal”. And this notion is something I don’t feel comfortable with because it is profoundly marked by dominant Western norms that dictate what art must be and who it is destined for. I see “curtain rhetoric” as a way of protecting oneself, as well as opening a space for interpretation. In the same way, polysemy is manifest in the fact of creating forms that can potentially have several entry points. Being an artist also means being able to talk to everybody without betraying oneself.