Random Institute is an extension of what a contemporary art institution can be, that is to say, truly unbothered by rules and bureaucracy. Ultimately, it brings together & curatorial and publishing activities.

Since March 2016, Random Institute is running the curatorial program for Despacio in San José, Costa Rica.
The best color is transparency.
The best defense is a good offense.
Untold Stories


ArchivedHappened in March 2017

As if it were an appendix of the mothership, Carlos Fernández docks at Despacio a habitat that encapsulates not only his work, but also himself and even a patch of life where each one of us might find ourselves.


COORDINATES:   9°56′00″N 84°05′00″
OTHER MARKERS:   Avenida Central, Calle 11, San José, Costa Rica
RESOURCES:   canvas, plants, seeds (I), Carlos’s hat (II), soil and chicha (III)
ACTIVATIONS:   pedagogical workshops (IV), funky bar (V), seed exchange (VI), and others, still unknown.

  1. a variety of organic, local seeds for corn, beans, pumpkins, green vegetables, forests, and also many staked plants
  2. hat from the indigenous ngäbe community, with stains from a gallon of paint that fell on it accidentally during one of its many journeys between stations
  3. alcoholic beverage obtained through a process of non-distilled corn fermentation that originated in Central and South America in pre-Columbian times
  4. drawing, botany, and urban crop–design workshops
  5. ludic moments by the heat of chicha, with good friends and music
  6. the seeds come from Carlos’s personal plot, from neighbors’ farms, from urban-agriculture projects in San José, and even from abroad, brought as gifts. The plan is to create a “seed center,” a place where they can be exchanged or given to others to plant, so that their harvests yield seeds that keep nourishing the center, thus paving the way for constant renewal.

This is a real person’s temporary and imaginary work camp. At this station, a series of live elements coexist; they are not the final products but parts of a simmering process. It is also an installation that sustains itself through collective participation and collaboration.

While participating in this experience, the concept of excess provides clues and serves as a common thread: in abundance lies beauty. The plants’ greenness blends with its smells and paintings function as registers of past lessons and future explanations. It is imperative to allow oneself to be enchanted by the layers that coat and recoat every corner—superimposed, hidden information, and the possibility of germination in every square centimeter of the space.

We discover that we can access a fragment of a practice that has long represented not the intermingling of one or two disciplines but rather Carlos’s life itself: his everyday to-and-fro and his passion for agriculture, art, botany, and education. The production of this work represents the search to redefine these practices as well as an act of appropriation.

This station, set at the center of San José, will offer moments for learning, contemplation, and dance. Always in the spirit of exchange—of knowledge and experiences, of seeds and the multiple possibilities between practices that will here appear to overflow and interconnect. There is a subtle but continuous invitation of integration; we are invited to engage in the (self)care inherent to the relationship that we can create with the soil and harvest.

Suddenly, art is life understood through the idea of purpose: of working the soil as if it were a canvas; of generating spaces to share or exhibit beyond the traditional ones. Even of needing to collect and exchange seeds as a reflex of turning the gaze toward the beginning, a gesture that seeks to perpetuate life.

Thoughts by Paula Piedra. Translated by Paula Kupfer.

Carlos Fernández's solo show at Despacio in San José, Costa Rica opens March 23th and runs through April 23th, 2017. (Facebook Event)

The indoor garden that is part of the exhibition will remain throughout 2017 and serve as Despacio’s new central archive.

An Island of Two

ArchivedHappened in March 2017

Twins Jörg and Rolf Fischer are deeply bound to one another by their fate: they were both born deaf and, due to severe diabetes, gradually lost their sight during the course of their lives. Photographer Marlena Waldthausen moved in with Jörg and Rolf to capture one of the most remarkable relationships ever recorded, forged by their love and care for one another, everyday in every way.


Born deaf and now blind, 49-year-old twins Jörg and Rolf Fischer are totally reliant on one another for companionship and communication. They share everything, including a bond that transcends everyday brotherly love.

The brothers experience life very differently from the way most of us do, and that is what makes their relationship so unique. As it is understandably difficult for them to communicate with the outside world, they support each other in their daily lives through their own language and humour.

Jörg is now completely blind. Rolf, who is still partially sighted, tries to support his brother as best as he can. He guides Jörg, even though he does not see the way properly himself. If there is written information, he reads it to Rolf in spite of the great effort.

Photographer Marlena Waldthausen lived with Jörg and Rolf at their care facility and in their parents home for more than 7 months, documenting their bond with her camera and doing her best to learn their language.

This solo exhibition opens on March 23th and runs through April 22nd, 2017 at Despacio (Facebook Event).

Marlena Waldthausen was born close to Stuttgart in southern Germany in 1987 and is currently based in Amsterdam. She spent several years in Latin America living in many different cities, including Buenos Aires and Mexico City. From 2008 to 2012, she studied Regional Studies of Latin America at Cologne University before becoming a student of Photojournalism and Documentary Photography at the University of Applied Sciences and Arts in Hannover.

Outside of her assignments, Waldthausen works mostly on long term personal projects in film and photography. She won the 2016 VGH Award, is one of five winners of the 2016 Feature Shoot Emerging Photography Award, and was nominated for the 2016 Freelens Award and the 2015 Balkan Photo Award.

Siempre cuenta cuántos cuentos cuentas

ArchivedHappened in October 2016

Berlin-based artist Julian Charrière moonlights as a poet scientist in the pursuit of his work, which The Guardian calls, "bracing, beautiful, quick with ideas and driven by a highly adventurous curiosity." Using specimens and photographic evidence collected on his adventures, the internationally-acclaimed artist encourages a confrontation between humanity and the elements, while lending a human element to both the sterility of the empirical world and the wilderness of the natural world.


From a great distance, our planet appears a perfectly spherical blue-green globe suspended in space as if by a string. If we zoom in, topography begins to appear, and upon even closer inspection, as do things like large cities and international borders. At such grand scales, these features, both geological and artificial, seem permanent, but when the scales of time are also stretched, the fragility of these attributes becomes clear. Volcanic eruptions can erase the great trade hub of Pompeii from existence or form whole new archipelagos. In much the same way, human influence can redraw borders and shift identities. As it was with the Partition of India, the largest human migration in history, a person can start their day one nationality and end it another.

It is the ever-interconnecting feedback loop between these kinds of synthetic and ecological forces that informs the art of Julian Charrière. His installation piece We Are All Astronauts, 2013, features antique globes suspended by strings over a table. Using an “international sandpaper”, of his own making, created with mineral samples from all UN-recognized countries, Charrière rubbed away the features of the globes, allowing the debris to settle on the flat surface below, forming something new and uncalculated from the static order that existed before, reflecting the chaos and creation inherent in change.

The work of the young French-Swiss artist includes performance, photographs, and installations, but the pieces serve more as evidence of Charrière’s process or, in many cases, his adventures. One such excursion found him on an ancient Icelandic iceberg, where he spent an entire day in blistering conditions attempting to melt the berg with a blowtorch. Monumental exercise in futility that it was (the small amounts of liquid water he was able to produce refroze almost as soon as it thawed), Charrière’s endeavors speak to the greater impact of humanity en masse, in which melting ice caps, mass extinctions, and rising global temperatures implicate our collective ability to affect geology and ecosystems far older than civilization. Charrière’s impermanent feat is immortalized in The Blue Fossil Entropic Stories, 2013, photographs that capture the lone man and his Promethean flame against the colossal berg.

The pursuit of his work has taken Charrière from the bustling streets of Venice, where he (humanely) painted bold colors into the plumage of live pigeons, to the desolate expanses of a Bolivian desert, where he collected compressed core samples infused with lithium—one of the simplest of elements, yet responsible for fueling our batteries and single-handedly regulating the minds of individuals with bipolar syndrome. This enduring pursuit has left him no stranger to extremes.

Now, Charrière prepares for a new solo show at Despacio in Costa Rica, a country whose tropical jungles boast some of our world’s greatest terrestrial biodiversity. Charrière’s diverse works will seem right at home in this hub of ecotourism. And yet, as if to exemplify by contrast this verdant cornucopia, the work that will be showcased will boast an almost utter lack of life.

Displayed pieces will include the aforementioned We Are All Astronauts, 2013; Tropisme (Helio), 2015, a series of photographs of his flash frozen, stalagmite-like plants; Blue Fossil Entropic Stories, 2013, photography of his Icelandic iceberg adventure; as well as new, never-before-seen video work.

We are all astronauts on this great planetary ship hurtling through space, and Charrière is a worthy navigator.

Thoughts by Schandra Madha

Julian Charrière’s solo show at Despacio in San Jose, Costa Rica opens October 20th and runs through December 17th, 2016.

Facebook Event

Photo credits and copyright: Installation views courtesy of Despacio, all other images courtesy of the artist and Galerie Tschudi Zuoz (Switzerland), Sies + Höke Düsseldorf (Germany), Bugada & Cargnel Paris (France), and Dittrich & Schlechtriem Berlin (Germany).

Aníbal López

ArchivedHappened in August 2016

A pioneer of performance art in Central America, Aníbal López has become notorious for his extreme actions and disruptive urban interventions. Generally aimed at immersing viewers into the region’s social and political tensions, his works combine the dry language of 1960s and 70s conceptual art with the revolutionary ethos of a Latin American guerrillero.


The exhibition dedicated to Aníbal López (1964–2014) co-organized with Fundación Yaxs and X Central American Biennial opens on Wednesday August 31st from 12-8pm at Despacio. For more details: Facebook Event.

Recreations by Ana Lucrecia Muñoz, Aníbal Catalán, Antonio Ortega, Audrey Houben, Crack Rodríguez, Diego Giannettoni, Erica Muralles Hazbun, Illimani de los Andes, Jason Mena, Jorge Linares, Kevin Baltazar, Mario Alberto López Cruz, Nuria Güell, Sergio Rojas, and Proyecto 44.

After the opening, the exhibition will be open Fridays and Saturdays 2–7pm through September 30th, 2016.
In October, the exhibition will travel to Yaxs Foundation in Guatemala.


Was there a better chronicler of the pitiless cruelty of Guatemala’s urban society than the artist Aníbal López? A profile of a provocateur, of the artist as thug and transgressor.


Piglets are plentiful, on hog farms. But a piglet with a name, ‘Hugo,’ dressed up with a beautiful blue bow is something special; a pet, almost a person, a character like one of the three pigs who vanquished the wolf, or like the cartoon Porky Pig. Aníbal López, the controversial Guatemalan artist who died recently, knew this well. And it was he who brought ‘Hugo’ to Milan’s Prometeo art gallery where, over the course of several days, visitors could play with the piglet, feed the piglet, and stroke the piglet as if he were some grunting phallus mounted on four hooves.

And then, on the show’s opening day – the horror! – Hugo was slaughtered, gutted, baked and served up at the opening reception, to the great dismay and revulsion of all of those who had grown fond of him.

The work, which forces the spectator to confront the hidden cruelty of the world of the consumer, and confront his own hypocrisy, is an example of the venomous games that this artist subjected his audiences to.


Aníbal López occupies a place apart among Guatemalan artists. “The Missing Link,” the artist Regina Jose Galindo calls him. In Guatemala, he marks the hinge between modern art and the transition to conceptual art, which tends to be made up of actions, installations, and performances. Lopez heralds and embodies the generation of artists, writers, filmmakers and musicians who, with the end of the civil war in the middle of the 1990s, began to defy the militarized conformity of urban Guatemalan society.

There are only four or five national artists who are really known abroad, about whom books and theses are written. Lopez, who won the Venice Biennial contemporary art exhibition in the category of young artist in 2001, is one of them. An artist who makes use of all of the means at his disposition, even illegal ones, in order to attack the double standards and sentimentality of the public. His work creates discomfort, anxiety, and outrage, even among contemporary art audiences who are accustomed to and look forward to provocations.

“In Guatemala, there are excellent artists doing very good work,” says Thomas Laroche-Joubert, a French artist resident in Guatemala and an expert on trends in global art. “But if you go to Mexico, you are going to run across a dozen people like them, and in China, you’ll find a hundred people doing the same thing. But there are not even two Anibals.”

There are still misconceptions and erroneous and superficial interpretations surrounding Lopez’s art. Many are unable to see anything in his work beyond a series of increasing provocations, or they dismiss it with a definitive “these people don’t know how to come up with anything new anymore.” Others however, appreciate not only Lopez’s subversiveness, but also the sharp formal logic of his work.

As for the man himself, there are probably similar gaps in understanding–between those who knew him little, and only in those final years when alcohol had transformed him into a kind of ill-tempered ghost–and those who knew him better, when Lopez was in full command of himself, who enjoyed his conversation, those who knew that in spite of his contentious and even perhaps conceited personality, he could be very generous and kind with those who mattered to him.

The artist Jorge de Leon remembers the evenings with him. “He would come to the house. We’d drink booze and talk. We talked about politics, cinema, music. As far as music went, he would listen to anything from Tigresa del Oriente to Beethoven, all the way through jazz and rock. They we’d get into visual art and eventually philosophy. It was dope, because it was confrontational.”

Leonel Jurucan, a writer who in the artist’s last years was his secretary, his nurse, and his wingman at bars, describes Lopez’s way of interacting with others as follows: “His motto was that everybody wants to walk all over you, and so he’d be very aggressive from the get-go. He would really piss people off, and he made more than one person cry. But if you stood up to him, and you had good arguments, you would win his respect.”

An artist who couldn’t stand beating around the bush, he made many of his friends think out their work more carefully. “Before I get started on a piece, I have to check and make sure Anibal hasn’t done it already,” says artist Jorge Leon. “There are works that I’ve abandoned because he’d already done them, and his were better thought out and executed. He makes me think more and try harder.” Regina Galindo, the Guatemalan performance artist, remembers: “Anibal was a philosopher. For me, he was an extremely intense learning experience, because he confronted me on everything. He wasn’t my teacher, but he was the closest thing to a teacher I ever had.”


Marginality always marked Aníbal López’s life. He was born in 1964 to a family from San Marcos, one of the first to homestead the vacant land in Mixco that is now the neighborhood of Tierra Nueva [in Guatemala City]. His father was a carpenter and an alcoholic, his mother a seamstress and a victim of the alcoholic who died young.

He had to fend for himself very early. His studies ended in middle school. As soon as he could, he migrated to the US as an illegal. He took jobs as a workman for a Mormon temple and a home remodeling company.

Returning to Guatemala, he enrolled in the National School of Plastic Arts (ENAP); his friends do not recall the exact dates of his studies there. To make a living, he worked for an advertising company and drew stickers for children’s’ albums with themes like “wildlife” and “the human body.” According to Leonel Jurucan, his later series “Ladino Hardware” which shows anatomical images of muscles in the human hand, resulted from this experience.

At ENAP, he was bored. Other than Dagoberto Vazquez, not a single professor there had anything useful to share with the students, he would later tell Rosina Cazali in an interview. He started hanging out with gallery owners, and with artists like Moises Barrios. His first solo exhibition, at the beginning of the 1990s, was planned to last only a single night. The owner of the El Sereno Gallery, in the capital’s Old City, could not stomach looking for any longer than that, at his collection of pictures of Saints, Virgins and Christs painted as if they were fashion models or style icons. “It was a way of mythologizing big brands, as well as a reflection on bisexuality,” the curator Rosina Cazali says of the show.

These were learning years for the young artist. Anibal was reading frenetically. Wittgenstein and Foucault became his writers of reference. “He realized the importance of readings and theory for an artist,” Cazali says.

His learning period culminated in Mexico, where he lived for a while with his first wife, the anthropologist Ligia Pelaez. There he became close to the dynamic artistic movements at play in Mexico City and became friends with the prominent Spanish artist Santiago Serra. “He came back to Guatemala transformed,” Cazali remembers. “He no longer would allow you to get away with a superficial analysis of artistic works. He was very confrontational, but he had the tools to be that way.”


Some forty or fifty people are present at the Los Cipreses funeral home on vigil with the body of Aníbal López. The majority are artists and writers. There is real sorrow here, a communion of pain and friendship unaccustomed among these people who are usually an archipelago of isolated egos. The writer Leonel Jurucan, one of those who seem most affected by the death of Lopez, is talking with the artist Yasmin Hage a few steps from the coffin.

“As artists, I feel like we are always being pushed to go farther, push the limits further, until we destroy ourselves,” Hage tells him.

“It’s true,” Jurucan says, a bit frenzied. “They want you to kill yourself. That’s what they want, for you to kill yourself to prove that all this shit is just not working.”

“Even between artists, there is a kind of callousness,” says Hage. “You can’t say this or that is very nice, because immediately they’ll tag you as corny or kitschy. Everything has to be hard, violent, dark. It feels like what they want is that you throw yourself out a window and document your corpse splattered on the cement.”

Lopez’s two young children chase each other through the hallways, tumbling over each other, fighting, complaining to their mother. Every once in a while they stop to peer through the window of the casket.

A group of Mormons cluster together in the chapel. A year before dying, Lopez and his partner Jennifer Paiz joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Every week they went to services. Anibal sang baritone in the temple’s choir. From the congregation they both received assistance that was very much needed given the declining health of the artist.

The Mormons are a powerful contrast with the crowd of bohemians. Water and oil. The believers sing hymns and praises in the chapel while the artists remain on the outskirts, in the outdoor corridors of the funeral home.

Abruptly though, the poet Simon Pedroza and the filmmaker Sergio Valdes burst into the chapel through the singers, as if determined to seize the lost territory. Pedrozo begins reading poems in his punk style, followed by Alejandro Marre, while Valdes flails on an out-of-tune guitar. The Mormons fall silent, waiting without complaint for the improvised performance to end, and when the poets and their audience retire from the room, lift their prayers again.

The next day, the day of the burial, water and oil continue not mixing. It is difficult to even believe that these two communities are here for the same interment. Lopez is buried in a tomb at the back of Los Cipreses cemetery. The dizzying Belice Bridge, behind it a mountain covered with farm fields, a highway snaking up out of the canyon, and the immense galleries of tombs arrayed under a sky of clouds charged with storm, all form a fantastical backdrop which would surely have pleased the artist.

There are speeches. Andreas, the oldest son of Lopez and his first wife, now a young man of 24 with an intelligent gaze, remembers that when they lived together, his father would ask him questions, and nothing but questions, instead of explaining or demonstrating things to him. Leonel Jurucan, between sobs, reads a short homage to the artist: “He has died like most of the great men who had the courage to love this country, broken, when they were not simply disappeared.” The Mormons sing a little bit, and their bishop offers some words that seem impersonal, as if he did not know the dead man very well. He even goes so far as to emphasize the ‘humility’ of Lopez; a humility which clearly formed no part of the dead artist’s defects.

Regina Galindo approaches the coffin. She pours out a bottle of whiskey on it. A bit of the liquor remains in the bottom of the bottle, and the artist slurps it down, weeping, before the unmoving gaze of the gravediggers. The Mormons will later complain to the artist about her sacrilegious and inexplicable behavior.


The 20th century draws to a close. Aníbal López has twice in a row, in 1994 and 1996 won the Paiz Biennial Art Exhibition. He could certainly keep on painting the canvases which have won him a certain amount of recognition in Guatemala. But no. He needs to seek out other mediums: he understands that painting “is not enough if you want to speak to people, it is not the most appropriate language to think and express yourself,” as he says in a 2011 interview with the Spanish Cultural Center.

A language that he does consider appropriate is that of ‘urban interventions.’ To his friend Leonel Jurucan he announces: “Well, they’ve signed the peace treaty. Which means that if we do things in public, they’re not going to beat our asses. Let’s demonstrate it.”

One of the demonstrations, perhaps the most extreme one, is carried out on the 30th of June, Army Day, 2000. At dawn, he spreads charcoal all along 6th Avenue, where the traditional military parade is going to pass. The charcoal is swept away before the parade, but traces of it remain, and the soldiers have to march over them. This work’s documentation, photographs of the parade and the boot tracks in the charcoal, are entered in the Venice Biennial and win him the Golden Lion in the category of young artist.

The work is an allusion, as the jury understands it, to the country’s devastated landscape, to its mass graves of burned corpses, to the massacres carried out by the same men who parade over it, swollen with patriotic pride.

There are other notable urban interventions, like the one called “One Ton of Books Dumped on Reforma Avenue,” in which a dump truck drops a ton of books in the middle of the avenue, obstructing traffic and inviting pedestrians to search out, in the heap, works of interest. The extraordinary “Ribbon of Black Plastic 120 Meters Long and 4 Wide Hung From Incienso Bridge” is his personal protest in 2003 against the participation of Rios Montt [former general and president convicted of war crimes]in the presidential elections of that year, a work which also recapitulates the living conditions of the neighborhoods that perch on the edges of the city’s ravines.

Systematically, Lopez attacks the moral values of Guatemalan society, demonstrating the country’s crudest and most violent sides. The climactic work of this facet of his efforts is “The Loan,” presented in the Context gallery in 2000. The work consists of nothing but a simple text printed on a vinyl sheet, which begins with these sentences: “On the 29th of September, 2000, I carried out an action which consisted of mugging [at gunpoint]a person of middle class appearance.” What follows is a description of the victim, Lopez’s modus operandi, and the amount robbed, 874.35 quetzales [$115]. It ends noting that the wine that spectators are drinking was purchased with the stolen money.

“In the face of the magnitude of this work, no one was able to even react at the time,” the curator Rosina Cazali, present at the opening, remembers. “’Now what, Anibal? Are you going to kidnap and murder us to make art?’ was the first thing anyone said, another artist. The work just transgressed all of the moral codes, and moreover turned all of the spectators into accomplices of a sort in the robbery.” On the subject of “The Loan,” Lopez says in his interview with the Spanish Cultural Center, that “The worst part was that no one reported it. People just drank their wine, and the wine meant complicity. Nobody is safe, least of all the artist. I feel that I offered up a sacrifice, because I still feel guilty [about this urban intervention], it still pains me, it was something really powerful, to say that an artist does not have the right to just get away with anything.”

“The Loan” also transgressed the formal codes of visual art: a simple text without photos or any other documentation affirming that a certain action was carried out. Whether it happened or not, nobody could testify. But nevertheless, the work stays fixed in the mind of the viewer, isolating him with his doubts and questions. What arises, according to Cazali, is an involuntary and perverse hope, like a fantasy, that the robbery really did take place.

With the rhythm of a machinegun Lopez keeps producing works and scandals. His actions and his pieces highlight certain aspects of the economy, like exclusion, or the possibility of hiring someone to literally any task. “The Dinner” (2000) involves a beggar having a meal in the gallery during the October Festival, served by an impeccable waiter from Altuna restaurant. “The Beautiful People” [titled in English]is a show watched over by security guards who only permit entry to people they consider good looking. In “Personal Defense Weapon,” (2005), a con man from the city’s central park sells stones to pedestrians with striking success, arguing that they are they are an effective weapon against crime. In “See You at the Top” [in English], a beggar walks around New York’s Wall Street wearing a sandwich board which in English says “See you at the top” and “Those Who Persevere Will Acquire.”In Lacandon (2006), an Indigenous man from the Lacandon jungle region poses for an entire day as if he were an object on display in a museum, next to a placard explaining what a Lacandon Indian is.

His work opens him doors at the biggest global contemporary art shows. A-1 53167, his identity card number with which he signs his work, as if trying to confound the very idea of identity, ends up becoming a recognizable brand in the art world.

His unmistakable figure, tall in stature, robust, with a salt-and-pepper goatee, thinning long hair combed back, enormous black plastic eyeglasses, becomes commonplace in large gatherings of artists. His works sell for 30 or 40 thousand dollars. He might have lived on his work in any great city. But he remains in his own country, land of his most deeply rooted hatreds and loves. He never stops being marginal. He affirms, loud and clear, that the national reality has no effect on him. He thinks himself unconquerable, invulnerable.

Guatemala takes charge of showing him how wrong he is.


“There are blows in life, so powerful…I don’t know!” The famous opening line of The Black Heralds by Cesar Vallejo well applies to the last years of Aníbal López. The fact is that in 2007, we find an artist at the height of his creativity, producing work almost without rest. That year, when he and Jennifer Paiz get together, Lopez is living and working with discipline in a well-appointed studio in the city’s Zona 9. Mornings, he jogs on the Avenue of the Americas, sometimes carrying a video camera to film the awakening city.

In 2008, something breaks in him. Lopez plunges into a profound alcohol addiction. “He had this new passion, alcohol, and his principal passion stopped being art. Alcohol changed him,” says Regina Galindo.

Life’s blows rain down one after another on the artist, deepening his depression and his addiction. First, there is the death of his father by alcoholism, which seems to mark him as already condemned to the same fatal destiny. Later a brother dies. Simultaneously there are anxieties brought on by another brother, a small-time drug dealer in Tierra Nueva who goes to prison and is then extorted mercilessly inside by gangsters. Lopez, with all the money problems already besieging him, pays again and again to save his brother’s skin. In 2012, just after being freed from jail, the brother is murdered in Tierra Nueva, his body dismembered and scattered around the neighborhood; a message. Lopez becomes the last surviving member of his family.

It is from this period that his show “Anthology of Violence” emerges; a series of handicrafts in clay that present scenes of daily life in Guatemala: hired killers firing on a bus; rescue workers extracting human body parts from a tunnel, a police patrol car smashing into a wall.

Money problems force the family, with three small children, to roam from place to place: cheap rooms, friends’ houses, hotels, a sordid tenement in front of the General Hospital. The artist disappears frequently, to reappear drunk lying on a sidewalk or on a hospital gurney. He drinks whatever he can; Jaguar aguardiente, rubbing alcohol, whatever his friends will give him. His health collapses. His work turns melancholy; there is a series of canvases painted in blood, vomit and feces, and another series called “Urban Trees” in which he paints, as if he were a novice, a series of humble, almost beggarly trees, isolated. It is a reference to a psychological test in which the subject is profiled by having him draw a tree. In one of them, the tree top is made with the business cards of gallery owners from around the world, as if trying to show the silliness of building networks of contacts.

In 2012, he is invited to the dOCUMENTA show in Kassel, Germany, the world’s most important contemporary art event, which takes place once every five years. For any artist, this is rapturous, the culmination of a career. Lopez, depressed, ill, with problems at home, is incapable of even enjoying the commotion his work causes.

He brings with him to Kassel a hit man. “Testament,” the work’s title, presents the killer for hire behind a curtain which only allows his silhouette to be seen, to answer questions from the public. “Do you believe in God?,” “Do you enjoy your work?,””Do you have nightmares about the people you murder?” are some of the concerns that the killer responds to.

The work turns on its author. An hit man with whom Lopez had been in contact previously starts extorting the artist when he isn’t the one chosen for the trip. The family has to take refuge in a house Guatemala City’s old city, and later in a room in the Pasaje Rubio.

In spite of his illness, he does not stop creating, both pictures, as in the beginning of his career, as well as actions. His last action, in Italy, is a soldier manipulating a loaded gun in front of the public. He returns from this trip in bad shape.

A-1 53167 breathed his last on September 26, 2014. He approached life, art, and his contemporaries without making any concession. And he received in recompense no concessions. His death, his methodical and resolute self-destruction, perhaps was trying to tell us something as well; something dark, terrifying, insidious, something that is as present in the bars as it is in the churches, on the buses, in residential neighborhoods and down in the ravines, in the courtrooms and the maquila factories, and even in the art galleries.

Reportage by Sebastian Escalon for Plaza Publica. Translated from Spanish by International Boulevard.

The exhibition Aníbal López is co-organized with Yaxs Foundation & Central American Biennial. The opening takes place on August 31st from 12-8pm at Despacio. Afterwords the exhibition is open Fridays and Saturdays 2–7pm through September 30th, 2016. In October, the exhibition will travel to Yaxs Foundation in Guatemala.

Credits for photos and videos used online: Soldado, 2014: film Centrale Fies (Live Works Performance Act Award Vol.2), Prometeo Gallery (Ida Pisani); photo by Sara Bugoloni for Prometeo Gallery // Tonelada, 2003: film published by Art Bus; photo by Prometeo Gallery // Hugo, 2007: Prometeo Gallery, published by International Boulevard // 30 June, 2000: Prometeo Gallery, published by Abstraction in Action // Lacandon, 2006: film: Fundacion Televisa; photo Prometeo Gallery // Economía Informal, 2011: photo published by William Yac Son // El prestamo, 2000: photo by Selene Mejía for Soy502, video by Centro Cultural de España (entire video) // Testimonio, 2012: dOCUMENTA; photo by Elisa Penagini // La distancia entre dos puntos, 2002: Sol del Rió Arte Contemporánea and Prometeo Gallery


ArchivedHappened in July 2016

With his bold and witty actions, Swiss artist Thomas Moor is translating the legacies of Institutional Critique into the increasingly synthesized world of our time. His projects – from a gallery turned into a fictitious Starbucks branch to a newspaper stand built on the facade of a condominium – are always questioning hierarchies, power, and representation and are therefore investigating alternative understandings of the reality surrounding us.


When his actions are directed towards the specific reality of contemporary art and its related fields, languages, communities, and venues , Moor’s investigations are almost epidermal, embracing art conceptually and physically. His exhibition at Despacio, entitled Heirlooms, advances this position further, with a special focus on objects that constitute the syntax of what we can call the “art language.”

A Conversation between Nicola Trezzi (NT) and Thomas Moor (TM)

NT: Looking at your previous projects and exhibitions, I wonder what lead you to develop this kind of language, which is conceptual and ironic, at times monumental and at times ephemeral and invisible. Can you tell me what you studied in Zurich? Did you develop this language already in school? If you did, who was your greatest influence there? I also would like to know about your childhood. Did you grow up in an environment that was friendly to art?

TM: I grew up in a small village in Fricktal, a hilly rural area in the north of Switzerland in a teacher family that cultivated a high interest in science and classical music. While playing Cello all my childhood and teenage years, I’ve entered contemporary fields of culture through Hip Hop. Contemporary art as such I’ve experienced more through a touristic lens, as my parents would take the kids to museums on city trips or so. In that way, it wasn’t a part of my home or so. I’ve left the place to study communication theory and art history at the University of Zurich, though within the first year I’ve quit to apply for art school, more or less after learning about Gordon Matta-Clark and Andrea Fraser.

Currently I’m in the MFA program at the Zurich University of Arts, so yes. I’ve never studied arts under one “master” or so, so there are multiple influences automatically. I guess influencial for me in the BA in Zurich were Maria Eichhorn, Bea Schlingelhoff and San Keller (though I’ve never studied with him).

NT: How did you find yourself in this field and when was the first time you called yourself “an artist”?

TM: The term “artist” I’ve initially tried to use simply as a description of a political, philosophical, economical position. Therefore it has been a very flexible term for me, anyone and anything could be an artist. I’ve always tried to simply think it as a very loose, open function, rather than a hierarchically achievable status. But at the moment I’m not so concerned with it anymore.

NT: Playfulness and irony play a very important role in your work; how do you feel regarding this association? Do you see your work as playful and ironical? If so, what do you think is the work that most precisely encapsulates this association?

TM: Hmmm… I think my work usually tries to bend and stress power structures from within. I often work with certain existing elements, which I try to deconstruct and re-discuss through small shifts. This makes “play” one of the main gestures in my practice. Irony seems like a much more specific aspect, that is, if it occurs in my work, more of a side result that I wouldn’t want to strategize. Art that’s simply ironic as its main purpose is often rather boring.

NT: Bending and stressing power structure from within seems a very appropriate way to describe your work; can you mention specific projects, yours and by artists you admire, that you think encapsulate this strategy at its best?

TM: As an example of my work I would choose the Astroturfs (2015). Here I’ve commissioned two astroturfers (people who write “fake” online reviews. 25% of all Yelp reviews are filtered, suspected to be fake or unhelpful according to www.fortune.com, 2013) for 10$ each to write fake reviews on OLM space, the exhibition space I was doing the project at.

They both have come up with a very personal, completely fictional review of an experience at this space, describing a portrait exhibition and the apparently wonderful garden area. One of the two reviews has remained unfiltered and has so far been the only Yelp review on OLM space. Examples of works by other artists would maybe be Angus Fairhurst’s Gallery Connections (1991-1996), for which he prank called different London galleries by calling two at the same time and then connecting their lines, or also, in a more technical way, Karin Sander’s Mail Paintings (since 2004), which are more or less blank canvases that were shipped around unpacked to create a patina solely by its shipping.

NT: Some of your projects, such as Trojan Horses (2016) and Cargo Veils (since 2015), echo conceptual art and institutional critique; at the same time their different DNA – both conceptually and formally – create an interesting “in between space”. In other words, the path we make from a gallery space turned into a fictitious soon-to-open branch of Starbucks to a series of bi-dimensional ‘paintings’, which are in fact bubble wraps used to pack artworks by John Baldessari and Daniel Spoerri among others, is quite wide and yet logical. How do you justify this versatility?

TM: Versatility doesn’t have to be justified in my opinion. What is more important to me is this “in between space”, like the in between of a rug and a carpet. Comparing those two works, first, Trojan Horses was a collaboration with Florence Jung for a specific event, the opening of an art space, while the Cargo Veils series I’ve started approximately a year ago during an art handling job I was doing for someone else, and has been a continuing project ever since.

I think both mentioned projects work towards a loose analysis of the “agents” of public relations. This drives me through different media, but also through different aesthetics.

Depending if I’m working with features of public relations of the gentrification process of a neighborhood, or if I’m working with art handling features, I appropriate aspects of their aesthetics to create a playground to be tipped over. Another example for a field, like the here engaged fields of lifestyle brands and relics of the logistics of art, I’m very much interested in is cash money, as cash money offers a variety of representational features that have been translated into physical materials, and their physical and contextual representational features start melting together, but at the same time become brittle and pathetic.

NT: I’d like to speak more about this “in between”; can you extend it to reality at large? Can you name “in between situations” that are inspiring to you? Can we create these situations, and how? I’m very curious to understand how we see this outside the field of art.

TM: Hmmm… We could look at Freeports. I don’t mean it only as an example of being “in between” because of it being a (hopefully) temporary station between A and B, but because of the anonymous, standardized, physical state of a good inside a Freeport, that through being there becomes 100% dependent on its documentation, even though (or rather, because) its physical features are supervised and secured to an extent that turns this good transparent, almost invisible, in the most inaccessible, deep frozen way. This might not sound like an outside the field of art-example, but I think it’s easily applicable to other fields within, let’s say, contemporary logistics.

NT: Your practice often employs outsourcing: from Craigslist – through which you found two writers to whom you commissioned fake reviews of LACMA – to Yelp – a portal that, among other services, publishes crowd-sourced reviews about local businesses but also space for art and culture, like LACMA, where the two aforementioned fake reviews were published. Can you speak about this aspect of your practice?

TM: In the beginning of art school I was very curious about outsourcing as a mode of art production. But by now I doubt that outsourcing as such is very specific for my practice. I feel like outsourcing is the process of handing over labor to external work force, usually for economic reason. But in my case, I fully depend on the specific touch of the specific laborer I’ve “hired”, and the work would be a completely different one if I would do it myself. It’s more an interest in this random factor, which is highly anonymous, yet highly personal at the same time.

NT: When you say “highly anonymous, yet highly personal” you seem to follow a position that is driven by oxymora. Can you give me more examples? How do you manage this double take into your work?

TM: I think the oxymoron is essential for my work. I’m very curious about situations that manage to exist in (or because of) a constant interior tension. To play with these oxymora, to confront their two extremes, creates a vibration that makes up some of the energy of my work. For example, in Touching Tangibles, I maneuver ultimately on the physical surface of the sculpture, but simultaneously I’m touching the contextual surface of the sculpture, as I undergo the procedure to legally perform my act of hugging, which leads me through conservational aspects, photo rights, and also the sheer moods and patience of artists and art professionals, who didn’t really want anything from me, but the other way around.

I think the investigation of this contrast of “Hardware” and “Software” circles around a lot of questions concerning current understandings of material and knowledge, in which production and capital isn’t defined through resources anymore, but through the dynamics of its logistics.

NT: And why do you think your initial interest in outsourcing has faded?

TM: I think one reason, why my initial interest in outsourcing has faded, has for sure been some experiments within this field. For one of my first projects in art school, A Series of Portrait Paintings (2011), I’ve taken portrait photos from my circle of artist friends. Then I ordered oil paintings depicting those images in Dafen, China. Dafen is a suburb of Buji, Longgang, Shenzhen in Guangdong province, China. It is the worlds largest production place for oil painting copies. According to Wikipedia (2011), there are approximately 10‘000 people working in over 300 different painting workshops. They paint as piece workers mostly copies of European art history masterpieces as well as paintings from sent in photographs. Each year Dafen exports about 5 million paintings, main clients are European and American hotel chains and warehouses.

So this project was very much concerned with outsourcing. In the aftermath, there were some aspects I wanted to be more careful with in the future. It seemed like a too easy way to hide behind containers, and to wrap my head around painting or even drawing after this project wasn't very easy. Another reason might be, that in the last five years cultural production in general (or maybe just my production) is touching outsourcing moments less as a statement, but more and more just as an absolutely common mode of production somewhere between "shareconomy" and collective memory, sampling and more precarious forms of recycling.

NT: Going back to institutional critique, there are two works that I believe take the legacy of this moment in the history of art in order to ‘charge’ it with a sentimental and emotional touch. The first one is Touching Tangibles (2013-2014), a performance, in which you are completely covered by a white cotton body suit – a reference to the white gloves used by professionals to handle works of art – hugging artworks by artists such as Jeff Koons and Ugo Rondinone, in venues such as the Kunstmuseum Basel, Galerie Eva Presenhuber as well as private collections. The second one is Mood Painting (2014–ongoing), in which you create wall paintings appropriating wall colors used in museums; each color is first scanned and then recreated by a paint shop. Beside the art historical reference, what interests me in these two works is their immateriality: while the first one implies a very intimate encounter between the performer and the artworks that we can only experience through photo documentation, the second one can basically exist anytime and anywhere. What is your position regarding these two works?

TM: Those two pieces I’ve actually worked on more or less at the same time. The Touching Tangibles series has been an experiment that only could happen during my BA when I knew practically nobody in the art scene. Each hug has been organized in advance with the exhibitor and sometimes the artist, sometimes the conservator. As I didn’t know most of the people to be involved in this project personally, I’ve tried to always use the info@...-entrance to the institutions, a communication tool that suggests an open loophole channel from and to the public. I didn’t want to organize this as “the artist”, but just as a random stranger from the Internet. A lot of institutions also didn’t answer my request. The way I’ve rematerialized the performance is a single channel slide projection showing the 30 hugs documented with one slide each. This antiquated, archival, a bit noisy way of presentation reintroduces a sense of performativity into the process of exhibiting the project. The dimmed light is equally important as the dust floating around in the projection for this reinterpretation of the sacred, yet goofy moment of the performance. Even if the Mood Paintings can exist anytime, anywhere, they depend in a way just as much on an active focus on them as Touching Tangibles. Or better, their initial purpose was to introduce this active focus into the process of experiencing any painted wall as wall painting and vice versa, the in-between space of painted walls and paintings.

What interests me about their ambivalent immateriality comes maybe from the general tendency of declaring and contracting in the art system, which Hito Steyerl partially describes in her lecture Duty-Free Art. In its third chapter - titled Conditions of Possibility - she opens up an analysis on freeport art storage, its political conditions, economical functions, and, them playing a huge role in the contemporary art market, dangerous impacts on art production.

NT: Another important element of your practice is the symbolic value and official function of certain materials; your work has been created with high security paper, streamers that are used in American car dealerships and your upcoming project will feature a fair carpet. The captions of your work reveal how important the symbolic value and official function of these materials are to you. Can you explain why?

TM: Actually I think it’s exactly not the symbolic value, but the actual material that interests me. For example, the Mandalas, the high security papers, are kind of stock guilloches for which you have to register to acquire, to then turn them into certificate papers or so, in this initial form, or altered. But I wanted just to register and acquire a set of 40 different papers, and they now literally are drawings and certificates.

With the car dealership streamers I’m trying to clash two different kinds of space contracts, a bit like a low-fi version of Carey Young’s Declared Void (2005). In terms of symbolic value, I’m just more drawn to using Amazon and such as a production platform, rather than representing this object with another symbol.

The fair carpet is again another example. Here, a material that seems familiar with spaces for the art market - and contemporary event culture in general - is isolated and re-appropriated. With playing with its original codes, and kidnapping them partly into my exhibition, I’m trying to walk a tightrope, where the carpet could at any time turn into part of the architecture, or into a stage, or into a displayed object itself.

I guess generally, I’m trying to avoid adding another representational layer to my work to discuss power structures, and this is what leads me to work with these specific materials and contexts.

NT: Isolation, re-appropriation, representational layer… you seem to have a clear vocabulary; can you say a bit more about each of these fascinating terms?

TM: Isolation I see for example as one of the common grounds between the white cube (or the museum) and the prison, exhibiting and imprisoning: focusing on the tension between the object and the surrounding architecture by trying to eliminate everything beyond those two elements. Just like the disciplining of the classic bourgeois museum, educating the public to be humble and have faith in authority, the prison also has its aesthetic communicators to the "viewers" as a deterrent. Re-appropriation in this context I see my and others' notion of working with appropriated aesthetic codes in a world after Institutional Critique, Appropriation Art, or Pop Art, but also after the rise of massive corporate involvement in cultural events, where (partly appropriated) "art imagery" is used in the branding of such corporations, and so on.

With another representational layer I mean the moment, when I decide to work with, let's again say, money bills, and I decide to copy this money bill onto some sort of medium that is leaving the material of the money bill, which is for example that happens in digital photography, or any other form of depiction. I prefer a good example over an ideal depiction.

The exhibition runs from July 28th until August 20th 2016 at Despacio in San José, Costa Rica. The opening takes place on July 28th from 6pm - 9pm at Despacio. (FB Event)

As part of the exhibition Sabrina Röthlisberger Belkacem (LGG$B, Geneva) organized the evening Hija de la luna on August 5th.

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