Camille Henrot

New York

at Metro Pictures


Entering French-born Camille Henrot’s first solo show at Metro Pictures, I recalled a vivid early memory: my first time hearing an answering machine. I stood in the kitchen in the late ’80s, clutching our outdated avocado-colored rotary phone, while my mother dialed my grandparents. Instead of answering my chipper greeting, the canned voice on the line recited the leave-a-message-at-the-beep spiel. “It’s not them! What’s happening?” I shrieked, my mother confused until she grabbed the receiver and laughed. 

The strength of those fleeting feelings—frustration and alienation in the face of technological mediation—remains clear to this day. Henrot’s nine new telephone sculptures, created in collaboration with writer Jacob Bromberg, evoke a similar sentiment. The mostly wall-mounted corded objects, made of 3-D-printed resin or nylon polyamide and incorporating sound and video components, assume retro or absurd shapes: a teal phone with triangular orange buttons, a keypad in the shape of an ear, even an oversize receiver resembling a purple dildo. Listeners respond to a series of prompts on subjects including career goals and their bank account numbers. All the button pushing leads to dead ends. As with many of Henrot’s crowd-pleasing works, the phones’ nostalgic appearance belies a larger inquiry into questions of control and shifting social relations. 

Henrot’s previous works, such as her 2013 Venice Biennale Silver Lion-winning video Grosse Fatigue, have examined systems of scientific knowledge and creation, as well as legacies of colonialism. The successful artist has been criticized, however, for her treatment of “otherness.” Recently, e-flux’s digital forum “Conversations” hosted a debate about her remarks in a September Guardian interview, in which she called the choreography of rap superstar Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” video (the subject of a recent series of drawings) “shamanistic and entrancing,” adding, “She is challenging us to embrace our primal nature.” 

This exhibition focused mostly on the thorny subject of patriarchy via the gendered patterns of service labor. Several of the phone sculptures provide faux-self-help lines on topics such as male infidelity (Is He Cheating on You?), psychological evaluation (Splendid Isolation) and interpersonal complaints (Enough Is Enough). These works feature female voices alternately stern and flirty, asking increasingly personal questions. Most searing is Dawg Shaming, also voiced by a woman. Posed as a help line for pet problems, the service offers 31 menu options, outlining scenarios ranging from dogs messing on the carpet to instances of domestic abuse by male partners—metaphorical “dogs.” Men are on the phone lines, too, but in roles such as an elderly grouser (voiced by Willem Dafoe), masochistic historical figures looking for love, and an automated service provider addressing father/technology problems (Bad Dad & Beyond). 

A series of large sketchy watercolors (all 2015) occupied another room of the show. Here, Henrot used the medium of painting to illustrate bizarre fantasies (in the psychoanalytic sense) hinted at elsewhere. Killing Time, for example, depicts a cannibalistic male office worker, while Sad Dad shows a human/bird figure with an erect penis dragging a baby by the arm. A bronze figurine related to the West African Dogon creation myth and a multitiered zoetrope animating miniature resin sculptures of assorted motifs, like cascading pills and stretching Buddhas, by strobe light, completed the show. 

At first, the various types of work seemed disparate. But all the pieces reflect a sense of alienation produced by the commodification of spirituality and relationships in our data-mined, automated world. For the show’s youngest visitors, accustomed to swiping and texting on smartphones to meet their needs, even picking up the phones must have felt like an anachronistic gesture. The thought of being so disconnected from live voices made me long for the days of landlines.

Camille Henrot

New Orleans

at New Orleans Museum of Art


“Cities of Ys,” organized by Miranda Lash at the New Orleans Museum of Art (NOMA), was Camille Henrot’s first solo exhibition in the United States. Henrot, who hails from Brittany, was the recipient last year of the Silver Lion award at the 55th Venice Biennale, for her video Grosse Fatigue (2013), in which she ostensibly catalogues the universe. At NOMA, she turned to the history and culture of the Houma tribe of southern Louisiana. Henrot drew parallels between the fishing towns of the Gulf coast and those of Brittany, whose mythical city Ys is referenced in the exhibition’s title.

After two years of research and considerable time spent with members of the United Houma Nation, Henrot created a series of documentary-style videos that were presented on flat-screen monitors. The 10 videos, collectively titled “Plasma Plasmas Stealth,” were distributed within seven mixed-medium installations (all works 2013). The installations explore various facets of Houma history and culture, but are concerned mainly with the fact that the Houma have not been recognized as a tribe by the United States government. In places, video screens are partially obscured by wooden cutouts left over from making guitars or adorned with drawings inspired by artists such as Joan Miró and Paul Klee; the video in the installation Cities of Ys is accompanied by a stack of papers excerpting an 1839 compilation of traditional Breton folk songs.

The installation Cappuccino relays the sad truth about the plight of the 17,000 people who make up the Houma tribe. In one-on-one interviews, and through voiceovers, they explain the double discrimination they have faced. The Houma people, who are acknowledged by the state of Louisiana as a tribe, were not allowed to attend public school in the state’s Terrebonne Parish, the swampy region where most of them live, until 1966. And they have not been federally recognized due to both intermarriage and the fractured bayous that displace and divide them. A print of the Wikipedia page for “cappuccino” is hung below the plasma screen, inviting, according to Lash, “discussion as to how archetypal images are created in the twenty-first century.” In this case, a beverage named after the color of Capuchin friars’ habits is now consumed internationally. Nearby, an iPad presents a video of a drop of water falling and rippling into a pool.

A Global Enterprise stands as a more singular installation, with 13 hinged panels (two of them flat-screen monitors playing videos) recalling poster displays or the Cover Flow interface on a Macintosh computer. The videos, shot in Terrebonne Parish, are juxtaposed with posters of previous NOMA exhibitions to draw attention to various forms of cultural translation. A photograph of Marlon Brando pinned to a sheet of cork alludes to Brando’s rejection of his 1973 Oscar as a gesture of support for the American Indian Movement.                 

The ambitiously layered exhibition also included a suite of silkscreen prints, a sculpture inspired by a traditional Acadian canoe and a woodcut titled Submersion of Ys. This print brought us full circle to the stories of Ys that Henrot heard as a child. According to Breton legend, the sea eventually swallowed the city. This fate, which is not an unlikely one for the Gulf Coast, serves as a metaphor for the people of the Houma Nation. Drowning in bureaucratic paperwork and other obstacles for decades, they continue to strive for federal recognition.