by Matt Levine
It’s easy to forget in the age of Redbox and utilitarian multiplexes, but one of the most influential and undervalued elements of the art experience is place. For the artist, the place of production, or even a vivid memory of a place no longer occupied, can be an essential component of the creative process—the singular mood of a particular studio, for example, or the way light dances around a specific street corner. For the audience, our place of reception tinges how we perceive things; a summer night at the drive-in, an art-gallery installation, and a ludicrous ‘80s slasher movie viewed in a friend’s basement in some state of inebriation all linger in our memories differently. We often pretend it isn’t, but our experience of art is unavoidably colored by the background of real life—so much that the circumstances of our enjoyment (a first date, a strange locale, intimate conversation) may be remembered more vividly than the artwork itself.
Yto Barrada’s exhibit Album: Cinematheque Tangier, on view at the Walker Art Center until May 18, reminds us that place is an inextricable part of the artistic process. Just as a unique setting almost inevitably guides the artist's figurative brush, a work of art can provide a distinct population with a filter for self-perception, a cultural identity. Barrada’s work in photography, video installation, and sculpture often deals with this kind of self-representation—particularly as it’s forged in Tangier, Morocco, Barrada’s adopted hometown. In the Western cultural imagination, Tangier has often stood in for a sensationalized notion of sultry exoticism (a fact demonstrated by the exhibit’s numerous posters for American and European thrillers set in this “dangerous” city), but Tangier itself reflects the influence of French colonialism in complex, multitudinous ways. The presence of Europe looms in a more literal way as well: the southern Iberian peninsula of Europe lies directly across the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, practically a stone's throw from Morocco. Barrada’s 1998 Strait Project lays bare a multivalent reality in the city of Tangier that burrows deeper than exotic cliché, its series of photographs serving as both travelogue and social analysis. With Album: Cinematheque Tangier, she pays tribute to the city that nurtured her artistic sensibility, drawing an overt parallel between the functions of cultural archive and personal memory.
Barrada is also artistic director and co-founder of the Cinematheque Tangier, an independent cinema established in 2006 in the city’s Casbah district that embraces international film while celebrating the fertile history of Moroccan cinema. It’s clear both from the materials on display in Album: Cinematheque Tangier and from the programming and artworks associated with the Cinematheque (many of which are included in the exhibit) that Barrada’s allegiance to her homeland transcends an artist's cultural obligation to speak for his or her compatriots.
Barrada is also artistic director and co-founder of the Cinematheque Tangier, an independent cinema established in 2006 in the city’s Casbah district that embraces international film while celebrating the fertile history of Moroccan cinema. It’s clear both from the materials on display in Album: Cinematheque Tangier and from the programming and artworks associated with the Cinematheque (many of which are included in the exhibit) that Barrada’s allegiance to her homeland transcends an artist's cultural obligation to speak for his or her compatriots.
The exhibit opens onto an enormous map of downtown Tangier, accompanied by a key of street names organized by French and Arabic. Another map designates where the city’s old-fashioned movie palaces used to reside and how many remain (there aren’t many). Three wooden dioramas stand before the city map: recreations of the Alcazan, Roxy, and Rif theaters (the last of which would become the Cinematheque Tangier), all favoring a sort of extravagant nostalgia over realism—they seem to take the shape of an exile’s outsized memories. Located nearby on the spare, pastel walls is a smattering of found materials—advertisements, political pamphlets, magazines, photographs, educational textbooks—somehow conveying a sense of Tangier’s eclectic identity, from a horticultural overview of palm trees in the region to a “Modest Proposal to Modernize Morocco” ventured in 2010. The juxtaposition of these materials—many of which seem a mundane and insignificant component of Moroccan culture, though they contribute to the diverse patchwork that makes up the personality of a place—suggests the vibrant and multitudinous nature of a city like Tangier, catalyzed by contradictions.
Some of the political and historical excerpts festooning the wall pay ambivalent tribute to Hubert Lyautey, who became the first French Resident-General in Morocco from 1912 to 1925. Dubbed the Maker of Morocco, Lyautey spearheaded campaigns to modernize and revitalize Moroccan cities, attempting to balance brute force and patronizing collusion like many of the European colonizers in North Africa. As in many of the posters and films seen elsewhere in the exhibit, the conflicting duality of French and Arab culture in post-colonial Tangier is made palpable, with the lingering specter of French occupation contributing unavoidably to certain facets of modern urban culture. The historical traces which leave a sort of post-colonial residue are subtle and numerous, and Barrada makes a point to emphasize the cultural polysemy which coalesces to form an elusive notion of Moroccan culture.
Even the posters which advertised upcoming screenings at the Rif are recycled here, as Barrada commissioned artists to recreate some of the her favorite designs. Magnified slightly, these recreations—some of which are pointedly relevant (Trapped in Tangiers), some of which just seem to be personal favorites (Ashes and Diamonds)—are imperfect in a charming way, seemingly composed by artists working from rose-colored memories. Though occasionally dynamic, movie posters typically aren’t seen as an integral part of the moviegoing process; Barrada, however, sees them as signposts and expressions of cultural identity, indicating how self-representation is forged through seemingly insignificant artifacts (posters, pamphlets, advertisements, textbooks). The program books on display from the Cinematheque Tangier’s young history may also constitute only promotional materials, but they manifest something as seemingly ineffable as the temperament of a place, its selfhood through images.
Some of the political and historical excerpts festooning the wall pay ambivalent tribute to Hubert Lyautey, who became the first French Resident-General in Morocco from 1912 to 1925. Dubbed the Maker of Morocco, Lyautey spearheaded campaigns to modernize and revitalize Moroccan cities, attempting to balance brute force and patronizing collusion like many of the European colonizers in North Africa. As in many of the posters and films seen elsewhere in the exhibit, the conflicting duality of French and Arab culture in post-colonial Tangier is made palpable, with the lingering specter of French occupation contributing unavoidably to certain facets of modern urban culture. The historical traces which leave a sort of post-colonial residue are subtle and numerous, and Barrada makes a point to emphasize the cultural polysemy which coalesces to form an elusive notion of Moroccan culture.
Even the posters which advertised upcoming screenings at the Rif are recycled here, as Barrada commissioned artists to recreate some of the her favorite designs. Magnified slightly, these recreations—some of which are pointedly relevant (Trapped in Tangiers), some of which just seem to be personal favorites (Ashes and Diamonds)—are imperfect in a charming way, seemingly composed by artists working from rose-colored memories. Though occasionally dynamic, movie posters typically aren’t seen as an integral part of the moviegoing process; Barrada, however, sees them as signposts and expressions of cultural identity, indicating how self-representation is forged through seemingly insignificant artifacts (posters, pamphlets, advertisements, textbooks). The program books on display from the Cinematheque Tangier’s young history may also constitute only promotional materials, but they manifest something as seemingly ineffable as the temperament of a place, its selfhood through images.
The importance of art in forging self-representation is similarly emphasized by the Scopitone films on display (on a genuine Scopitone machine, no less). Short 16mm music videos that play automatically with the touch of a button, Scopitones were the antecedents of MTV and YouTube—all available for one franc in the cinematic jukeboxes of Parisian cafes in the 1960s. The innovative medium was soon revitalized by North African and Arab musicians, whose videos had become popular among the growing immigrant populations in France. Because they were made cheaply and quickly (and were outside of the mainstream channels of distribution), the Scopitone films provided a vivid, nearly unfiltered expression of the Arab-émigré experience in 1960s Paris. Absurd, passionate, humorous, outraged—there’s no simple label to categorize these films, which in their contradictions point towards the diverse elements making up any transplanted community. Sex, alcoholism, and masculinity are recurring themes; extravagant sets and virtuosic camera moves are attempted, made all the more unique when they’re not entirely successful. It’s worth checking out the Scopitone machine for at least a few videos, since you’ll likely see an impressively bizarre one at a fairly rapid interval. (At least stay for the song “Tighten My Pants,” which deflates the masculine ego with sublimely ludicrous lyrics.)
Life in Tangier is more voluminously documented in the exhibit’s small cinema, where a series of films (curated by Barrada) presents Moroccan culture and history in all of its ravishing minutiae. A convenient place to start (if you happen to walk into the lineup at the right time) is the 1935 documentary View of the Main Square and the Small Square, which observes a few seemingly nondescript street corners in urban Tangier. The documentary is interesting from a film-history standpoint: it’s processed using one of the many film-coloring techniques that were coming to fruition throughout the 1930s (until Technicolor became the unofficial standard). The soft reds and glowing blues convey an unspectacular scene that is, nonetheless, fascinating in its singularity, a dynamic snapshot of an eclectic culture. Moroccan natives and the French colonial population share the same space, demarcated clearly by their differing clothing and transportation; each character is a compelling mystery, their every interaction engrossing for its impenetrability.
The following documentary, 6/12, provides another snapshot of Tangier 33 years later: shot in black-and-white in vérité style on the streets of the city, the film begins with a recording of Charles Mingus’ “Freedom,” setting us up for an agit-prop documentary commemorating the country’s relatively newfound independence. Yet 6/12 is actually more playful and abstract than it initially seems—an enamored tribute to Tangier in its kinetic multiformity, with street signs, roaming dogs, skyscrapers, and a massive ensemble of city residents interacting to form a “city symphony.” If View of the Main Square resembles one of the actualité shorts made in Paris in the 1890s (some of the first movies ever made), 6/12 brings to mind the formalist experiments of the 1920s which embraced the fast pace and rough-hewn beauty of modern cities—films like Berlin: Symphony of a Great City (1927) and Man with a Movie Camera (1929). With acrobatic camerawork turning the city into an assemblage of patterns and shapes and a persistent heartbeat on the soundtrack giving life to the city it documents, the film is a proud and vivid celebration of modern Tangier.
Life in Tangier is more voluminously documented in the exhibit’s small cinema, where a series of films (curated by Barrada) presents Moroccan culture and history in all of its ravishing minutiae. A convenient place to start (if you happen to walk into the lineup at the right time) is the 1935 documentary View of the Main Square and the Small Square, which observes a few seemingly nondescript street corners in urban Tangier. The documentary is interesting from a film-history standpoint: it’s processed using one of the many film-coloring techniques that were coming to fruition throughout the 1930s (until Technicolor became the unofficial standard). The soft reds and glowing blues convey an unspectacular scene that is, nonetheless, fascinating in its singularity, a dynamic snapshot of an eclectic culture. Moroccan natives and the French colonial population share the same space, demarcated clearly by their differing clothing and transportation; each character is a compelling mystery, their every interaction engrossing for its impenetrability.
The following documentary, 6/12, provides another snapshot of Tangier 33 years later: shot in black-and-white in vérité style on the streets of the city, the film begins with a recording of Charles Mingus’ “Freedom,” setting us up for an agit-prop documentary commemorating the country’s relatively newfound independence. Yet 6/12 is actually more playful and abstract than it initially seems—an enamored tribute to Tangier in its kinetic multiformity, with street signs, roaming dogs, skyscrapers, and a massive ensemble of city residents interacting to form a “city symphony.” If View of the Main Square resembles one of the actualité shorts made in Paris in the 1890s (some of the first movies ever made), 6/12 brings to mind the formalist experiments of the 1920s which embraced the fast pace and rough-hewn beauty of modern cities—films like Berlin: Symphony of a Great City (1927) and Man with a Movie Camera (1929). With acrobatic camerawork turning the city into an assemblage of patterns and shapes and a persistent heartbeat on the soundtrack giving life to the city it documents, the film is a proud and vivid celebration of modern Tangier.
Yto Barrada's "Beau Geste" (2009)
Two of Barrada’s own films are included in the program, providing a microcosmic view of Tangier in the 21st century. The Magician (2003) records the titular prestidigitator’s complete act from a static, frontal viewpoint (a subtle homage, perhaps, to Georges Méliès, the very first cinematic magician), while Beau Geste (2009) provides anecdotal views of an ad hoc urban design project: filling a gutted roots system with soil and cement in order to rescue a tree cut halfway down in order to make way for construction. Tiny slivers of life in the fabric of Tangier, these two films resemble brief short stories making up only a fraction of a rich anthology.
The hardships and transformations plaguing modern Tangier are conveyed more literally in a pair of solemn films: Buildings in a Field (2009), by Luc Sante and Jem Cohen; and You Are All Called Mohammed (1998), made in Spain by Maximilian Lemcke. The first is a contemplative documentary about a burgeoning southwest suburb of Tangier, dotted with skeletal construction sites; the second is a somewhat conventional narrative about Moroccan immigrants trying to adapt to dilapidated shantytowns in southern Spain. Although they approach their real-world subject matter in contradistinctive ways—the first with quiet ambiguity, the second with emotive pleas for audience sympathy—they complicate our perception of what it means to be “Moroccan” (or to belong to any community).
The film program is rounded out by An American in Tangier (1993), a documentary about the author Paul Bowles, who spent much of his later life as a resident of the city; and Beirut Outtakes (2007), a found-footage film comprised of materials recovered from an abandoned Lebanese film archive. Some of Bowles’ exalted descriptions of Tangier veer close to the exoticism of outdated stereotypes, as when he says that “certain areas of the world contain more magic than others”; but his outsiders’ perspective, so desperate to belong yet pleased by its out-of-placeness, remains compelling. Beirut Outtakes, meanwhile, turns the unwanted snippets left at a Beirut film archive into a dizzying explosion of consumer ads from the Lebanese TV industry—a Dadaist exercise that’s cleverly edited and beautified by the ravishingly decayed film, beset by vinegary splotches and the amorphous blobs of outdated nitrate.
The hardships and transformations plaguing modern Tangier are conveyed more literally in a pair of solemn films: Buildings in a Field (2009), by Luc Sante and Jem Cohen; and You Are All Called Mohammed (1998), made in Spain by Maximilian Lemcke. The first is a contemplative documentary about a burgeoning southwest suburb of Tangier, dotted with skeletal construction sites; the second is a somewhat conventional narrative about Moroccan immigrants trying to adapt to dilapidated shantytowns in southern Spain. Although they approach their real-world subject matter in contradistinctive ways—the first with quiet ambiguity, the second with emotive pleas for audience sympathy—they complicate our perception of what it means to be “Moroccan” (or to belong to any community).
The film program is rounded out by An American in Tangier (1993), a documentary about the author Paul Bowles, who spent much of his later life as a resident of the city; and Beirut Outtakes (2007), a found-footage film comprised of materials recovered from an abandoned Lebanese film archive. Some of Bowles’ exalted descriptions of Tangier veer close to the exoticism of outdated stereotypes, as when he says that “certain areas of the world contain more magic than others”; but his outsiders’ perspective, so desperate to belong yet pleased by its out-of-placeness, remains compelling. Beirut Outtakes, meanwhile, turns the unwanted snippets left at a Beirut film archive into a dizzying explosion of consumer ads from the Lebanese TV industry—a Dadaist exercise that’s cleverly edited and beautified by the ravishingly decayed film, beset by vinegary splotches and the amorphous blobs of outdated nitrate.
Yto Barrada's "Hand Me Downs" (2011)
Perhaps the standout of the entire exhibit, though, is another of Barrada’s own films, Hand Me Downs (2011). Like Beirut Outtakes, Hand Me Downs draws a comparison between institutional film archives and a nation’s collective past, suggesting that cultural identities throughout the world are conceived primarily in visual form. Using 8mm films bought from strangers online or in Moroccan flea markets, Barrada develops a montage of a population’s scattershot memories while orating her family’s own personal history in voiceover. The anecdotes she relates have become folklore in her family—the accidental destruction of a sister’s dress, a distant relative's escape from Tangier using elaborate disguises we might see in cheap spy movies—just as the visual imagery speaks to the unknown histories of the families onscreen. Blurring the line between national and personal, Barrada suggests that the memories of families and the historical traces found in film archives are interweaving components in developing cultural identity.
Most artists, of course, are influenced by their environment; and most films (as with any other artwork) at least implicitly convey a distillation of a given culture. With Album: Cinematheque Tangier, Barrada turns such questions of identity and representation into heartfelt expressions of belonging. She uses posters, maps, pamphlets, and other found materials to suggest that the personality of a place is eclectically comprised of such seemingly throwaway media. It's in these scattered artifacts strewn throughout a city's streets—not to mention in its film archives and Cinematheques—that a culture’s heartbeat can be detected.
Most artists, of course, are influenced by their environment; and most films (as with any other artwork) at least implicitly convey a distillation of a given culture. With Album: Cinematheque Tangier, Barrada turns such questions of identity and representation into heartfelt expressions of belonging. She uses posters, maps, pamphlets, and other found materials to suggest that the personality of a place is eclectically comprised of such seemingly throwaway media. It's in these scattered artifacts strewn throughout a city's streets—not to mention in its film archives and Cinematheques—that a culture’s heartbeat can be detected.
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