Cerith Wyn Evans in conversation with Timothée Chaillou

The title of your show at Centre Pompidou-Metz is “Borrowed Light Through Metz.”

In response to the request for a title, I chose to evoke the transient nature of The Illuminating Gas, part of Duchamp’s final work, Étant donnés: 1. The Waterfall, 2. The Illuminating Gas… (1946–1966). This light—abundantly provided and framed by the windows offering panoramic views of Metz, which “bookend” Gallery 3—is amplified by mirrors on the adjacent walls and the electric light cast by the many works on display.

You lined the walls with mirrors after seeing a photograph of Daniel Buren’s exhibition “Échos, travaux in situ” at the Centre Pompidou-Metz in 2010. His use of mirrors created the illusion of the window view extending into the room.

The horizon seemed to stretch infinitely, like a reflexive leporello—an accordion at full extension when all the air is expelled.

I’ve often felt compelled to “dissolve” the boundaries between inside and outside, questioning the terms and conditions of perception.

Here, I’ve tried to multiply the view over Metz, exploring the relationship between the ever-changing atmospheric conditions of the weather and the controlled, manipulated realities of the forms, suspended like elements in an imaginary stroll garden. This is a promenade where I imagine the ideal visitor discussing personal or metaphysical concerns with a friend—not necessarily focusing on the works but simply being in their presence.

In the Forum, you have staged a composition of four works. Still Life (in course of arrangement…) (2024) is a jardin d’hiver, referencing gardens like Muri-an, a Kyoto garden typical of the Meiji period (1868–1912), and Little Sparta, created by Ian Hamilton Finlay in Scotland in 1966.

Plants and organic materials have been integral to my work since the late 1970s, from my earliest films to my sculptural installations. There was always an arrangement of plants or flowers—a kind of proto-Ikebana.

From the beginning, I’ve drawn an analogy between exhibitions and gardens, seeing gardens as both method and talisman.

I was inspired by the Chinese model of the Philosopher’s Garden, which evolved into the more secular concept of the Stroll Garden. Instead of a rigid exhibition structure, I wanted to present something with narrative contingency, inviting visitors to explore the space intuitively.

S=U=P=E=R=S=T=R=U=C=T=U=R=E (2010) features columns made of unlit filament tubes reminiscent of Shigeru Ban’s cardboard tubes.

Columns, historically tied to architecture and structural support, take on a new form here. I use them as a kind of grammar—a materiality commodified into something as light as these tubes. This reflects the interplay between form and function, where one evolves into the other. It’s about moving past rigid definitions toward a more fluid, permeable vocabulary, embracing the utopian aspirations of art.

interlude… (Borrowed Landscape) (2014) includes three glass cases containing large amethyst geodes, referencing the Japanese gardening technique of Shakkei (borrowed scenery). And suspended from the ceiling is a two-meter glass skeleton, What of it? (2024), lit by two circular lights.

I wanted to occupy the vertical volume of the space, exploring how it could be sculpturally inhabited. The third-level gallery acts as an ethereal, subtle body, transporting perception into visible and invisible realms. It’s a space for rêverie, reflecting on the transference of energy. The exhibition is designed as a promenade—a contemplative stroll.

In Gallery 3, more than 25 works are on display. Mantra (2016) transforms sound into light using two ornate Venetian chandeliers equipped with electronic devices that reinterpret a recorded piano composition. Pli S=E=L=O=N Pli (2020) consists of 17 suspended transparent glass panels that function as speakers, creating immersive sound chambers. Sounding Felix (Paris 8 assemblage) (2022) combines a gong, transducer, telephone, lamps, chairs, sounds, and Mylar blankets. StarStarStar/Steer (Transphoton) (2019) features five columns that pulsate between blinding light and complete transparency, mimicking a rhythm of breathing. Phase shifts (after David Tudor) (2023) repurposes broken car windshields into mobiles, referencing Duchamp’s The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even (1915–1923), with its accidental cracking integrated into the artwork’s meaning.Neon Forms (after Stella) (2022) are interpretations of Frank Stella’s paintings as visual scores using overlapping Venetian-blind-like screens to create moiré interference patterns.

In Gallery 3, there is a kind of experimental, playful improvisation within the space. You enter the middle of the room and must exit through the same door you entered, creating a loop of sorts. Depending on whether you turn right or left, you have a different experience. We achieved something quite special and audacious—an homage to the building and its unique architecture. It defines the space.

In a sense, what I’m attempting to do is amplify the joy that comes from being aware of our surroundings, specifically directed toward the views.

What is Composition for 37 Flutes (2018)?

It’s exactly what it is. The flutes are glass flutes. I wanted the palette of materials to evoke a sense of transparency, as I wanted the piece to speak about respiration—breathing in, breathing out—producing music, vibrations in the air. It is suspended from the floor in a configuration of two circles, one of which is a partial circle. So, it’s a work in two parts. And there are two lungs, if you like. These transparent boxes are suspended from the ceiling and expose the pump inside. The pump sends a signal to each of the tubes, releasing a small valve and directing air down a particular channel, which produces sound. It’s similar to a church organ.

What about its shape?

There are Renaissance and early medieval paintings where saints are gathered together, presumably in heaven, and each has a golden halo above their head. But because there are so many in the picture, one halo interferes with another, creating a kind of overlap. Some halos even have a “bite” taken out of them, like Pac-Man. In a way, this is how the shape of the work feels—it’s as if one circle has been “eaten” by another. There is a section of the circle that is cut out. Perhaps, in the future, there will be another iteration of this work, where another circle comes above and extends toward the ceiling. We probably made this decision relatively arbitrarily.

We are now in front of Neon Forms (after Noh) (2015–2019).

These "neon forms" are inspired by Noh theatre, a traditional form of Japanese theatre from the 14th century, characterized by rigidly codified movements.

Their design is based on 'kata' diagrams, the visual notations of Noh gestures used by actors to learn the complex and stylized choreography of Noh performances. These diagrams indicate gestures as subtle as the stamping of a foot, the cocking of a head, the opening and closing of a fan, and the slight folding of kimono fabric. Each of these pieces can be hung in various ways. It’s a kind of collage of all these elements. And because they all share the same palette and color temperature, which is close to the temperature of Nordic daylight, you get this kind of whiteness of light.

There is no beginning or end to each piece, and they are brought together…

…in concert, so to speak. It’s somewhat like a group of musicians who gather and perform simultaneously, improvising with one another. Even though each of these pieces is complete on its own, when combined, they become more intricate through reflections in the mirror walls. Visually, it’s overwhelming; it’s challenging to discern where one element begins and another ends, creating a kind of “sound world” visually, as if it’s an immersive, looping experience of repetition and feedback. Focusing precisely on the distance or orientation of each part becomes difficult, inducing a subtle sense of disorientation where distinctions blur, yet each piece remains a separate, self-contained unit. Each unit functions within its own “circuit”—some positive, others negative—which facilitates the electric flow through the gas. This gas, naturally colored, is argon. To obtain argon, one must compress the atmosphere and extract it, just as with neon, krypton, and other noble gases. These gases, when electrified, emit light.

Each piece is precisely based on specific drawings.

They are derived from a “kata” diagram—“kata” meaning “diagram” in Japanese, so they’re essentially “diagram diagrams.” These diagrams were once used for teaching purposes, although they are not exactly choreography, but rather a notation of dance movements. Still, you might detect neo-figurative aspects. If observed literally, gestures reminiscent of Cubist or Futurist delineations of movement might emerge. Similarly, strobe photography echoes that arrested motion in this composition. For instance, some lines might suggest the curve of a kimono sleeve or the opening and closing of a fan, both of which play a role in traditional Noh theater. There are also marks that might represent the rhythmic footsteps of a dance or the subtle movement of a head. I avoid emphasizing the figurative too strongly here, but various elements can hint at a human form, especially when viewed from certain angles. The alignment is critical, yet I try not to privilege any single orientation, allowing a flow of movement that emerges and recedes organically across the piece.

What is a successful work for you?

For me, a successful work is one that is un-photographable. Art is a possible form of resistance, a way of putting into perspective a series of codes, of pointing to power structures.

We need to liquefy phallic notions of power. Think transversally. Create a kind of psychic liquefaction, and work out an ‘eco-poetics.’ This is the time to think transversally, to think in terms of transport.