Don’t Miss: In spite of my own desire to see you disappear

Paul Maheke, *In spite of my own desire to see you disappear*, 2024. Installation view: Mercer Union. Courtesy the artist. Photography by Vuk Dragojevic.

For his first institutional solo exhibition in North America, Montpellier-based multidisciplinary artist Paul Maheke worked with the non-profit artist-run centre Mercer Union in Toronto to craft In spite of my own desire to see you disappear – “a sound installation that attempts to render the experience of being affected, recognized, and understood”, so says the exhibition’s text.

Made as part of Mercer Union’s Artist First commissioning platform, the evocative and at times elegiac piece floats around, sonically haunting a constructed environment within the gallery composed of various seating structures and a slim, subwoofered corridor. Each area allows visitors to engage with the piece in various ways, lying down, sitting, and standing to examine the collection of site-specific drawings and video that amplify the various feelings that can be elicited from witnessing this work.

The source material for In spite of my own desire to see you disappear is a journal Maheke worked on several years ago, with the intimate and at times difficult confessional being translated into a soundscape scored in collaboration with soulful musician Ndobo-emma, and additional support provided by the producer Smogy and sound engineer Romain Bernat.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Paul Maheke as his show in Toronto prepared to close, and we discussed the evolution of how the installation came together and how he sees it existing in the future. On the show’s final day, Mercer Union hosts a responsive dance work performance by Rakeem Hardy & Marcus "O.G." Paris at 12pm.

OPALOMA: I love the way the sound is supported by the structures and the drawings in the installation. Tell me about how you conceptualized these physical elements to anchor this beautiful sound work.

PAUL MAHEKE: When Mercer Union approached me about a commission project, I was interested in furthering my experimentation with sound, and I wanted to try something different in terms of how it would exist in the exhibition space. During one of the first conversations with Theresa [Wang, Director and Curator at Mercer Union], the idea of inviting people “in” to the work was discussed, and specifically what that would entail. I wanted to approach it from a perspective that would be more architectural, which was new for me. And that's when the process between myself and Mercer Union started in terms of designing a structure that would support the sound.

My first ideas were more complex in terms of how they would exist in the space, but there was already this idea of having different zones to experience the sound. One thing that was clear to me was that in order for the sound to exist in a way that felt both inviting and enveloping, I wanted to use the voice as a primary material – as an instrument. And so within the installation, there are spoken words but also parts of the sound that could be instrumental but are actually a voice that has been distorted and reworked. That’s where my collaboration with the musician, Ndobo-emma, has really been brought to the fore.

I love that. And the way the space has been crafted really speaks to your thematic exploration of visibility and invisibility.

Yes, it was interesting to think about a space where you could be together but also alone; similarly to maybe what a club is like, when you are in close proximity with strangers and experiencing the commonalities created through sound.

For me, it's it was also important to think about the presence of the audience almost as I would think about my body in the context of a performance. That creates a need for a space where someone can hide away from plain sight and be on their own while still being part of a little community.

That visible/invisible feeling relates very well in terms of the material the spoken word is vocalizing, which is from your journal. But the process of journaling is a private experience, so when you’re writing in one, do you assume that what’s recorded might end up being publicly shared in your art, or do you not think about that in the moment? And then afterwards as you're thinking of a project or a concept where it would be a point of inspiration and content, where does that well of vulnerability come from in terms of putting it on display?

At first the journal was purely for myself, and it was really a tool at that point. I was writing in it as part of a therapeutic process that I started in 2019 when I broke up from a very toxic relationship. Lockdowns started soon after, and that presented the opportunity to start processing moments that I hadn’t before. This included moments of violence and sexual abuse. With the help of my therapist, and from being part of a support group while I was living in London, I started to write the journal. At first it was something that I used as a way to alleviate my anxiety, and then I started to understand what was happening – the anger, the sadness, everything.

As I began to unpack notions of what it means to be a victim, of selfhood – and vulnerability was part of it – and resilience, and all the racial implications as well, the journal became a bit of an essay at times. At other times, it was a way for me to write down dreams and things like that. It’s only at the end of this process, at the beginning of 2021, when I entertained the idea of using this material to produce a work.

At first, it was considered as a performance that would exist as a film. But when this commission project came about – approximately four years after I began writing the journal – I was interested in closing the chapter, so to speak. And that's when I started to think about how this journal could exist through other voices that are not necessarily mine.

That’s why I handed the journal to Ndobo-emma – for her to sonically interpret it. I didn't give her in any direction, but I gave her warnings because parts of the journal are very difficult to read, even for me. I let her choose what she would be interested in working with, and instinctively I think she went towards the more hopeful parts of it. That was really nice to see.

There is a sense of vulnerability in doing this kind of a project, but maybe there's no other way for me to work. Something I said to the curators in our discussions about the commission was that I once had a psychic reading, and the psychic told me that I had the energy of a torch singer. I think that’s very much linked to my desire to connect through the personal, but the personal is always political. It's my way to address broader structures of oppression and the understanding of what we are constituted of – what makes us be.

That definitely comes through. It makes me think of something you say a the video about the piece – that you hope other art practitioners use the space, and how being in the installation space presents a moment of interconnectedness. I'm curious about how this work situates in your overall practice and in the other works that you've produced that explore this idea.

I think it's both a continuation and a departure. A continuation because it further explores themes and questions that reoccur in my in my work. But a departure as well because it's the first time that I’ve worked so closely with curators in order to actually design a show.

What I'm looking forward to is taking this project elsewhere, and seeing how it may resonate with different audiences. An idea has been brought up to open the space to other practitioners or community groups that could also use it in either a public or private way. And I would like to take the exploration of sound and collaboration with Ndobo-emma and Romain Bernat further, maybe even producing a vinyl copy. Something that can exist physically beyond the show.

Speaking of which, I want to talk about the wall drawings because they were one of my favorite parts of the installation. Tell me a little bit about creating those works and what we are looking at. In the video, you describe them as being intuitively made.

Drawing has always been very much part of my connection to art. That's how I came to art, actually – I wanted to become a medical illustrator. I wanted to work in illustration at first because I didn't really think ‘artist’ could be a job; so I joined an art school that specialized in medical illustration. That’s when I realized what my idea of illustration was is closer to contemporary art.

However, it hasn’t been much a part of my practice in the last eight years – I’ve mostly focused on installation and performances, even though I carried on drawing privately. What you’re seeing in the installation are translations of drawings that existed on paper or that were done digitally; they are part of a series that I call Portraits of a Ghost, and they are almost, I would say, comparative to automatic writing. They're very instinctual and they come from a similar energy that I've used in dance improvisation.

I think my relationship to images is always a bit tricky, because I want to think of them as as vector, or a conduit to other things, rather than a reality. That idea guided me through process of building this show, and I wanted the drawings to feel very much in relationship to the body of the visitors, kind of like companion figures. You can get lost in the sound, but those figures are in the corner of your eye, always present. Sort of like guardians inhabiting this space.

They do have an apparition-like quality to them. And it's interesting that you mention your training in medical illustration because even though their appearance is ghostly and mysterious and feels sort of unfinished, these drawings also possess a strong corporeal feeling to them.

The show can look very sleek in terms of the design, and I wanted to have moments that were more gestural and referring to the body. Not necessarily representing one, but just having this bodily relationship. As you approach the drawings, you will start to notice the brush strokes and gestures that I've made, so in a way, the drawings also create a dialog between the body of the audience and my own body.

The last thing I want to ask you about is how your feelings about the installation – from the process of concepting to seeing the finalized environment – have evolved. This work is particularly unique because as you mentioned, it will be different every time it’s shown.

I tend to think of the exhibitions that I make as moments of research. So, that's a very good question. For me, it’s very important that once a show is open, it's not necessarily finished. And since they travel, they tend to transform. They become something else, voluntarily or not, which is affected by the histories and activities of the venues where I'm showing.

When I first walked through this installation, I was very moved by how the sound existed in the space. My only regret was that Ndobo-emma couldn't come and see this show – that's why we have to bring it to Europe, so that she can experience it.

Usually when I produce shows, as soon as I'm done with the install it's almost as if the show doesn’t really belong to me anymore. It belongs to the public, so I'm not very nostalgic and I don't really have a fear of letting them exist away from me. And even though this was quite a condensed journey from conceptualization to reality, it arrived at a point where I was like, wow, I'm not left dry by this work. Instead, I’m left with tons of possibilities for what's coming next.

In spite of my own desire to see you disappear runs until Saturday, November 30th at Mercer Union.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Don’t Miss: In spite of my own desire to see you disappear

How Matthew Walton’s Work Takes Shape

An Interview With Leila Zelli

Opaloma