Rui Chafes
ISABEL LUCAS
Interview
ALCINO GONÇALVES
Photography
Without being born or dying VI
2022, iron, 76 × 47 × 40 cm
Courtesy Galeria Filomena Soares, Lisboa
“THE ART THAT INTERESTS ME HAS NO MESSAGES, NO HISTORY, NO PROMISES”
Nothing exists I
2020, iron, 100 × 24 × 29 cm
Private collection
Nothing exists III
2020, iron, 127 × 70 × 55 cm
Private collection
You don't even see me
2021, iron, 114 × 44 × 42 cm
Coll. Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian - Centro de Arte Moderna, Lisboa
Rui Chafes (b. 1966) calls the place where he spends his time reading, drawing, moulding iron, thinking and sometimes writing a sanctuary. It's found in the house where he grew up, by the sea, far from the noise of Lisbon, where he normally resides. Solitude spawns his art. Iron sculptures he wants to outlive him, that defy time and that gain significance in its passing. This is how he sees art; a continuous process that bears the memory of all those who contributed to its construction. A unique work, by a unique artist, who is no more than the sum of every artist that there has ever been. One of the biggest names in contemporary art in Portugal, Chafes recently showed his work at the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation alongside one of his greatest inspirations, the Swiss artist Alberto Giacometti.
At the recent Gulbenkian exhibition, your work appears alongside an artist from a different time than your own. To what extent did Giacometti's work help shape or influence your way of understanding art?
I only see my relationship with artists as one of continuity and, primarily, with artists of the past. I think my work only speaks to dead masters. I've always been interested in looking back, and really far back. The person or artworks that inspire my sculpture are very old. I don't look sideways, I look backwards. I don't even look forwards; I really look back at prehistoric sculptures, Greek or Roman sculptures, Buddhist sculptures, Gothic sculptures, medieval sculptures. Advancing through time, I find very few artists in the 20th century. One of the most important was Giacometti. Within what we call 20th-century art and modernism, for me, Giacometti was always the most important sculptor.
Why?
Precisely because his position was between that modernism, which first emerged in the 20th century, and the archaic world, the ancient world, the Egyptian world. Giacometti is a timeless sculptor. He's unlike the Cubists or Surrealists, who had their time. For absolutely ages, he was the only 20th-century sculptor or artist who really moved me.
By overcoming time?
Not only that, but by the way he did it. The work we most associate with Giacometti, those long, thin figures, the busts, the heads, are unfinished works, endless works, works in perpetual motion, where we sense that gesture of trying, failing, succeeding, withdrawing. Certain sculptures remove so much material that they almost disappear. Formally speaking, that has nothing to do with my work. There is no formal common ground, but there’s the rest, specifically, the connection with time, that dialogue with the dead. When Jean Genet wrote the key text on Giacometti's studio, he talks of this art made for the dead, for the past.
You mentioned solitude and conversation. The solitude with which you act in the present, in your own time, is based on a conversation with the past and your art emerges from this connection...
I get the impression that death doesn't exist, that we're always surrounded by the dead, constantly manifesting. They help us. They’re with us. This applies to people with whom we’ve had or have sentimental or familial or friendly relationships, but also to artists. I don't see the relationship with artists in a chronological or historical way, but rather as a huge present. If I study the work of an artist from the 15th or 14th century, I'm not travelling through time, I’m looking at them as if they were my contemporary. It's the same with writing. When we read a book, if it's one we’re interested in, we don’t place it in time, saying “I'm reading a book from 1920”; we're reading a book that is bringing us into the world today, now. As for solitude, it's absolutely necessary for me, which is why I work here. Alone. I don’t see myself working except in the greatest of solitudes.
The Night
2018, iron and plaster sculpture “Le Nez” by Alberto Giacometti, 81 × 28,5 × 287
Coll. Fondation Giacometti, Paris
Do you unplug everything?
Everything. I don't even have a computer in this house. This solitude also has to do with reading, writing and drawing. Reading, writing and drawing are very similar. Sculpture comes later. It has mechanical processes, as I see it. Sometimes it involves factories, when I make larger pieces and have to deal with various technicians at the same time. It's a process that's much more demarcated from the intimacy that can be found in reading, writing and drawing. And my companions are artists and writers, who are no longer physically there.
This triad of reading, writing and drawing is part of your training. Was it the combination of these three areas that made you realise you wanted to be an artist, if such a desire occurred early on?
Yes. But I find it odd, because 90% of artists, when they’re asked if they've always wanted to be artists, say yes, that they've never wanted to be anything else. I wanted to be other things.
Such as?
I wanted to be a vet; I don't know. I'm not going to say that I always wanted to be an artist, because it's not true. Saying that, from a very early age, I spent hours drawing. Long before doing sculpture, I spent my days drawing and reading. Writing came later. I associate drawing with reading, and later with writing, alone. I spent a lot of time on my own, tucked away in my room. I was never part of groups or out in the street. I'm talking about childhood and adolescence. I still do that. Now, I sometimes write stuff, but writing is the hardest thing. It is for me.
What about being a sculptor?
Being a sculptor is... Not being able to do anything apart from construct objects that you don't believe in, which is my case; to occupy a space that doesn't exist either, which is mental space. It's something that, beyond the physical aspect of construction, the manipulation of materials and techniques and machines, is always a mental space. I don't believe in objects. I think they're just ideas, formalisations of ideas, possibilities of ideas. I have absolutely no fetishism for objects. No object interests me. I'm interested in the idea behind the object or the idea it can conjure in those who see it, those who look at it and think about it. Being a sculptor is a mixture of the only thing I know how to do and wanting to keep trying to make an object that makes sense. But, in my case, it's easier than writing.
Drawing, reading and writing are almost mental processes or activities. There's paper or pencil, or something digital. In your case, they’re transmuted into something profoundly concrete: iron. Thought embodied in iron.
In a very clear way. There's no way of working with the material other than the belief that we reach another level of knowledge, with a deeper or more intimate vision of reality through the material. The material is just a vehicle for me. In the same way I don't fetishise objects, I don't fetishise material either. I use iron because I'm only interested in iron, because it comes from the ground. It has an earthly, mythical, ancient origin. It's an archaic material that boasts a very strong historical bond with man. It can be used to make weapons of war or tools for peace and agriculture. It's used in industry and architecture. Apart from having very archaic telluric roots, it has an almost banal presence in our lives, while maintaining the mythical side that we know from blacksmiths and alchemists. And it's dominated by fire. The most important thing for me is fire. I burn everything I can.
You mentioned time, but when it comes to sculpture it's impossible not to talk about space. How would you describe this relationship?
There are various situations. When we think about sculpture and when we think about space, we have to adopt different assumptions. I'm very interested in making pieces that feature in places that already exist. Spaces that are open to history, like a church, or convents, or religious or military spaces. I'm very interested in this relationship with ancient architecture.
With history?
More with memory than with history. When we enter a church, we Europeans, Iberians, Portuguese - our template is Romanesque and Gothic architecture - feel that this is part of our identity. It's almost genetic. tem a ver com o reconhecer, a arquitetura islâmica, It has to do with recognising Islamic architecture, which can be found on the Iberian Peninsula, but mostly the Romanesque and Gothic. So, every time we enter a Gothic or Romanesque church, we immediately recognise everything. The smell, the light, the architecture, the dimensions, the proportions, the space, the central apse, the height of the ceiling; it's within us. If we were Thai or Vietnamese, we would have a different memory and a different relationship with space. For me, when it comes to this architecture, this space, this division of space or this proportion of space, it's very important to introduce a sculpture that, although it has no time, was made now; it's timeless, but it was made now. And I don't think it's going to create any disturbance, any alteration; it's going to create new ways of receiving that space. I've done some pieces in churches, both temporary and permanent, and what I’m concerned about is doing something that makes sense. I often find that, although completely unexpected incursions, they end up participating in that reality since forever. And that has to do with the almost timeless capacity of a sculpture to be part of the timeline, which runs through the space, the light, the windows, the height, the architecture.
And what about modern spaces or museums?
If we think about the current museum template being based on a white cube, i.e., a neutral white space, free of any symbolic or metaphorical interference, any interference that isn't the construction of the space in a neutral fashion, we arrive at the destiny of current art, or modern, modern and current, contemporary art: being exhibited in spaces supposedly built to host art. The museum experience is relatively recent. Before the 20th century, there was no notion of a contemporary art museum. Art was made to occupy its places in the city, in palaces, in churches. The white cube is a work of architecture made, designed, and commissioned for an architect who responds more or less well, more or less competently to the objective of presenting a neutral space, supposedly with the best conditions for hosting art, like Siza Vieira at Serralves, or Tadao Ando at the Langen Foundation. That's the idea, and I don't know if it's better or worse.
That said, you've been quite critical of this kind of space.
Yes, because, essentially, art has always existed in the world. It was always around people in a way that confronted them. Returning to the Gothic church model, a person would enter the church and be confronted with works of art illuminated by candlelight, and that made sense. They made sense. Paying to see a white cube with works on display is another way of looking at the work, while necessarily separating it from the world, from nature, from people's deepest instincts in their day-to-day lives. Of course, there’s the great advantage of people being able to see art, and this also involves the democratisation of the world. Previously, people couldn't just visit a palace and see works of art; now they can visit a museum. This is all very well, but I think it's always very important that works of art are constructed or exhibited in appropriate spaces that make sense. Of course, the ideal situation, such as the Rothko Chapel [in Houston], isn’t possible for all artists. However, in an ideal situation, collectors should have a specifically designed pavilion for the work of a particular artist, where it makes sense in relation to the space. We're talking about the ideal situation. The role of museums, art centres and foundations is extremely important, especially in tandem with good architecture. That said, it’s still a way of isolating artworks from the world they come from.
And art in the public space?
Another delicate matter. You can't invade the public space and impose something because the space is public space, according to the name.
When you're asked to create a sculpture for one of these city spaces, what are your prime concerns?
First, working out whether what I'm going to do makes sense; if it has to do with architecture, but also with nature. What kind of space it is, if the piece is going to blend in, if it's going to be a kind of flagship or not. I refuse to create pieces for roundabouts. I think it's an aberration having a sculpture with cars driving around it. That’s not the way to look at it. It has to be somewhere that makes sense, with the right light and contact for the people going to see it, that can offer them some sort of discovery. For example, the sculpture I did for Avenida Liberdade in 2008. I asked for it not to be illuminated at night. I want it to function according to the different parts of the day. When it rains, it rains; when it's sunny, it's sunny.If it's nighttime, you can't see it. And if it's daytime, you can see it, but you don't let everyone see it; not everyone sees it. There are people who pass it every day and don't see it. It doesn't impose itself. And I find the contact interesting, making a giant sculpture for everyone to see; I'm interested in artworks being discovered, because they only make sense if someone is interested in them or if they reach someone. I don’t expect people to be forced to take an interest in works of art. People have to discover art and works of art also have to discover people, finding their place in the shade or in the light. Works of art also observe us when we're in public spaces. Regarding the occupation of space, there's another situation that interests me greatly: works of art in nature. This could mean a garden or a park, but also wild, untamed nature. I've done them on mountains, on rocks; I've done sculptures that I forsake here by the sea. Making sculptures that surrender to nature.
This is not me
2022, iron, 150 × 100 × 900 cm
When people talk about your art, they talk about your relationship with romanticism. How do you define that relationship?
For a long time, particularly when I was a student at Belas Artes [Faculty of Fine Arts], I read a lot of German Romanticism. It was a very important discovery, especially in relation to the ephemeral, nature and what was then called the sublime.
We've talked about time and space. Now let's talk about emptiness, which is another key concept in the way you think about art. When you think of emptiness, what do you think of?
Emptiness is the starting point and the objective. I'm interested in art that nears total emptiness, where words are unnecessary. The art that interests me has no messages, no history, no false promises. It merely occupies that emptiness that is our starting point, our finishing point. And it takes courage to accept that emptiness is much richer, or much more complete, than non-existence. Emptiness is not non-existence. It’s existence in its plenitude in silence and in an almost defenceless situation of confronting a supposed eternity.
I want everything from you
2006, iron, 375 × 140 × 140 cm
Private collection
Burning in the forbidden sea / Filling egg shells
(with Orla Barry) 2011, steel, recorded voice in a white room with green light, 194 × 160 × 100 cm
Coll. Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian - Centro de Arte Moderna, Lisboa
Nowadays, there's much talk about the need for artists to engage with their time, to intervene, to reflect the world. What’s your opinion on this kind of urgency or discourse in art?
I have nothing to say about my time. I hope my art doesn't intervene in my time or help improve my times. It's not art’s responsibility to help the world if we think that the world always needs a spiritual vision, a profound vision of reality itself. Art is a chance to understand the world in its greatest profundity, in its most spiritual density. However, I don't believe it can commit itself to changing the world or being interventionist. I don't believe so. If we think about things like political art or interventive or activist art, the least you can say is that, sooner or later, this art ends up being consumed and acquired...
Will it survive its time?
No. Often, this supposedly activist and interventionist art becomes toothless when acquired by the institutions it criticises. It's mildly perverse. I believe there's only one artist and only one art, and that, over time, that art and that artist will manifest themselves in different ways. But it's only one artist. We're all just one artist. So, I don't believe there’s a personal art. I don't believe that artists have intimate or personal messages that they demonstrate with their art. I believe that the artists who are really serious are continuing to fashion a single work of art that will develop and manifest itself over time.
But your sculpture is recognisably yours. In other words, you have an artistic hallmark that is recognisable in its subjectivity.
It’s recognisable because of its calligraphy. I've always loved the idea of anonymity, of the non-ego that appears so often in Gothic, medieval and Romanesque art. The artists are unknown, anonymous. It’s just the work of art itself. Like the idea of abdicating ego. Of art not being a personal expression of any ego. I'm very wary of artists with big egos. More important than the artist's ego is the work, and that work is part of a great work that is always being made. It's anonymity.
You've said in interviews that it’s stimulating to continue conversing with an artwork you've done because it still challenges you, because it's not finished.
Yes, this sometimes happens with works that I still can’t fathom years later. I think it's a very good sign when an artist doesn't understand what they’ve done. It's a sign that the work is alive and challenges the artist, giving them problems. Those works where I know what I’ve done, I think that they become very sad because they’re somewhat of a failure.
When you decide to create, what’s your first impulse?
The impulse is to create emptiness. It's to create emptiness and, primarily, to try for a sculpture or, in my case, an iron construction to make some sense and change something in my eyes and, above all, in the eyes of those observing it. Because I believe that a work of art only exists when it is seen. Works of art only exist in people's eyes. Works of art originate from people, not in a studio. I'm merely the vehicle to make that unique sculpture. When I say I'm an artist, I'm just the vehicle that makes that sculpture that has to be made. And that sculpture will only exist in each person's eyes, in each person's heart. Every person who sees a work of art makes it exist and gives it meaning, asking the right questions or giving the right answers to the questions the sculpture or work of art asks. It’s almost like I'm working for others. I'm other people’s servant.
And when you’re the viewer?
The art I always want to visit and revisit is art I already know. Generally, it's in specific places. Sometimes, I go looking for it in a museum, and there are two ways of doing that. One is going to see everything; you spend the afternoon there and see 3,500 works, or you don't see any, you just look. It's like going to a banquet and wanting to eat all the food. Or going into a museum, visiting just one room and seeing a work or two. I can't consume more than that. I go to that room and I can spend ages there, to really see it. Seeing art is different from looking at it.
And is there solitude for the person who sees, like the solitude of the artist when they create?
Exactly. Seeing a work of art and not looking at 300,000 is a solitary act. I visit to see and clarify my perspective. Or an exhibition that's currently on show that interests me a lot. It’s not so much discipline, but I'd like to go and see what other artists are doing more often. I see a lot of exhibitions by fellow artists of all ages, older and younger.
