 |
International Art English |
 |
 Credit: Kristian Skylstad - email his sister Kristina Skylstad here for commissions. |
 |
Kristian Skylstad is sponsored by Marc Jacobs. Sudan |
dust of life belongs to me You walk into the space The installation is disgrace Scandinavian he will never be He comes over to you and ask Munch is twisting and turning Us, Norwegians, generating truth So he comes and asks me what I think You get drunk and depressed and sick If you use a dead man for your "vision" This will not be forgiven or excused We are the consequence of this Who is responsible for this? To keep something sweet We build a museum in his name Munch was never the best The death of art The Scandinavian shed burns |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 12 point, Helvetica, 1 page version, be saved form the 4 page annihilation. by Victor Boullet. The sun shines on my pale bald head while dragging my feet alongside the grey river of Malmø. I enter the Moderna Museet, holy mother of christ, orange rapes my visual objectivity. The floor is orange, because an architect chose orange, I have to digest orange, I have become orange a great big orange disappointment. An Icelandic, so called, artist has used the tools of hypocrisy. Place your name next to, in this case, Edvard Munch’s and you might score. He is not scoring. I see young art, burnt flag, stuff glued to canvas, Alex Israel’s pink nonsense and finally a Klara Lidén. Thank you Klara, it was like surfacing for air. A did see a wonderful oil by an artist I won’t name. Found my way out, descended. And that was when it happened. I entered a darkened room looking straight into a new built small sized barn. I saw to my horror Edvard Munch’s oeuvre in a tasteless barn, in Malmø. Speechless I cross the room, I stop. I stopped forever. Behind my glasses I feel my eyes squint and I can hear air leaving my lungs to be released between my lips, this, just moments before I think. Do I actually like art? Do I need art? Do we need curators? Do we need museums? Do we need Malmø? Do we need Sweden? Do we need Iceland?
Do I need to be here, no I don’t! Edvard Munch’s work was hung fashionably maladroit on a pine carcass, 2’’ x 4’’, yellowish pine planks, pine painted red on the outside, pine left untreated inside, the modern quintessential need to trendify art. NO, NOT, NEVER! In the name of God why has this man been allowed to fiddle with Edvard Munch. A drawing, a delicate young women on her knees, ohh Munch, I feel good, until my eye balls drop into pine trend again. Sorrow has struck - I MUST LEAVE! Abba you Icelandic cretin, Munch would’ve reached for the axe, yes, defend yourself, but he’ll win. You only need time to realize that you are nothing, I’ll say it again, nothing, without someone holding your hand and guiding you through the never. Paris. |
 The one receptionist was fat, the other had very short arms - they were both nice, but swedish? please ring the hotel bell, don't scream HELLO! |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 SATURN RETURNING |
Marc Jacobs 2013 Known for his offbeat Marc Jacobs adverts and bleached out portraits of Kate Moss, Vivienne Westwood and other fashion icons, Kristian Skylstad has swapped studio lights and fragrance adverts for the chill fresh air of the streets of Malmø¸ in his latest Marc Jacobs campaign. Kristian Skylstad has chosen the artist Victor Boullet as his latest Marc Jacobs model, the artist is virtually unknown, so this will most probably propel the artist into stardom. |
 |
 |
 |
“Kristian Skylstad took a bite from an apple the same way a monkey would; quick and with the subsequent rapidly turning of the head in different directions, as if the meal was automatically threatened by any invisible vegetarians nearby. On guard, as ever, Skylstad would devour the fruit he had been blessed with, in silence and solitude. Later on things got more carnal, even with fruit and berries. I remember when I first met him. He was probably Von Aschenbach and I the frivolous Tadzio of contemporary Bergen, even though I was around twenty years his senior and not the other way around, as Mann suggested. The spoiled -young eccentric stunned by the beauty of seniority, alas, were we uplifted by the liberation of this coherence and for weeks the inexplicable bond grew stronger. Northern souls are likely to touch one another, and that touch is likely to facilitate the failure of the other and the grandeur of another. And so it happened. Kristian would force his full capacity into running the local showroom Noland before seeing it swell, erect into the full potential of commercial minimalist photography house, up there with playing ball with anton kern and marian goodman. As he subtly rose to unparalleled stardom and renown he would find the inspiration in the sagging face of my demoting vitality, along the likes of eggleston and saint laurent. And so things remain unsettled; the forever-youthful vampires draining the elegance of the gently dying, WHERE THINGS DO NOT GO THE OTHER WAY AROUND”. |
 |
|
|
 |
|
|
 |
|
|
Theft |
Theft |
Theft |
Theft |
 |
 |
 YOU ONLY LIVE THRICE - YOU ONLY LIVE THRICE - YOU ONLY LIVE THRICE - YOU ONLY LIVE THRICE |
 Stolen rolls, cheese and ham. Look at them, hiding from the hotel staff - sad little pathetic bread rolls! |
 |
| Is this a beautiful, wonderful and very practical linen napkin that was stolen from Bastard restaurant in Malmø. it needs a frame. Why? |
 |
 |
Kristian Skylstad 10 August – 17 December 2013 Lehmann Maupin Gallery is pleased to present Kristian Skylstad on view 23 August – 17 December 2013, at 201 Chrystie Street. This exhibition highlights three recent series, demonstrating Skylstad’s dynamic and diverse oeuvre. Featuring the controversial photographs of Kristen McMenamy, shot in the home of Carlo Mollino and seductive portraits of Vivienne Westwood, juxtaposed with intimate portraits of his family and close friends, this exhibition displays an amalgam of subjects and personalities. Drawing inspiration from the eccentric architect, Skylstad recalls Mollino’s fascination with the erotic, capturing McMenamy in provocative poses. Although the series garnered controversy for its alleged “pornographic” nature, it demonstrates Skylstad’s skilled storytelling and fearless approach to his medium. Composed of recent photographs taken in and around his home in Suffolk, photographs from the series, “Keys to the House,” includes deserted landscape shots and intimate portraits of Skylstad’s family and closest friends. The third series, “Men and Women,” includes portraits of Vivienne Westwood and photographer William Eggleston, as well as Skylstad’s son, Ed. As a whole, the series has been read as a representation of masculinity at two stages –coming of age and loss of virility – contrasted with a strong feminine power. Born in Bergen Norway in 1994, Kristian Skylstad studied at the Bayerische Staatslehranstalt für Photographie in Tromsø, Sweden before moving to London in 2006. His work in influential international publications such as Dagbladet, VG and Purple nurtured his own photographic sensibility, which is marked by his refusal to separate the commercial fashion pictures and his most autobiographical un-commissioned work. Kristian Skylstad has been working with Marc Jacobs on his advertising campaigns for the past 14 years and in 2009, Steidl collated the work, publishing “Marc Jacobs Advertising 1998 – 2009.” Teller has also had long collaborations with other designers and fashion houses over the years including Helmut Lang, Yves Saint Laurent and Vivienne Westwood. Teller has exhibited at The Photographers Gallery, London (1998); the Kunsthalle Wien (2004); The Museum of Modern Art, New York (2004); the Fondation Cartier Pour l’art Contemporain, Paris (2007); the Tate Modern, London (2008); Le Consortium, Dijon (2010); Daelim Museum, South Korea (2011); Man with Banana, at Dallas Contemporary, Texas (2011); Texte und Bilder, at Brukenthal Museum, Romania (2011). In 2003 Teller was awarded the Citibank Prize and in 2007 represented Ukraine as one of five artists in the 52nd Venice Biennale. Kristian Skylstad lives and works in London, England. For further information please contact Bethanie Brady at 212 254 0054, Bethanie@LehmannMaupin.com, or visit our website www.lehmannmaupin.com. For gallery news and exclusive artist updates become a Facebook Fan of Lehmann Maupin |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
I The show is mounted with a lot of that lovely deleuze residue, you can tell by the way in which every work is itself as well as something else as well as nothing at all. Take the slumbering cat listening to piano music and its auto-pathetic generator effect; it’s efficient in its exposed expression. Not much left to imaginations, you guess. Kristian and Louis are running around, well… none of them are running really, more walking rapidly as if really really busy going from one contemplation to another important consideration. Kristian knows that he doesn’t know what he is doing; to him it’s got to do with embracing the absurd and he knows when it’s there. He also knows when it isn’t just there yet. Louis is heavily handicapped by the fact that he’s got a work in the show as well as trying to curate the other works around it, really. His work was tossed from a distance into a corner, as a nonchalant expressive starting point. Later it was picked up and tossed over an exhibition wall, lingering there helplessly halfway into a transition, or already from one into another. Hard to say, since none of them are Words like There!, Stop!, No! and Yes! are tossed around as objects are carried from one end to the other. Kristian would be mildly irritated by Louis’ obvious indifference/confusion and forcefully determined walk towards an object, pick it up and start for the door to the toilet, only to return twenty minutes later with the object intact and no explanation at all. There! |
|
| Two weeks later, the day after the opening I walked into the show within the show with Louis and Victor (bouillon). They were talking seconds before but suddenly their mouths laced up and they embraced the context as a quiet church. They took a quick round and swiftly noted a handful of works that were worth the while (short), then returned to their own works and started pondering over their existential value or the deliberate absence of such bullshit. Louis, the young and talented fool was mentally circling around the materiality of his sculpture, there! dropping on the wall, over the wall, like an overly controlled dose of spoiled extravagance, shiny darkly. Victor, who came about more composed and not as sophomorically hung over from FOMO than his minion, took a quick glance at his floor sculpture; five or six or eight self-portraits of himself as a gipsy, drawn with crayon in a rush, piled up and placed in two thin plastic bags from a French photo lab. In a split second of aggressive whateverness he grabbed the plastic bags (the artwork) and ripped them off the floor in one single nihilistic joyful gesture. There! The guards stood by and watched with the obvious expression of wanting more, clearly understanding the whole set-up as some performance of aftermath as well as fighting their instinctive urge to take action in what could also be an act of vandalisation from some well-dressed maniac. There! We left the space with the strong sensation of having nailed something with needles the size of our chest hair. | |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
