The Birthday Gallery, Frankfurt
Written for a class with An Paenhuysen at Node Center for Curatorial Studies
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In Frankfurt, there's not much. Oder?
Artists answering “Frankfurt” regarding their domiciles are often met with “Why?” Those living in the city have chosen to live here or are deciding whether to leave. Some stay, weighing options post-Franky, others return post-Berlin burnout. Lest we forget the artists studying at HfG or the Städelschule.
My point is that artists in Frankfurt create a muchness that the city lacks.
Rumor has it that Anne Imhof staged a performance near the Hauptbahnhof. Recently, Kettles, a few meters-long space between two walls in front of a fire exit at Städelschule, showed a work by Haegue Yang. Franky, after all, was or is or will be home to Art World Superstars.
Beyond Portikus, MMK, Schirn, and Städel Museum, off-spaces (a term I often irk about) are etching marks on Franky’s historied art landscape. Guerrilla art shows always take place in the city, yet surprisingly little has been written about them. Recently, several apartments have become exhibition spaces, including Jean-Claude Maier, Temple, Kettles, and, surely, many others I have not heard of or been invited to.
Non-gallery exhibitions are run, curated, and promoted by non-gallerinas or artists. Works are mounted on apartment walls, and drinks free-flow because it's always BYOB. The exhibition is full and cramped, but no one's chin is held high. No snobs around, or not a lot. Greetings are genuine among a friend of a friend of a friend. No critic squints at a detail; no curator butterflies in the crowd, kissing air; no gallerina wanting to make a sale. It is, at the risk of sounding cheesy. just a celebration of art.
The last time I enjoyed an exhibition opening was at The Birthday Gallery. Nina and Tandi, artists who run and live there, sent a cordial invitation and a champagne-only reminder via Telegram.
Several blocks from Hauptbahnhof, the gallery was on the top floor of the building. The door opened to a warm crowd of artists, friends, and friends of friends. "Finally," I exhaled apologetically, "you know how it is. Always late but still arrives. Eventually." It did feel like a birthday, the happy-thank-you-more-please kind. A home, a gallery, a good, good feeling. I wondered if it was, in fact, a birthday, and not an exhibition.
I asked a group of people sitting on the floor where the art was, and someone pointed to a corner, so I went. I hugged Gabbi, thinking he was showing his work, and asked where it was. "Oh, I'm not showing anything," he mused. He then gestured, "There's the work." My jaw dropped. I was amused, proud, happy, and surprised all at once. I look back at Gabbi and ask, "How?" The artist was dead.
It was a framed work by David Medalla, a famous Filipino artist who lived all over the world. "Werk," I said, in a congratulatory mood. "Love it.”
At some point, I stopped gawking and went to hang out in the living room. The floor was shiny, so I lay down. I watched shadows move, listened to everyone talk about everything but David Medalla.
In a daze, I kept looking at the ceiling. I was almost asleep, but watching shadows move kept me awake. Eventually, a sound performance began. I forgot what happened after it ended. I just remembered how loud they all clapped. I don't think it was anyone's birthday, but I was so happy I almost sang the birthday song.
None of this, I thought to myself, would exist in the Art World. But also, the Art World would not exist without this.✶
Disclaimer: This is an independent, non-commissioned text. The views expressed are my own and do not represent the artist, gallery, or any other parties mentioned.