Reviews

By most accounts, Berlin has fared pretty well in ensuring continuity for its diverse art scenes since the spread of the coronavirus. However, while artists and freelance cultural workers swiftly received financial support from the Berlin Senate with few questions asked, the city’s night clubs—at least as crucial to Berlin’s identity, creative industries, and cash flow as art, if not more—were struggling to stay afloat when they received emergency funds. The legendary techno club Berghain, perhaps Berlin’s most famous institution, decided to do things differently.
With many of its employees on kurzarbeit (short-term work leave), the monumental former power plant stood nearly empty since cleaning up after its last party on March 7. With few other options on the horizon, the club’s reclusive owners approached the Boros Foundation, one of Berlin’s esteemed and outward-facing private art collections, with an idea: why not host an art exhibition until the dancing can resume?
At the exhibition’s press opening on Monday, Berlin’s culture senator Klaus Lederer described the moment when, amid sensationalized articles about collectors fleeing the German capital and headlines predicting the end of Berlin’s reign as a cultural hotspot, Lederer received a text message from collector Christian Boros: “We should talk. Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.”
The result of that SMS is a three-way collaboration called Studio Berlin, a 117-artist show that occupies nearly every corner of the multi-level club. All works on view are by artists living in the German capital and most were produced since the onset of the pandemic. This mammoth undertaking is supported by the city with an injection of €250,000 ($294,300). Tickets for visits guided by Berghain employees and Boros employees cost between €18 and €20 ($21 to $24). The club is open again.
This a good moment for a full disclosure, followed by a confession: I used to work at Berghain until 2008 and before that, at its predecessor, Ostgut. In an unrelated chain of events, my husband became the manager of the club’s own record label, Ostgut Ton, three years ago. Like many Berliners, I have a personal history with the place, and strong views about the club thanks to the formative moments and absolute freedom I experienced there. 
Accordingly, I was ready to dislike the exhibition before I even entered. I rolled my eyes at the predictable artist list, and the inevitable mentions in news articles of how visitors can finally circumvent the club’s tough and opaque door policy. With an architecture that’s so dominant and fetishized, there are too many traps, I thought, especially when attempting a show that’s aiming to be accessible to a wider public, not the art-insider audience that will first line up to see it. I was relieved to be proven wrong.
Studio Berlin / Boros Foundation, Berghain, Berlin (2020). © Rirkrit Tiravanija. Photo: © Noshe

A Love Song to Berlin
There are artworks at every corner of the club, but strikingly, rather than feel over-crowded, the art enables the viewer to take note of the care and inventiveness that went into every detail of the club’s interior. On the main dance floor, this densely installed show offers reflections on the temporary absence of bodies. On several elevated platforms usually packed with sweating club-goers, French-born artist Jimmy Robert has draped, folded, and layered photographs of himself captured mid-movement. Over the course of the show, the artist will re-shape the sculptural, bunched-up prints. Next to it, elongated steel pieces by Jesse Darling resemble exhausted figures. And across from the DJ booth, between the club’s famous Function One speakers, sits an inflatable plastic bubble by artist Puppies Puppies, perhaps marking the ultimate spot on the dance floor where one becomes engulfed by warm sound and warmer bodies.
To the back of the dance floor, in one of the rubber-and-steel lounging structures, a photograph by Josephine Pryde shows a severed bovine tongue on a butcher’s hook, apt viscera for a club notorious for its dark rooms. (Finding out later the work’s title is Trump’s Tongue gave it a different spin.)
One of the few permanent works in the entire exhibition is in the bathrooms on that floor, where Cyprien Gaillard engraved a work into the stainless-steel partition wall. Titled The Land of Cockaigne, it’s both an homage to the Breughel painting of the same title, and (when sounded out phonetically) a cheeky reference to the reason why people rarely enter the club’s bathroom stalls alone.
The other permanent installation is a floor piece called Shoegazing by Christine Sun Kim, who is deaf: The artist patterns the vibrations of the bass on the dance floor at the upstairs Panorama Bar. Both will join the club’s already permanently installed collection of art, not far from a trio of large Wolfgang Tillmans photographs that have presided over Panorama Bar for years.
The empty Halle. No pictures are allowed during the exhibition. Photo: Stefanie Loos AFP via Getty Images.

In the Halle, a part of the building that’s only open on special occasions, the exhibition feels less specifically related to Berghain itself, and more evocative of the self-organized exhibitions Berlin artists have put up over the decades in unused buildings all over the city. A site-specific installation of mirrors by Olafur Eliasson, however, provides an unexpected new perspective on the club: Berghain not only bans photography, but also mirrors—you won’t find them in the restrooms or anywhere else. It gives clubbers the profound freedom of not seeing themselves. Eliasson’s piece multiplies the viewer’s image endlessly, such that one’s only glimpse of themselves inside the club, fittingly, is trapped in infinity.
Indeed, Studio Berlin offers a new experience of Berghain also for those who know its nooks and crannies well. And perhaps unsurprisingly, my favorite moment was admittedly personal. A video installation by Jonas Brinker shows a deserted, unfinished tourist resort in Egypt that is now populated by stray dogs. It’s a poignant metaphor for an entire world suddenly forced to a screeching halt by a virus. Yet on a much smaller scale, it’s also a reversal of realities: under normal circumstances, the day crew of welders and builders as well as the people in the offices bring their dogs to work during the week. Here, four-legged creatures (including my three-year old Brussels Griffon) running around the club would actually signal business as usual.
At its best moments, Studio Berlin feels like a love song to Berlin. The city has risen from the ashes many times over and has always managed to adapt and reinvent itself, attracting new creative energy each time around. It takes a certain type of artist, musician, thinker, and doer to thrive rather than get lost in the freedom this city affords. But once you get it, it’s hard to imagine being anywhere else.
Studio Berlin at Berghain is on view until the end of the year. Book your tour here. 
Learn more about the events going on at Berlin Art Week here.
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What does it mean to hold a biennial exhibition in a year like this one?
Beyond the practical limitations, compounded by the fact that many participating artists can’t travel to their own shows, any major art event taking place in 2020 necessarily makes a statement about the world we live in. In the case of the 11th Berlin Biennale, the curatorial vision that guided it came to form over the last two years, largely before the pandemic changed everything. So it is especially poignant that the show’s central issues—postcolonial struggle, gender-based and race-based injustice, queer-phobia, and the unequal impacts wrought by climate change—have met a world where these very same problems have reached an unbearable climax.
Postponed from June to September, the show, called “The Crack Begins Within,” welcomed socially-distanced visitors across its four locations last weekend as one of the few international art events to physically open in Europe this year, despite rising infection rates. Curators María Berríos, Renata Cervetto, Lisette Lagnado, and Agustín Pérez Rubio—who are all based in South America—invited artists largely hailing from the Global South. The majority are women, many identify as queer, and few have yet to be widely exhibited in Europe.
Curators of the 11th Berlin Biennale for Contemporary Art, f. l. t. r.: Renata Cervetto, Agustín Pérez Rubio, María Berríos, Lisette Lagnado. Photo: F. Anthea Schaap

“It makes us extremely sad that we cannot welcome most of the participants personally at this year’s biennale because they live in high-risk areas,” Berlin Biennale’s director Gabriela Horn said in a video statement sent to the media in lieu of a press conference on preview day last Friday, September 4.
The artworks on view—and indeed the 76-strong artist list—offers an antidote to the long-dominant white, christian mindset and the patriarchy that enshrines it, by countering what the curators describe in the videotaped statement as “patriarchal rampage” and “colonial capitalism.” Set in three main parts against institutions of the church, the museum, and the body politic, the curators find a way of rebelling against each one that is radical overall: through artworks centered on collectivity, solidarity, and compassion.
Zehra Doğan, Xêzên Dizî [The Hidden Drawings] (2018–20). Installation view (detail), 11th Berlin Biennale, KW Institute for Contemporary Art. Courtesy Zehra DoğanPhoto: Silke Briel

Forms of Dissent
During their allotted time slots, press streamed through the now extra-spacious halls at two of Berlin’s major art institutions, the Gropius Bau and KW Institute for Contemporary Art, as well as the daadgalerie. This last chapter of the biennial was preceded by three smaller prelude shows, the first of which opened exactly one year ago at ExRotaprint, a historical former printing press that was occupied by a tenant co-operative in the early 2000s and now functions as a community-driven cultural initiative. That’s a model that sits well with the curators’ message. During the biennial final chapter, the main exhibition, this location serves as an archive of the entire biennial research and exhibition process.
Meanwhile at KW Institute for Contemporary Art, the curators present a chapter themed “The Antichurch” that offers visceral perspectives on the violence of patriarchy and the subversion of it. Among the most striking works are monumental drawings by Argentinian artist Florencia Rodriguez Giles. Generously installed around the institution’s main floor, the detailed canvases in the 2018 series Biodelica depict otherworldly, sometimes nightmarish figures that are part-human, part-animal, and part-vegetable. The figures tout female genitalia and engage in actions driven by the pursuit of pleasure.
Galli, Installation view, 11th Berlin Biennale, KW Institute for Contemporary.Photo: Silke Briel

Similarly alluring in their fleshliness are the paintings of entangled, blood-red limbs and torsos by Galli, installed on KW’s second floor. A female member of Berlin’s “Junge Wilden” generation of the late 1970s and early 1980s—a bohemian, male-dominated group of artists, including Albert Oehlen, who all favored an expressive style of painting over the minimalist visual language of that time—Galli’s works have rightfully gained latent appreciation in the past five years. Alongside several canvases, her books of collages are also on display in glass cases as well as in a video. The artist’s hands, filmed leafing through the pages, hint towards her differently abled body.
However, it’s a common drawback of exhibitions that seek to convey forms of community dissent, resistance, and activism through artistic means that they end up feeling more preachy than subversive, more dryly didactic than revolutionary. Too many artworks in the show, which is heavy on video art, fall into this trap. And the effectiveness of much of it is deeply reliant on wall texts. What’s more, if a feminine sensibility, as the argument here goes, is the favorable alternative to masculine rampage, why not cast it in roles less associated with victimhood?
Andrés Pereira Paz, EGO FVLCIO COLLVMNAS EIVS [I FORTIFY YOUR COLUMNS] (2020). 11th Berlin Biennale, Gropius Bau. Courtesy Andrés Pereira Paz; Crisis Galería, Lima; Galería Isla Flotante, Buenos Aires. Photo: Mathias Völzke.

The Cracks Within
The conceptual thread that runs through the chapter installed at Gropius Bau takes the museum as another patriarchal structure in need of critical overhaul. Titled “The Inverted Museum,” this segment includes generous installations that meld sensuous experiences and intellectual engagement. Of the three shows-within-the-show, it is the most successful.
Take Bolivian artist Andrés Pereira Paz’s 2020 installation I Fortify Your Columns, commissioned and co-produced by the biennial, a landscape of minimalist sculptures that occupy the floor, walls, and ceiling of a darkened gallery. A bird’s call resonates throughout the space. It’s the sound of the Amazonian guajojó; when its habitat was ravaged by catastrophic blazes last year, a single specimen managed the extraordinary flight to Bolivia, where its sighting became a local sensation. An asylum seeker rather than a migrating bird, it has no home to return to.
Aykan Safoğlu, Zero Deficit (in Refusal) (2020). Installation view, 11th Berlin Biennale, Gropius Bau. Prints by Lamarts, Istanbul. All works Courtesy Aykan Safoğlu. Commissioned and produced by Berlin Biennale for Contemporary Art. In collaboration with Lamarts, Istanbul. With the support of SAHA Association. With thanks to Academy of Fine Arts Vienna, PhD in Practice, doc.funds. Photo: Mathias Völzke

While the show largely lands on South American soil, several works focus more directly on Europe-centered stories. Turkish artist Aykan Safoğlu digs into his own childhood and education at a renowned German-Turkish school in Istanbul. In a video work narrated by the artist, he weaves his personal history with 19th-century Prussian-Ottoman relations, which were based on Europe’s financial and colonial interests in Ottoman-run Anatolia (modern day Turkey), and the debt collected by European companies who leeched a bankrupt Ottoman Empire. Safoğlu notes that, as a German-speaking man in Istanbul, he is better accepted by German society than his relative who came within a huge Turkish cohort to Germany in the 1960 as “guest workers.”
Other works addressed even more direct situations of persecution. At KW, formerly jailed Kurdish journalist and artist Zehra Doğan showed The Hidden Drawings, which she made on 103 sheets of paper sent from a friend while Doğan was imprisoned in Turkey. The drawings and texts—raw and austere, albeit not without hope—are presented on a long table behind glass, the pages form a graphic novel that depicts experiences lived and witnessed during her incarceration, contextualized within the history of the Kurdish struggle in Turkey that has been going on since the 1980s.
In a separate room at KW, German artist Christine Meisner presents her 2020 work Unsharpness In A Possible, Episode 1: Submissions from Berlin, in which she explores the archives of the weekly Der Stürmer, a tabloid published between 1923 and 1945 that propagated anti-Semitic and Nazi ideologies (its founder was sentenced to death in the Nuremberg trials). Meisner digs out the immense amounts of anti-Semitic material submitted for publication by readers from all over Germany and Nazi-occupied territories; her installation helps to illustrate the culpability of German society at large. It is an issue that persists: Only a week ago, protesters demonstrating against state measures to stop the spread of COVID-19 stormed the steps of the German federal parliament, several waving flags associated with extreme far-right and Neo-Nazi views.
If the biennial title, “The Crack Begins Within,” is at first interpreted as a call for change worldwide—that breaking with old ways begins with personal responsibility—this one work in particular serves as a grim reminder of the dangerous potential this holds. The crack is open, but no one can predict how deep it will get.
The 11th Berlin Biennale is on view until November 1, 2020 at various locations across Berlin.
To learn more about Berlin Art Week here.
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Marina Abramović is certainly no stranger to being center stage.
The queen of performance art’s decades-long career has been marked by many boundary-dissolving moments, from encounters with Jay-Z to collaborations with Adidas and Microsoft. It is perhaps unsurprising then, that the shapeshifting artist has made a foray into opera.
Her first piece is opening tonight at the resplendent and historic Bavarian State Opera House in Munich, Germany. The Serbian artist is hosting the world premiere of her latest work, “7 Deaths of Maria Callas,” which has been delayed since April due to the coronavirus. The premiere will be available for streaming online on several platforms, including the opera houses website, beginning the following week, on September 5.
The initial plan for a packed, star-studded premiere at the 2,300-seat state opera house, is long-gone. The venue has now been converted to accommodate only 200 guests at a time. Even the first few rows have been removed to accommodate social distancing for the 40-piece orchestra, who normally sit cramped into a pit below.
But the show must go on, and the orchestra was warming up prior to the dress rehearsal last Saturday night as Abramović took to the stage to greet a small audience. She expressed regret at the challenges of working under such strict conditions. “We had so many difficulties and restrictions on everything,” she said, adding that after the premiere on September 2 she must quarantine in order to be able to perform for the next five nights.
7 Deaths of Maria Callas at the Bavarian State Opera. Photo: Wilfried Hösl. Courtesy the Bavarian State Opera.

“I can’t kiss you, I can’t hold you, I can’t share my enthusiasm with you, and that really breaks my heart,” she added.
A tragedy, perhaps, but one that is uniquely suited for this opera piece. Inspired by heartbreak in particular, the work is an ode to the American-born Greek soprano Maria Callas and her climactic solo performances—called arias—but also to the pain and suffering that accompanied the larger-than-life 20th-century divas off the stage. It follows the mythical story of Callas, whose dramatic life and love affair with the shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis often overshadowed her vocal prowess.
“If you look at the life of Maria Callas, her story is a lot like mine,” Abramović told Artnet News in a Zoom call ahead of the dress rehearsal. “It’s about dying from a broken heart, it’s about being killed by the one you love.”
She recounted the lonesome last few years of Callas’s life, which were spent as a recluse in her Paris flat after the death of Onassis in 1975, which left her bereft and inconsolable. Callas died of a heart attack in 1977 at just 53 years old. With a hint of remorse in her voice, Abramović alluded to her own relationship with artist Paolo Canevari that ended in heartbreak nearly a decade ago, while she spoke candidly about her life and work since the break up.
“I see a lot of myself in Callas,” Abramović said. “We’re both Sagittarius, we’re both intensely emotional, but fragile at the same time. I almost encountered a similar fate,” she added, saying that Callas died from a broken heart. “The difference [is that] my work saved me.”
Abramović says that the opera work is about female empowerment. “I wanted to show the strength and perseverance that a woman can have,” she said. “Not all heartbreak ends in tragedy. I believe in hope.”
7 Deaths of Maria Callas at the Bavarian State Opera. Photo: Wilfried Hösl. Courtesy the Bavarian State Opera.

The Seven Deaths
Abramović includes several key themes and elements from her own practice, including knives, snakes, fire, and even clouds emanating from a smoke machine, successfully interweaving her own signature with the life of the protagonist to the point that the two become almost indistinguishable.
Each of the seven main arias is accompanied by a short film projected on stage. In each segment, Abramović is killed by the Hollywood actor Willem Dafoe. The films were filmed last November in LA under the direction of Nabil Elderkin, whose made videos for musicians including Kanye West and Kendrick Lamar.
In the first half, Abramović spends much of it laying perfectly still, eyes closed, on a bed center-left of the stage. Cut to scores that reveal a wide emotional range referencing the various stages of grief, the combination of music and theater culminates into a sum that is much greater and more poignant than its individual parts. There are well-known pieces like “Addio del passato” from Giuseppe Verdi’s La Traviata and a climaxing “Casta Diva” from the 1831 Norma, alongside contemporary pieces made by Serbian composer Marko Nikodijevic.
The second half of the hour-and-thirty-minute piece is set in a reconstructed version of Callas’s Paris flat. There, Abramović gets up from the bed, slowly paces the room, unsure of the time of day, while the lyrics of the sopranos on-stage reveal Callas’s tortured inner dialog.
In the bedroom of Callas, Abramović’s slow choreography testifies to the challenges of performing even the most basic bodily functions while nursing a broken heart. Pacing the room in a state of bewildered melancholy, the passive intensity of each movement becomes excruciating and painful to watch.
As is often the case with strong, powerful female leads in the world of opera, the heroine is killed, but in this case, Abramović dies seven times. While some might say that the long-standing tradition of the dying diva is backgrounded by hedonistic misogyny, a subtext of emancipation soon emerges. Despite being killed in various ways by Dafoe, Abramović enters the stage standing and triumphant for her final death, clad in a shimmering gold gown, encountering her final fate with a sense of power.
“I wanted to take an old medium like the opera and deconstruct it, to make a new way of seeing it,” Abramović said.
7 Deaths of Maria Callas at the Bavarian State Opera. Photo: Wilfried Hösl. Courtesy the Bavarian State Opera.

Navigating Safety
To balance reduced audience numbers, social distancing, and a strong demand to see the piece, “7 Death of Maria Callas” will be broadcast live for free on September 5 on Staatsoper.TV, BR-Klassik Concert, and Arte Concert.
Yet for a woman like Abramović, who has made a career from placing herself in unsafe and often dangerous situations, the biggest challenge now is adjusting her performance art to confront a post-Covid-19 future. With so much skepticism and uncertainty, questions still remained up until the very last moment about whether the show would go on.
Yet when asked whether she thinks performance must now adapt to social distancing and what many argue is a “new normal,” the artist remained defiant.
“I don’t think performance needs to adjust to coronavirus,” she concluded, “I think coronavirus needs to adjust to performance.”
That true outcome may present a tragedy of a different sort. Perhaps the real heartbreak is yet to come.
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