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Ann Cooper Albright, Contact Improvisation and the Politics of Empathy

Ann Cooper Albright, whose research and teachings merge theory and practice, considers that an understanding of our bodies and an awareness of ourselves and others occur in particular through dance, the study of phenomenology as well as art history. In this text, the American scholar and dancer aims at transcending the subject/object dyad that shapes our perception of the world. The skin is no longer a boundary, or a shield, but a porous surface enabling an interconnectedness between bodies and world, so that both the inside and the outside can be felt simultaneously.

Feeling In and Out: Contact Improvisation and the Politics of Empathy

by Ann Cooper Albright

In an extraordinarily profound and poetic short essay on Rembrandt’s paintings, art critic John Berger traces the differences between the artist’s drawings and his paintings—particularly the late portraits. Whereas in his drawings Rembrandt is a master of proportion, in his paintings this realistic perspective is radically altered. Berger asks: “Why in his paintings did he forget—or ignore—what he could do with such mastery in his drawings?”⁠1 Alluding to the historical context of Rembrandt’s time, Berger suggests: “He grew old in a climate of economic fanaticism and indifference—not dissimilar to the climate of the period we are living through. The human could no longer simply be copied… the human was no longer self-evident; it had to be found in the darkness.”⁠2 Berger searches for language to address what is not directly visible in Rembrandt’s painting, and postulates that “Something else—something antithetical to “real” space must have interested him more.”⁠3 Vital yet elusive, palpable yet not immediately visible, this “something else” present in Rembrandt’s work is defined by Berger as a “corporeal space.” By distorting a part or parts of the bodies he was painting, Rembrandt was able to give them what Berger calls a “special power of narration.” Tellingly, this corporeal space is incompatible with architectural, measured space. It is connected to energy, not geometric lines. Berger writes: “corporeal space is continually changing its measures and focal centres, according to circumstances. It measures by waves, not metres. Hence its necessary dislocations of ‘real’ space.”⁠4

In order to give his readers a sense of the different orientations of this corporeal space, Berger charges us to “leave the museum”⁠5 and go the emergency room of a hospital. It is there, Berger insists, that we will find

“[t]he space of each sentient body’s awareness of itself. It is not boundless like subjective space: it is always finally bound by the laws of the body, but its landmarks, its emphasis, its inner proportions are continually changing. Pain sharpens our awareness of such space. It is the space of our first vulnerability and solitude. Also of disease. But is also, potentially, the space of pleasure, well-being and the sensation of being loved.”⁠6

For Berger, this corporeal space can be felt by touch more clearly than it can be seen by sight, which is why it is the space that nurses occupy more often than doctors. “[O]n each mattress, within each patient, it takes a different form.”⁠7 I am intrigued by Berger’s notion of a corporeal space, one that requires another “way of seeing” to register its potency. In the writing that follows, I want to explore how this space prioritizes touch and “feeling” rather than seeing, shifting the traditional subject/object dynamic of these exchanges. Of course, I am writing not only about the social and political relationship between painter and model, or even that of an art critic and the work of art, but also of the relationship between one’s self and an “other.” I will argue that by attending to the practice of feeling rather than its affects, Contact Improvisation can help us revise Western notions of empathy that are based on a psychological conception of the individual subject and an object of sympathy.

In English, feeling is both a noun and a verb form. Its many definitions span the gamut from the strictly material – such as to finger, palpate, or touch something—to the highly cerebral. It can be used to describe a physical sensation (I feel something sticky), an intellectual perception (I have a feeling that…), or an emotive state (feeling blue). Feeling can refer to both the surface of the body and the interior self. Feelings, of course, are closely linked to empathy, and nowhere is this more obvious than in the German term Einfühlung, which can be translated as feeling in or feeling into. As Susan Foster outlines in her recent genealogy of empathy, this term was originally coined in 1873 by German aesthetician Robert Vischer and subsequently translated into English as “empathy.”⁠8 In its late 19th century German context, feeling into (or empathy) was primarily used to describe the experience of contemplating, moving into and merging with a work of art, something that John Berger does very well in his perceptive writing. In an early 21st century context, however, empathy usually refers to the experience of relating to someone else’s circumstances, and constitutes the stuff of daytime talk shows à la Oprah Winfrey. As feeling moves from a verb to a noun, from the physical sensing of touch to a projected image of another’s experience, it can take on the colonial baggage of sympathy and the psychic mantle of emotion.

But what if we were to refuse this stabilizing of a verb into a noun—of an active experience into a passive object? What if we kept feeling at the surface of the body, rather than letting it sink into what Foster describes as the late 19th century’s “newly constructed interiority whose proclivities for repression, identification, transference, and sublimation were just beginning to be explored and whose defining consciousness could be fathomed only through intensive introspection”?⁠9 What if we approached Einfühlung, or feeling into, as a kinesthetic practice rather than a psychological state? By holding our attention to the physical, I am not trying to suggest that this realm is any more authentic, natural, “real,” or less culturally grounded than the psychological. On the contrary, I am quite interested in foregrounding the socio-political moorings of corporeal training. But it is crucial for us to recognize just how quickly and easily we tend to elide feeling with emotions, setting up a subject position based on possession (I have emotions) rather than one based in sensation (I am feeling).

Contact Improvisation has been around for almost four decades and I have been involved with the form for three of those decades. I have participated in and taught workshops in many different communities all over the world. Although the form has changed and moved as it adapts to different historical circumstances and geographic locations, there are some fundamental elements that comprise the core of the physical training, no matter whether it is conducted in German or English, Mandarin or Tamil. One of these is a focused attention to sensation at the level of the skin.

As we all know, skin is one of the largest and most sensitive of our organs. It covers our entire bodies and it is impossible to exist in the world without one’s skin. Ironically, however, many people go through their everyday lives with little awareness of their skin as a perceptual faculty. This is because our current post-industrial culture reifies the visual almost to the exclusion of our other senses, including those of sound and smell. Most of us use sight to navigate the world—off-line as well as on-line. Generally speaking in the West, seeing is believing, and feeling is suspect. We tend to become aware of our skin only in extreme situations such as fear (the skin crawling up the back of my neck), awe (it gave me goose bumps), or pleasure (the tingling sensation of a lover’s caress). Much of the foundational training in Contact Improvisation attempts to reverse this cultural hierarchy by reducing our dependency on the visual and bringing awareness to the nuances of the tactile. In Contact, one’s skin becomes a primary site of communication.

The first step in this process of retraining our corporeal habitus is to release the tension that is a direct result of what I call a territorial approach to the body’s integrity. We can conceive of our skin as either a boundary or a conduit and this shift in perception leads to a radically different understanding of the relationship between myself and the world. If my skin is seen as a barrier to disease, infection, or any kind of “otherness,” I might well approach life with a certain Cold War mentality, shoring up any breaches in my defense system and using my skin as a wall or a container meant to keep me safe from the outside world. If, on the other hand, I experience my skin as the porous interface between myself and the world, then I will be more apt to engage my skin as a permeable, sensitive layer that facilitates that exchange. As Corey Spiro, one of my students in a recent Contact class, suggests:

“I feel as though we live in a world where the boundary between self and ‘other’ is constantly being defined, labeled, and monitored. This is especially apparent in our perceptions of the ownership of space. MY PROPERTY, MY ROOM, etc. Nowhere is this line more clearly drawn than at our skin […]. It’s all too easy to convince oneself that the skin represents the ultimate energetic boundary between self and other. Of course, this barrier works both ways, just as it stops the world from coming into us, it similarly prevents our conception of self from expanding beyond the limits of our physical bodies.
I would expect then, that opening the pores of my skin wide enough to let the world in would be a frightening experience. Rather than an upsetting intrusion, however, I was surprised to find out that it was actually extremely refreshing. My energy in class was perhaps lagging a little bit today, but I felt that by opening myself up I was able to simultaneously expand outward into the energy of Wild Main Space and also feel more acutely the electromagnetic fields of everyone else standing around me. In short, opening my pores did more than just “let the world in,” it also let me out. The feeling was one of freedom and relief, as I was no longer alone within the prison-like confines of my injured and fatigued frame.”⁠10

In this dialogue between the self and the world, one becomes aware of the intriguing possibilities of interdependence, including a deeper sense of responsibility. I think of responsibility not as an oppressive duty towards others, but rather as an ability to respond, an ability to be present with the world and as a way of being present with oneself. This is the fruit of kinesthetic attention, a physical mindfulness that prepares one for improvisation. It is also a kind of somatic engagement which leads to a profound psychic reorganization as well. If the world is already inside one’s body, then the separation between internal and external—self and other—is much less distinct. The skin is no longer the boundary between the world and myself, but rather the sensing organ, which brings the world into my awareness. Given the anxiety swirling around boundaries and bodies in contemporary society, however, this latter sensibility requires a bit of practice.

One of the earliest exercises that I give in my improvisation classes is referred to as “the small dance” or “the stand.” First developed by Steve Paxton in the early seventies as he explored the physical skills that would lead towards defining the form of Contact Improvisation, the stand allows one to focus on the internal movements created by the shifts of bones, muscles and breath required to stand “still.” After they have been warming up, moving through the space for awhile with big, vigorous movements, I ask the students to chose a spot and stand in a relaxed, but active manner. Engaging one’s peripheral vision is crucial to this process, and I tell the dancers to try and release the fronts of their eyes, allowing images and colors to come into their head instead of straining their eyes in order to go out and grab the visual image. Often, I will call their attention to the sensation of the moisture on their skin, asking them to feel the difference between air and clothing. Next, I ask them to concentrate on opening the pores of their skin so that it becomes like a window screen, allowing air, smells and sounds to come in from the outside. I ask them to try to breathe through the pores of their skin. Only once they sense the responsiveness of their own skin, are my students ready to work with a partner and feel their weight shifting back and forth between two people. I emphasize the homonymic connections between pore (of the skin) and pour (as in pouring water from a pitcher), asking the students to reflect in writing on what it feels like to open the pores of your skin wide enough to let the world pour in. Here is how Isabel Roth, another of my recent Contact students, responds to this physical practice:

“I think the idea of opening pores as being similar to the idea of opening your mind. It’s not as if you can actively think to open pores and actually feel the individual pores opening. But it is a palpable feeling of release, of spreading and opening your skin to the physical space and people around you […]. Just like opening the pores of the skin allows you to be ready to receive, it also makes you ready to give. Skin is such a pliable and ever-flexible organ, constantly shifting and regenerating, depending on movement and contact. By opening the pores you prepare the skin for contact and for the willingness to open up to another’s touch. Now ready to accept that touch, it is easier to reciprocate pouring weight from open pores to a partner.”⁠11

As you may have noticed, each of my students’ responses uses feeling as both noun and verb – an active state of sensing and also a reflection of that experience. These two meanings of the word resonate with one another, vibrating in an ambiguous space between a subject (who feels) and an object (of feeling). Reading the students’ descriptions of their experience, I am reminded of Berger’s sense that corporeal space is measured in “waves, not metres,” and is predicated on touch, not sight. The somatic state of responsiveness that these students articulate is crucial in preparing the body to enter safely into a Contact duet. But before I move into an analysis of the physical dimensions of touch and sharing weight, I want to look at two different ways of thinking about empathy by making a distinction between introspection and interoception.

Etymologically, introspection means to look into one’s self, which is usually specified as one’s own mind or feelings. This interior space is the site of empathy, envisioned as contained within one’s self until it is drawn out by the object of one’s gaze, sympathy, or even pity. As Foster demonstrates in her study cited earlier, introspection is implicated in the scopic economy of the 19th-century self. Interoception, on the other hand, replaces the visual emphasis (spect) with the more tactile sensibility of cept. Used mostly in neuropsychology, the term “interoception” references one’s ability to feel sensations arising from within the body, specifically one’s visceral organs, giving us the term “gut feelings.” Advances in brain imaging over the last decade have helped scientists locate interoception in the right frontal insula, a part of the brain also identified with emotional intelligence. It could be easy to collapse these two terms into an overall feeling of empathy. But as any Zen master will tell you, feeling does not necessarily have to evolve into emotion. In fact, I want to suggest that the physical mind of interoception can produce an entirely different kind of empathetic exchange, one that stays with feeling without getting stuck in the emotional baggage of feelings.

Once my students are comfortable with opening the pores of their skin, we begin the infinitely interesting process of learning to pour our weight, like water, into one another’s bodies. Starting with two hands, one partner will firmly, yet openly, touch another person on the back or shoulder, kinesthetically “asking” their partner to pour their weight into the receptacle of their hands. The asking partner can regulate how much weight is given by resisting and pouring back even as they accept the responsibility for the other person’s weight. This mutual pouring creates an energetic dialogue that continuously loops between the partners. Eventually, the partners begin to pour their weight back and forth, using different body parts as their physical contact revolves around the space and across their bodies. As the dancers gain fluidity in the giving and receiving of weight, the dancing tends to speed up. This is the moment when the responsiveness of one’s body is critical. There is no time for the lengthy processing of emotions here; one has to focus entirely on keeping up with the point of contact.

This point of connection is sometimes referred to in Contact parlance as the “third mind.” Allowing their dancing to be led by this “third mind,” the two partners endeavor to follow its spatial and rhythmic journey throughout the studio space. At first it may seem clear which partner is leading and which one is following, but eventually those roles evolve into such a fluid and subtle exchange that the categories of leader and follower lose their oppositional moorings. This does not mean, however, that all difference is collapsed. For me, this ‘third mind” marks an intersubjective space in which one is aware of sensations both internal and external without necessarily categorizing those feelings into socially recognizable roles. The notion of a “third mind” directs attention away from the oppositional poles of self and other, stretching a single line into a more open field of play. Contact trains for a physical interconnectedness that is akin to what Deirdre Sklar calls “empathic kinesthetic perception.”

“Emphatic kinesthetic perception suggests a combination of mimesis and empathy. […] Whereas visual perception implies an ‘object’ to be perceived from a distance with the eyes alone, empathic kinesthetic perception implies a bridging between subjectivities. This kind of ‘connected knowing’ produces a very intimate kind of knowledge, a taste of those ineffable movement experiences that can’t be easily put into words. Paradoxically, as feminist psychologist Judith Jordan points out, the kind of temporary joining that occurs in empathy produces not a blurry merger but an articulated perception of differences.”⁠12

It is this “articulated perception of differences” that I want to focus on in these last few pages. When I am teaching Contact and I use terms such as “interconnected,” “feeling one’s partner’s experience,” or “moving together,” I emphasize that this “going with the flow” does not mean one becomes a neutral container, nor does it suggest a “blurry merger” of energies such that the dancing homogenizes into one long fluid chain of rolls and lifts. Quite the contrary. The sensitivity to another’s experience also creates an awareness of subtle differences, differences that can be celebrated within the improvisation. While I do not have time to fully engage with Merleau-Ponty’s ideas about intersubjectivity and touch in this context, I do think it is important to point out that in French the verbs for “touch” and feel” are both transitive and reflexive verb forms. That is to say that one feels an “other” at the same time that one feels oneself feeling. Similarly one can touch something and feel oneself being touched at the same time (such as Merleau-Ponty’s famous example of one hand holding the other). This looping across to another and then back to oneself intrigues me, for it loosens up the psychological patterns of always already relating to an “other” as an object (of empathy, scrutiny, or desire…). This play of difference can be accentuated in another dance score, which I give to my students. Here are my instructions:

“This is a duet, not an exercise. A dance, not an activity. To begin, one person lies down, completely passive, allowing their weight to sink fully into the floor. Their partner begins to move their body with attention to giving the passive person an experience of the weight of their bones and the mobility of their joints. As any one who has ever done any kind of body work or physical therapy knows, a passive body allows one to feel sensations unavailable to a body that is self engaged, even the most released one. Focusing on their breaths, the partners establish a vibration of energetic exchange. Bit by bit, percentage point by percentage point, the passive partner becomes increasingly active, engaging first the core of the body’s structure and working outwards to mobilize the limbs—arms, legs, head and tailbone. Both partners dance together in a fully active state. Eventually, the originally active partner becomes progressively passive until they are lying on the floor, enjoying the sensations of their own body through the manipulations of their partner’s.”

The implications of this score are pretty obvious. Over the course of this duet one experiences the entire continuum of possibilities of being active or passive. Normally in our culture, these various positions of active and passive are pathologized into power dynamics, where the passive figure is seen as not having control, as being either infantile or lazy, rendering them an object of pity. But my experience and that of many of my students is that the experience of being totally passive, rather than feeling powerless, actually opens up a great deal of feeling that can create its own pleasures and sense of agency. Experiencing both extreme ends of these positions can be truly revelatory. For instance, Heather Sedlacek writes:

“I also found novelty and enjoyment in being able to dance at a different level than my partner. […] It was clearly stated that we were at different levels, that this was okay, and that the high intensity partner would take care and responsibility for the low intensity partner. Thus, for the first time I didn’t have to resist when my partner resisted or attempt to match her intensity. I didn’t have to be fire when she was fire, or wind when she was wind. I could simply revel in the percentage that our teacher called out every few minutes. […] Reaching 100% intensity and then helping my partner down to 0% provided another new and powerful experience. […] I felt a sense of responsibility that I have not felt before in Contact. Instead of moving with my partner and following the point of contact, as my partner decreased in intensity, I began to control her movements and direction. I had a unique sense of agency in the dance that for me is usually left up to the Third Mind, not to an individual partner.”⁠13

Throughout this paper I have tried to articulate how Contact Improvisation creates a corporeal space in which feeling allows for an interconnectedness with another person without solidifying that relationship into the subject/object dyad implicit in classic conceptions of empathy. I have highlighted how attention to skin as porous and open to the world can facilitate a dancing based on an interchange and multiplicity of subject positions. Moving with the point of contact requires a willingness to stay engaged with feeling (verb) in the present moment, refusing to allow any one kinesthetic exchange to get stuck in a particular feeling (noun). This is not to suggest that relationships in Contact Improvisation are so fluid as to be meaningless. Quite the contrary. But we need to enter something like Berger’s corporeal space with the dancers in order to read the meaning of their connection differently. Watching two people explore the continuum of energies available in Contact, we become aware of the basic generosity at the core of the form. To dance with you, I need to first feel you, recognizing that this feeling can change. The improvisational possibilities of this dancing can teach us that Einfühlung does not have to be only an introspective process, but rather can open us up to feeling both in and out.

This text was first published in Ann Cooper Albright, Engaging Bodies: The Politics and Poetics of Corporeality (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2013).

A dancer and a scholar, Ann Cooper Albright is professor and chair of the department of Dance at Oberlin College (Ohio). Combining her interests in dancing and cultural theory, she teaches a variety of courses that seek to engage students in both practices and theories of the body. Her latest book How to Land: Finding Ground in an Unstable World (2018) offers a new look at embodiment that treats gravity as the organizing force for thinking and moving through our twenty-first century world. Her other publications include: Engaging Bodies: The Politics and Poetics of Corporeality (2013), Encounters with Contact Improvisation (2010), Traces of Light: Absence and Presence in the Work of Loïe Fuller (2007), as well as Taken By Surprise: Improvisation in Dance and Mind (2003) coedited with David Gere, and Moving History/Dancing Cultures: A Dance History Reader (2001), coedited with Ann Dils.

  • John Berger, “Rembrandt and the Body,” in The Shape of a Pocket (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), 103–112, 106.

  • John Berger, “Rembrandt and the Body,” in The Shape of a Pocket (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), 103–112, 105.

  • John Berger, “Rembrandt and the Body,” in The Shape of a Pocket (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), 103–112, 106-7.

  • John Berger, “Rembrandt and the Body,” in The Shape of a Pocket (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), 103–112, 109.

  • John Berger, “Rembrandt and the Body,” in The Shape of a Pocket (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), 103–112, 106.

  • John Berger, “Rembrandt and the Body,” in The Shape of a Pocket (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), 103–112, 107.

  • John Berger, “Rembrandt and the Body,” in The Shape of a Pocket (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), 103–112, 107.

  • Susan Foster, Choreographing Empathy (London, New York: Routledge, 2011), 127.

  • Susan Foster, Choreographing Empathy (London, New York: Routledge, 2011), 154.

  • Corey Spiro, “Journal Entry,” in Ann Cooper Albright (ed.), Encounters with Contact: Dancing Contact Improvisation in College (Oberlin, OH: Oberlin Theater and Dance Program [distributed by Contact Quarterly], 2010), 40.

  • See Corey Spiro, “Journal Entry,” in Ann Cooper Albright (ed.), Encounters with Contact: Dancing Contact Improvisation in College (Oberlin, OH: Oberlin Theater and Dance Program [distributed by Contact Quarterly], 2010), 38.

  • Dreide Sklar, “Five Premises for a Culturally Sensitive Approach to Dance,” in Ann Dils & Ann Cooper Albright (eds.), Moving History/Dancing Cultures. A Dance History Reader (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2001), 30–32, 31. (Emphasis added).

  • See Corey Spiro, “Journal Entry,” in Ann Cooper Albright (ed.), Encounters with Contact: Dancing Contact Improvisation in College (Oberlin, OH: Oberlin Theater and Dance Program [distributed by Contact Quarterly], 2010), 17.

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Exhibition

Anticorps is conceived as a touch-induced reaction to the crisis we are experiencing. Following on cyber-feminist philosopher Donna Haraway it asks: “Why should our bodies end at the skin?” She was, like many artists in the exhibition, particularly concerned with technological extensions of the bodily envelope: screen-skins, virtual envelopes and so forth. Skin is a sensitive surface: irritated or damaged by different kinds of violence, it also is a marker of identity and a surface of inscription that triggers our primary alert mechanism.

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Kate Cooper, Infection Drivers, 2018
Kate Cooper, Infection Drivers, 2018. Video, color, sound, 7’19”. Produced in collaboration with Theo Cook. Soundtrack: Bonaventure. Courtesy of the artist. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

Through the use of CGI technology, Kate Cooper’s videos challenge accepted understandings of the body’s limitations. The video features computer generated images of women: digital ciphers who get tired and sick, bleed and are bruised. Cooper’s work examines CGI’s stealthy infiltration of wider culture, primarily used in commercial production and distribution, much in the way that pathogens invade and occupy an unsuspecting host. Her videos appropriate the conventions, techniques and aesthetics of the visual language of capitalism, complicating the division between subject and object.

Destabilizing the idea that images represent realities outside of their frames, these images occupy a liminal realm between fiction and reality. Resembling performance pieces, the videos are accompanied by powerful musical scores, often featuring samples of bodily sounds composed by producer Bonaventure. Cooper’s films challenge the notion of corporeal improvement, complicating the relationship between images and bodies, labour and refusal. Her work foregrounds vulnerability and fatigue and highlights the body’s capacity for resistance.

In Anticorps, Cooper’s video Infection Drivers shows a computer-generated woman wearing a translucent suit that inflates and deflates, evoking exaggerated stereotypes of gender-coded bodies. It is unclear whether this second skin is protecting or hurting the woman, presenting a body in conflict with itself.

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Kate Cooper, Infection Drivers, 2018
Kate Cooper, Infection Drivers, 2018. Video, sound, color, 7’29’’. Produced in collaboration with Theo Cook. Soundtrack: Bonaventure. Courtesy of the artist. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Kate Cooper, Infection Drivers, 2018
Kate Cooper, Infection Drivers, 2018. Video, color, sound, 7’19”. Produced in collaboration with Theo Cook. Soundtrack: Bonaventure. Courtesy of the artist. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Forensic Architecture, Cloud Studies, 2020
Forensic Architecture, Cloud Studies, 2020. Video, 23’28”. Courtesy of Forensic Architecture. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo. (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

Cloud Studies is an inquiry into a new form of cloud, namely the nebulous weapons used by states and large scale corporations: toxic gas, chemical weapons, and airborne poisons.

This study is the result of an investigation that began in Gaza in 2008 and which continues to this day. It takes the form of a film accompanied by six investigations on toxic gases, from the tear gas used to disperse protesters to the herbicides which destroy harvests and create forced migrations. These investigations are at once scientific and activist in tone, bringing together questions of environmental degradation and destruction with issues of state violence, from colonial dynamics to police brutality.

Forensic Architecture is a research group directed by architect Eyal Weizman at Goldsmiths, University of London. The group’s name points to its anchoring in criminology and suggests its methodological approach, which consists of the creation and presentation of images that serve as evidence of political violence. With the help of cartographic tools, 3D animation and simulated virtual environments, Forensic Architecture contributes to numerous legal and political inquiries throughout the world.

In the context of a contemporary art exhibition, this study also serves as a poetic meditation on the forms of clouds, their intangible nature and the threat that they can pose as immaterial arms. Cloud Studies opens the final section of the exhibition, a reflection on invasion and intrusion, the visible and the invisible.

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Forensic Architecture, Cloud Studies, 2020 (still)
Forensic Architecture, Cloud Studies, 2020. Video, 23’28”. Courtesy of Forensic Architecture. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo. (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Forensic Architecture, Exhibition view « Anticorps »
Forensic Architecture, Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Tala Madani, The Womb, 2019
Tala Madani, The Womb, 2019. Single-channel color animation, 3’26”, edition of six plus two artist’s proofs. Courtesy of the artist and Pilar Corrias (London). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

The animated video The Womb retraces the nine-month-long development of a human embryo in fast motion. Ensconced in a protective, liquid environment, it is nonetheless vulnerable to external violence. On the surface of the womb, however, is projected the history of humanity, likewise sped up, unfolding in all its horrors. An intrauterine revolt is soon to come.

Tala Madani’s expressive paintings deploy black humour, absurdity, perversion, anxiety and grotesquery to denounce the peculiarities of patriarchal society which she observes. She finds her inspiration in the history of painting and in the comics, often speaking of the power of Dave Gibbon’s flashes of nocturnal colour in the comic-book series Watchmen (1986–87). These codes are hijacked by the artist, who mistreats bodies and creates paintings like claustrophobic black holes.

In adopting the point of view of an armed foetus in The Womb or showing a cell being devoured in Tusalava, the two animations presented in the room, created ninety years apart, both examine the idea that human life is a story of conflict and destruction.

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Tala Madani, The Womb, 2019
Tala Madani, The Womb, 2019. Video, 3’26”. Courtesy of the artist & Pilar Corrias (London). In the background: Len Lye, Tusalava, 1929. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Tala Madani, Ghost Sitter (blue chair), 2020
Tala Madani, Ghost Sitter (blue chair), 2020. Oil on linen. Courtesy of the artist and Pilar Corrias (London). Collection of Philip Barker. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

Tala Madani, whose paintings and the film Womb are shown elsewhere in the exhibition Anticorps, makes another appearance here with one recent painting and a video animation. Both show human silhouettes dissolving into objects: either the indistinct contours of bodies merging into dark and hazy environments, or true metamorphoses, such as those of the men who are turning into the furniture which assembly instructions they are reading.

Between grotesquery and satire, black humour and perversion, these object-bodies offer an echo to Pauline Curnier Jardin’s nearby sculptures, ladies’ skins flattened and entangled in street furniture. Tala Madani too is unkind to her bodies, which may be funereal, absent, liquified, airy, faceless, or reduced to a mere ghostly halo looming out of the half-dark. Skins are porous and permeable to the environment: they are to be understood not simply in their relation to the other, but in their relation to an entire space.

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Tala Madani, Untitled (Melody), 2020
Tala Madani, Untitled (Melody), 2020. Oil on linen. Courtesy of the artist and Pilar Corrias (London). Collection Michael Ballack. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Tala Madani, On the left: Manual Man, 2019 ; on the right: Ghost Sitter (Blue Chair), 2020
Tala Madani, On the left: Manual Man, 2019. Video, 9’50”. Courtesy of the artist & Pilar Corrias (London). On the right: Ghost Sitter (Blue Chair), 2020. Oil on linen. Courtesy of the artist and Pilar Corrias (London). Collection of Philip Barker. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021) . Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Kevin Desbouis, Song of Songs, 2020
Kevin Desbouis, Song of Songs, 2020. Envelope, text, riso print, laser print, eyelits, wax steal, various elements. Various dimensions. Various locations. Graphic design in collaboration with Espace Ness. 182 + 8 copies. Courtesy of the artist. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

The artist and poet Kevin Desbouis operates by the vampirization and reappropriation of images, objects and words from which he extracts the most confused, pathetic, seductive, or violent aspects.

In this work he presents, almost hidden in odd corners of the exhibition, eight transparent envelopes whose content is somewhat visible but cannot be accessed. Like the transfer tattoos offered to visitors, the envelope is a sculptural element in motion. Desbouis gives up all control on them so they find their own circulation in the exhibition space and beyond. Indeed, it is possible to acquire the different versions of the envelopes from different accomplices in Île-de-France.

In the envelopes Desbouis has enclosed a poem he wrote in the summer of 2020. There are a total of six editions of the envelopes, each containing different components in addition to the text.

The poem evokes sex and death, a desire so strong that it turns into cannibalism. Its title, Song of Songs, is borrowed from the section of the same name in the Bible, an ode to love and sex. With these envelopes both sealed and transparent, Desbouis evokes a certain eroticism, the possibility of viewing the envelope’s contents without being able to open it suggests the exacerbation of our pleasure in bodies we are forbidden to touch. The poem contained within the envelopes is made available on this website.

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Kevin Desbouis, Song of Songs, 2020 (détail)
Kevin Desbouis, Song of Songs, 2020 (détail). Enveloppe, texte, impression riso, impression laser, oeillets, cachet de cire, éléments variables. Dimensions variables. Emplacements variables. 182 + 8 exemplaires. Design graphique en collaboration avec l’Espace Ness. Courtesy de l’artiste
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Kevin Desbouis, Song of Songs, 2020
Kevin Desbouis, Song of Songs, 2020. Envelope, text, riso print, laser print, eyelits, wax steal, various elements. Various dimensions. Various locations. Graphic design in collaboration with Espace Ness. 182 + 8 copies. Courtesy of the artist
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Kevin Desbouis, Untitled (CCMCastaner), 2020
Kevin Desbouis, Untitled (CCMCastaner), 2020. Stainless steel, painting, temporary tattoo. Endless copies. Various dimensions. Courtesy of the artist

Kevin Desbouis offers to the public a temporary tattoo on transfer paper, made available in three bowls. The motif is a set of five rough circles that together sketch out a headless body. These are borrowed to Christophe Castaner who drew these in front of an audience of children on the TV programme “Au Tableau !!!”, broadcast on C8 channel in February 2019. France’s then minister of the interior was defending the police’s use of non-lethal weapons after they had caused serious and life-changing injuries to protesters. The circles he drew were to show the children the body parts at which the police are permitted to aim.

In transforming these sketched circles into a tattoo, Kevin Desbouis underlines the way state violence penetrates our skins and tissues from very early on. The shift of medium is a provocation, the playful format of the work hiding the potential brutality of the political decision.

It is delineation that is at issue here – the “CCM” of the title standing for “Crop Circle Me”. These lines that offer a glimpse of the invisible, vulnerable body echo their inked counterparts in Achraf Touloub’s drawings and those that outline the body on Özgür Kar’s screens. Here they propose a political interrogation of the way in which we represent our bodies, turning them into fortresses and targets.

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Kevin Desbouis, Untitled (CCMCastaner), 2020
Kevin Desbouis, Untitled (CCMCastaner), 2020. Inox, peinture, tatouage temporaire. Édition illimitée. Dimensions variables. Courtesy de l’artiste. Vue de l’exposition « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Crédit photo : Aurélien Mole
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Kevin Desbouis, Untitled (CCMCastaner), 2020
Kevin Desbouis, Untitled (CCMCastaner), 2020. Stainless steel, painting, temporary tattoo. Endless copies. Various dimensions. Courtesy of the artist. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Xinyi Cheng, From left to right: J. and T., 2019 ; For a light, 2020 ; Untitled, 2019 ; Gust, 2019 ; Darling, 2017 ; Moon Water, 2016 ; Julien, 2017
Xinyi Cheng, From left to right: J. and T., 2019. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist, Richard Chang and Antenna Space (Shanghai). For a light, 2020. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist and Balice Hertling (Paris). Untitled, 2019. Huile sur bois. Courtesy de l’artiste et Balice Hertling (Paris). Collection Jacques & Thierry (Paris). Gust, 2019. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist and Balice Hertling (Paris). Guilbaud collection (France). Darling, 2017. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist and Balice Hertling (Paris). Private collection. Moon Water, 2016. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist and Balice Hertling (Paris). Private collection (Geneva). Julien, 2017. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist and Antenna Space (Shanghai) . Private collection (Singapore). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

Xinyi Cheng is a painter of private life. She photographs her friends in their bedrooms, at the café, socialising at home, capturing unposed moments of everyday life that she then reinterprets in her compositions. Discreetly indiscreet, she often decentres the body, zooming on the hands, backs or feet of solitary figures or silent couples, or, conversely, filling the canvas with the entire body save for its extremities.

Xinyi Cheng paints the erotics of skin glancing against skin, swimming in luminous ochres, dark blues, endless shades of violet. Colour of the erotic par excellence and star of the Impressionist palette, violet creates shadowy spaces, sometimes going so far as to obscure bodies and faces. Xinyi Cheng paints the impression of flesh caressed.

For what is at issue here is contact. The contact of one skin with another, of cigarette on lips, fingers in wine, of a trickle down a naked body. Xinyi Cheng evokes the sensibility of skin. In the context of the exhibition Anticorps, her paintings raise questions about our relationship to the other. They resonate too with the shared personal moments filmed by Koki Tanaka: in picturing the lives of small groups, they explore the mechanisms by which a group can become a family.

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Xinyi Cheng, Julien, 2017
Xinyi Cheng, Julien, 2017. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist and Antenna Space (Shanghai). Photo credit: the artist and Antenna Space
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Xinyi Cheng, For a Light, 2020
Xinyi Cheng, For a Light, 2020. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the artist and Balice Hertling (Paris). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Özgür Kar, At the end of the day, 2019
Özgür Kar, At the end of the day, 2019. 4K video with sound, 20’ loop. 75” TV screen, stand, media player, cable reels. Flying line array speakers, stand, mixer. Courtesy of the artist and Édouard Montassut (Paris). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

At the end of the day is the second of two sculptures by Özgür Kar presented in the exhibition. The visitors are confronted with a male body, ensnared in a tangle of cables and imprisoned by a screen. His position is even more constrained than that of the figure in the previous sculpture: he is shown cowering before a towering wall of speakers from which issue forth endless variations on the same phrase: “At the end of the day, this is me. I’m me. I am myself.”

Inspired by the expressions used by reality television contestants in their on-camera “confessions”, these injunctions suggest both hackneyed truisms and philosophical introspection. Murmured and repeated endlessly, they become at once a form of psychological torture and an infinite incantation uttered over and over in the hope of some spiritual revelation.

This work questions the social imperative to exercise self-control, which has seen meditation been redeployed as a means of improving productivity. This idea of controlling our bodies and our emotions is also present in neighbouring works, whether it is a question of “staying calm” (Nile Koetting) and “doing well” (Florence Jung) or the health benefits of verbena (Ghita Skali).

“Being in tune with oneself” resonates here as the promise of a space of freedom – the freedom to accept one’s confinement.

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Özgür Kar, At the end of the day, 2019
Özgür Kar, At the end of the day, 2019. 4K video with sound, 20’ loop. 75” TV screen, stand, media player, cable reels. Flying line array speakers, stand, mixer. Courtesy of the artist and Édouard Montassut (Paris). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Özgür Kar, COME CLOSER, 2019
Özgür Kar, COME CLOSER, 2019. 4K video, 5’ loop. 75” TV screen, stand, media player, cable reel. Courtesy of the artist and Édouard Montassut (Paris). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

Hypnotised by bright televisions and phone screens, bodies in the 21st century appear to be overcome with lethargy. The work of Özgür Kar speaks to the way in which our experience of the world is mediated by screens.

He presents a monolith on wheels, made up of a black screen on which appears an undulating white line. The definition of the image is so high that it resembles a drawing on a blackboard. Stretching out to the edges of the screen, this line traces the contours of a body confined in an excessively small space. A colony of ants tramps across the figure’s back, spelling out the words whispered to us by the work’s title: “Come closer”. It is as if this piece is looking to connect with the public, urging us to cross through the screen.

Özgür Kar raises the question of eroticism in the age of digital technology and social distancing: can high definition really give the illusion of contact? Will the caressing of bodies give way to the scrolling of smartphones? Does the limit of our skin extend to the territories of our screens?

In this way, Özgür Kar appeals to the sense of touch without activating it. Inspired both by Persian and Ottoman illuminated manuscripts and cartoons for adults broadcast at night on MTV at the start of the 2000s, he explores the idea of flatness, from geometric planes to intellectual voids. These smooth surfaces and their absence of visual depth create an impression of contact, with the screen becoming a surface of proximity and affect.

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Özgür Kar, COME CLOSER, 2019
Özgür Kar, COME CLOSER, 2019. 4K video, 5’ loop. 75” TV screen, stand, media player, cable reel. Courtesy of the artist and Édouard Montassut (Paris). In the foreground: A.K. Burns, Marianne Deludes the World, 2020. Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Pauline Curnier Jardin, “Ladies Skins”, 2019-2020
Pauline Curnier Jardin, “Ladies Skins”, 2019-2020. In the foreground: Trash Bin, 2020. Vinyl “Peaux de Dame”, acrylic painted wood. In the background: Car, 2019. Vinyl “Peaux de Dame”, enamel painted plywood. Courtesy of the artist and Ellen de Bruijne PROJECTS (Amsterdam). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

Pauline Curnier Jardin shows new examples of her “Peaux de Dames” [Ladies Skins], pale forms more or less suggestive of human skins. Heaped together, tumbling from a car door, overspilling a dustbin, caught on a barrier or overlooking a lamppost - these are women shrunk into flatness, capable of being rolled up and put away.

Pauline Curnier Jardin draws her forms from ritual, from carnival and circus – hence the often grotesque aspect of her sculptures. But her buffoonery has a political purpose, showing us “anti-bodies”, bodies invalidated for their being rumpled and lifeless, mishandled and used up. Their stigmata tell of the oppressions suffered by women in our societies: violence, invisibilisation, ageism and objectification.

Entitled “Around the Fire”, the section of the exhibition where Pauline Curnier Jardin’s works are presented, looks at the relationship between private life and the wider issues of the public sphere. What is sociability, what is society, when women are excluded from full participation in public space, flattened out and treated as mere trophies? For Pauline Curnier Jardin, perhaps, the fire around which the community assembles is built around a stake.

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Pauline Curnier Jardin, Street Lamp, 2020
Pauline Curnier Jardin, Street Lamp, 2020. Vinyl “Peaux de Dame”, acrylic painted plywood and papier-mâché lamp. Courtesy of the artist and Ellen de Bruijne Projects (Amsterdam). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Pauline Curnier Jardin, Barricades, 2020
Pauline Curnier Jardin, Barricades, 2020. Vinyl “Peaux de Dame”, acrylic painted plywood. Courtesy of the artist and Ellen de Bruijne Projects (Amsterdam) Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole
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Carolyn Lazard, Pain Scale, 2019
Carolyn Lazard, Pain Scale, 2019. Six adhesive vinyls. Courtesy of the artist and Essex Street / Maxwell Graham (New York). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). Photo credit: Aurélien Mole

Across the exhibition’s entrance zone stands a row of six smiling faces with staring eyes. Though reminiscent of the customer satisfaction terminals increasingly common in the service industries, they are in fact derived from the face-based rating scale for the self-assessment of pain developed by American paediatricians in the 1980s. The scale originally comprised six levels, the faces changing from green to red and from smile to tears: from no pain to unbearable.

Carolyn Lazard’s scale however has no such graduation, the six pictograms being absolutely identical, each brown and smiling – raising the question of racial inequality in the assessment and treatment of pain.

Many studies, among them a survey of several thousand nurses conducted by the University of Virginia in 2016, have shown the prevalence of biologically erroneous ideas regarding the thickness of the skin or the sensitivity of nerve endings in people of colour. Based on racist ideas, these prejudices lead to the belief that black bodies can better put up with suffering than others.

Carolyn Lazard, whose work addresses the politics of care and medicine, “brings patients’ stories out of the hospital”, confronting us with the racism and ableism of our societies.

Their work enters into dialogue with Dominique Petitgand’s enveloping sound installation, the chanted demands of the faceless demonstrators becoming equally those of these faces forbidden to complain.

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Carolyn Lazard, Pain Scale, 2019 (detail)
Carolyn Lazard, Pain Scale, 2019 (detail). Vinyl, six parts. Courtesy of the artist and Essex Street / Maxwell Graham (New York)
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Carolyn Lazard, Pain Scale, 2019
Carolyn Lazard, Pain Scale, 2019. Six adhesive vinyls. Courtesy of the artist and Essex Street / Maxwell Graham (New York). Exhibition view « Anticorps », Palais de Tokyo (23.10.2020 – 03.01.2021). On both sides of the work : Dominique Petitgand, La question est posée, 2019-2020. Photo credit: Aurélien Mole