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
Michaël Borremans, Automat (I), 2008, Oil on canvas, 31 1/2 x 23
5/8 in., Private Collection, Courtesy Zeno X Gallery, Antwerp
© Photographer Peter Cox © Michaël Borremans