Loan of the work from the IAC Collection, Villeurbanne/Rhône-Alpes:
Pipilotti Rist, I’m a Victim of this Song, 1995
Pipilotti Rist, I’m a Victim of this Song, 1995
Fin de Party (End of Party), 14/05/2025 to 18/10/2025, FRAC Corsica, Corte, France
Music is often what remains after the party, the last echo of a carefree moment before silence. Fin de party focuses on this fragile transition, from the chaos of sound to the return to reality, between the euphoria that subsides and the lull that appears. The exhibition explores music as a trace, a persistent rustle, a breath that struggles to be extinguished.
Then the music gradually fades away. Davide Balula places a solitary turntable, the last vestige of a party already over, above which floats a balloon, suspended like a last echo of the tumult. We cling to memories, scan the previous night's YouTube videos, leave a melancholy commentary with Kamilya Kuspanova, and head off to bed.
The party's over, but its echo persists.
It's no longer about music as a simple game, but as a territory where the remnants of collective pleasure mingle with the shadow of an inescapable end.
Far from academic rigor or the myth of virtuosity, music is revealed here in its most instinctive dimension, on the edge between jubilation and disillusionment. Camille Blatrix's Petit Lu musical stage invites free, uninhibited practice. Sounds still resonate: Ziad Antar's children rehearse an amusing “Wa”, Meriem Bennani's anthropomorphic architectures begin to sing, Charlemagne Palestine's stuffed animals pile up in a joyous shambles, and Pipilotti Rist massacres Chris Isaak's Wicked Games, in a gesture as liberating as it is iconoclastic.
Music is often what remains after the party, the last echo of a carefree moment before silence. Fin de party focuses on this fragile transition, from the chaos of sound to the return to reality, between the euphoria that subsides and the lull that appears. The exhibition explores music as a trace, a persistent rustle, a breath that struggles to be extinguished.
Then the music gradually fades away. Davide Balula places a solitary turntable, the last vestige of a party already over, above which floats a balloon, suspended like a last echo of the tumult. We cling to memories, scan the previous night's YouTube videos, leave a melancholy commentary with Kamilya Kuspanova, and head off to bed.
The party's over, but its echo persists.
It's no longer about music as a simple game, but as a territory where the remnants of collective pleasure mingle with the shadow of an inescapable end.
Far from academic rigor or the myth of virtuosity, music is revealed here in its most instinctive dimension, on the edge between jubilation and disillusionment. Camille Blatrix's Petit Lu musical stage invites free, uninhibited practice. Sounds still resonate: Ziad Antar's children rehearse an amusing “Wa”, Meriem Bennani's anthropomorphic architectures begin to sing, Charlemagne Palestine's stuffed animals pile up in a joyous shambles, and Pipilotti Rist massacres Chris Isaak's Wicked Games, in a gesture as liberating as it is iconoclastic.
