Patron Magazine - February/March 2015

BY PATRICIA MORA

ven the name of Michaël Borremans’s exhibition is a metaphorical circuit breaker. If his constellated world is, indeed, “as sweet as it gets,” well, that’s unnerving.

The show unleashes a space wherein we’re shown the backsides of multiple torsos; blunted physiognomies that indicate locked and loaded emotions; a man pressing a blade to what seems to be an already whittled-on index finger; moribund plants; faces glossed up by an almost glassine layer of shiny gel—and more. This is hardly a lyric idyll, and Borremans’s work is thoroughly enigmatic. Maxwell Anderson, Director of the DMA, sums it up nicely: “Borremans is both at home in a museum with strong holdings in European figurative painting and a provocateur archly disavowing painterly conventions of the 17th century forward.” He adds that his “disquieting juxtapositions make his work instantly recognizable but layered with multiple meanings.”

Multiple meanings, indeed—Borremans delivers something radical, something to which our radar is not attuned, and often does it under an odd guise of the familiar. Much of his work becomes more shocking the longer you look at it. However, he is undeniably one of the most elegantly gifted artists of our age, and it was my genuine pleasure to speak to him recently—about his car. To be precise, he has acquired a 1968 Mercedes in mint condition and he, not unlike nearly everyone else on the planet, is infatuated with sleek, automotive curves. Of course he knew this was humorous and an odd detour in what ostensibly should be a serious conversation. His already soft voice began to audibly purr, “Ah, my car. It’s in great condition. Black with a red interior.” I agreed that the car, indeed, sounded swank, and we swapped stories about vintage restorations. Borremans is clearly a gentleman and speaks with a marvelously inflected Euro accent. He had already reiterated, “My work has to do the job itself. The less I say about it, the better.” While this smacks of linguistic legerdemain, it’s also utterly appropriate because his work is nothing if not ambiguous. What can he possibly tell me that would rival the veiled allure of his palette, his textures, and his compositions?

EBorremans is mentioned in the same breath as Manet and Velásquez—and rightly so. Consequently, it seems nearly vulgar to ask for more, for expository information that operates as a “key” to understanding his work. Like all great art, his works aren’t puzzles to be solved. Their subdued (I’m tempted to use the word “submerged.”) incandescence is quite enough. That being said, it was fascinating to hear him describe his studios in Ghent—both of them. One is located on the grounds of a former gallows and the other is in a deconsecrated Catholic church. Describing the latter, he says, “Oh, I can’t be naughty there. I don’t smoke cigarettes because there is a Holy Virgin looking at me. And my easel is where the altar used to be.” This, too, is conveyed in a