GS-GP-001 | 28 June - 20 July 2019

When Vincent Sator asked me to curate an exhibition based on the gallery’s storage, I was immediately captivated by the project. It meant plunging into the memory of this place, into the history of the exhibitions that have punctuated its daily life, into the construction of its image, and the formation of the many connections, movements, and recurrences that today shape its identity. This undertaking is all the more meaningful as the gallery stands on the threshold of numerous developments, including the opening of a new space in Romainville. At a moment when a new chapter in its history is about to be written, taking the time for introspection seems especially important.

At the origin of this exhibition there is simply a gaze, cast upon works that had remained there, waiting. This gaze is that of the art lover—my own—the gaze of the visitor, one might say: the story of exhilaration, the intoxication of discovery. Among the many objects stored in the darkness, my eye naturally makes choices, selecting and setting works aside. From this heterogeneous selection, I can then weave connections, seek out motifs, and perceive recurring themes. This analytical phase came only after the moment of selection, for fear of subordinating the works to preconceived themes: they always remain the starting point of the reflection. Faced with this ensemble, thought unfolds and wanders along many paths. Some I already knew—memory, reuse, and conservation; others I discovered: writing, portraiture and identity, ruin and remnants—so many threads woven between the works of the gallery’s artists, subtly sketching the features of its face.

Within the exhibition space, works stand side by side that only the storage could have brought together. Some are recent, others older; some were exhibited years ago, while others are about to be shown; some have been sold, while others await a potential collector; some are in perfect condition, while others bear the traces of their lived history. There are also series, or groups of works, sometimes incomplete: one of their members now resides elsewhere. Within the storage space, all these works are brought together without distinction. They are gathered there at a particular moment in their history. Some will remain there for a long time yet, while others are already on the verge of leaving, though this is something we cannot know. This absence of hierarchy is echoed in the exhibition itself: the works are brought together, and a dialogue takes shape without the question of their status ever coming into play.

This singular space imposes a particular situation upon the works it houses and possesses several well-known characteristics. First of all, there is the question of density. As the exhibition display reveals, the pieces form a compact network in the storage space, so that entering it is akin to putting on the researcher’s costume, embarking on a vast session of excavation. As I step inside, I have little idea of what I am about to find. How can one know what lies beneath a layer of bubble wrap or within the secrecy of a crate? The notion of discovery was paramount, and the pleasure of handling the works just as much so: the exhilaration quickly became physical.

To immerse oneself in a gallery’s storage space is to open a box of memories, to discover its history and the evolution of the artists it champions; to search, to find, to handle, to reactivate works that have remained in darkness for far too long, or to have the privilege of seeing certain pieces even before they are presented to the public. It is to open a wooden box and experience the pleasure of rediscovering a work once admired in passing, during an exhibition. It is to undo a wrapping and be surprised to discover a series never before seen, nor even imagined. Ultimately, it is the joy of looking—this simple joy that every lover of art knows so well, this joy that we wish to share with you today for the duration of an exhibition: a journey into the heart of the storage rooms of Galerie Sator.

Grégoire Prangé