CONSTANTLY BECOMING WITH JOT FAU
Brussels, January 2024
In the cold sunny air of January, JOT FAU opens the doors to the impressive Brasserie Atlas – a former brewery near the canal in Anderlecht, Brussels – to welcome us in. Traversing labyrinthic sequences of rooms, warehouses, staircases and a vast courtyard, she brings us up to her floor where several artist studios are divided from each other with milky plastic foil. In her encapsulated universe, thick stacks of cotton, wool and leather exude warmth and comfort. There is work everywhere, in various stages of completion. A pot of Genmaicha tea is kept hot on a self-fabricated wooden structure holding a singular candle. Her working table is filled to the brim with utensils, rags of fabric, thread, souvenirs and rhinestones soon to be embroidered.
We were introduced to each other by common friends somewhat 7 years ago, with the typical Brussels’ remark that we’re both Flemish and we should know each other. However, I would soon enough find out that Jot’s origins are more fluid, hybrid and left open to interpretation. We orbited into this common circle of friends, and three years later finally collaborated for Ame De Serres, an exhibition I curated showcasing Brussels’ emerging talent for the Brussels Gallery Weekend in 2020. Parallel to this collaboration, I posed for Jot, she gifted me a beautiful piece, and I’ve written words for her. Friendship and a trust bond blossomed. As we both navigated the challenges and thrills that come with working in the arts, I felt a growing urge to profile Jot and her magnetic persona, artistic output and universe.
I know it wasn’t an obvious choice for you to opt for an artistic education, but was it nonetheless a continuation of a creativity you had in you as a child?
I always used to draw and make things as a child, yes, but studying art – or studying in general – was never really an option. There were no means for this at home, so I grew up under the assumption that my job would merely be decided on out of pragmatism. However, I did feel a strong urge to leave my small habitat and go explore, so when I turned 18, I moved to the South of France as an au pair. After about two months, my host sat me down for a talk, telling me she was convinced I was an artist at heart, and that I should pursue that by studying. Marseille’s School of Fine Arts was nearby, and she had even already called the administration to set me up for the entrance exam procedure which was only two weeks later. I had about ten arguments to not do it: I didn’t speak French, I had no experience, no notion of contemporary art, and no money. But she really pushed and so eventually I prepared for the exam, thinking I would never get in. But I did and started a new life in Marseille. A rebirth took place.
Let’s introduce your practice with a few words: the body, textiles, memories, and desire. They exist as forces that create tension and attraction throughout your practice. How would you talk to people about what you do?
I usually start by saying that I make sculptures, installations and objects and that I also make unique pieces of clothing. Early on in my career, I also experimented with video, poetry and drawing but that has faded a bit. What’s crucial to me is that my work is built around the notion of transformation. It’s very site-specific, in the sense that it is informed by where I live and what materials I can find in my vicinity. Considering I mostly work with existing things, which bear their own story and physical characteristics, the work is intricately linked to its place of origin. I’m interested in what remains. Finally, my work is autobiographical, it’s impossible to separate my art from my life and my relationships with loved ones.
Textile, with a strong focus on leather, is your main protagonist. When did this fascination start?
This has shaped me from the very beginning because my practice was so determined by an economy of means. I wasn’t in the position to buy art supplies, and just instinctively started working with whatever other people discarded: pieces of wood, metal, rope, fabric… I was drawn to those things that seemed to not hold any value to others. The school had amazing infrastructure, with specialised technical studios, which allowed me to take these leftovers and combine that with learning more about working with wood, welding metal and ceramics.
On one occasion, I stumbled upon a leather jacket left behind on a street in Paris. I took it home and cut it apart, working to save especially those patches where the leather had aged beautifully. I loved the sense of time that it took for the leather to achieve this patina; the fact that it had been worn every day, that a person once felt protected by it, and that when they didn’t anymore, it became perfect for me. When I actually did venture out into art supply stores, I remember always feeling detached from the cold, sterile and generic things on offer.
Experimenting with textiles triggered another development which is still pivotal in my practice today: exploring the notion of identity. I had completely reinvented myself within such a short time, had acquired a new language which became even more familiar than my mother tongue, and was at ease with my unlikely destiny of becoming an artist. This “makeability” intrigued me, and so I set out to create a series of fictional self-portraits. In my first video in 2011, I presented myself as a Swedish trapeze artist, recounting my life path in the mirror while putting on make-up and a handmade leotard. In the next one, I presented as a hunter, and in the one after that, as a singer. I created a wardrobe for each of these characters, which in turn became sculptures. In that sense, fabric and leather are allies which have been with me forever: often in the form of clothing, but even more so serving a protective role as armour.
When we got to know each other better, and I delved deeper into your work, I remember thinking about how your process celebrates sacred economics (explored by Charles Eisenstein in his work), a logic of exchange and support based on gifts rather than transactions. How does this resonate with you? Is it also an ideological choice for you to work like this?
Even though it started from a financial necessity, it somehow became the only possible way to work for me. In that sense, I guess it is political, as a method which is counter-intuitive to the logic of capitalism and consumerism. Though nowadays, we begin to see more of this circular logic even in contemporary art.
I have a very profound attraction towards what is old and handmade, a recognition of its uniqueness, of its soul. The very question of how to take care of something discarded and elevate it from the margins back into something valuable is important to me. The constraint of working with the things I encounter and that I hadn’t necessarily imagined allows me to navigate unexpected paths. It’s the kind of freedom I love having when making art.
Working predominantly with found or gifted materials makes you part of a larger circuit, a community – even if its members are anonymous to each other. You also often exchange work with other artists and your studio is surrounded by other artist studios. Does this play out in your work?
Our permeability defines who we are: we are shaped by everything and everyone around us, continuously. This concept of “constantly becoming” is one that is evident, but very dear to me. Encountering new people, new cultures, new knowledge, new cuisines, languages, opinions… Being open to this is how I want to be in the world and how I want to continue to become. And in that, I hope to give as much to people as I receive from them. It took time for me to be at ease with giving and receiving. It’s often transactional because it passes through this monetary system, and to me, this feels derivative. As soon as I figured out a way to circumvent that, by giving and receiving things or experiences directly without money involved, I found my balance. My work is about sharpening our talent for giving and taking, so I cannot imagine not being surrounded by a community of friends and artists.
Another great asset of our shared studio is being close to people with different sets of expertise. We’re all ready to help, give advice or assist when needed. Sometimes this even leads to collaborations, which enriches our mutual practice and sense of community.
Aside from those nearby sources of inspiration, do you have specific artists, researchers, philosophers, or creatives in general, that fuel your work?
Essays and literature in general have always had a big impact on me, even when I was studying. “Le tiers instruit” by Michel Serres; “Le Maître ignorant” by Jacques Rancière; and Nicole Lapierre’s “Pensons ailleurs” have all influenced my work, as well as the writings of Gaston Bachelard and Georges Didi Huberman. You’ve mentioned Charles Eisenstein before, it’s true that his sacred economics have contributed to my consciousness of how I work with found materials. I also feel affiliated with Le Comité Invisible, a French leftist revolutionary collective. A few years ago, Audre Lorde hit me hard with her writings on love and intersectional feminism. By extension, Paul B. Preciado, Adrienne Maree Brown and Esther Perel have very valuable insights on human relationships. Annie Dillard and Rebecca Solnit’s views on the mystery of nature and our connection with it have also made their mark. And more recently, I encountered the poems of Patrizia Cavalli, so perhaps I might venture out into poetry a bit more. Last but not least, my all-time idol is the writer, artist and filmmaker Miranda July.
Your work embodies seemingly opposing energies: imagery can go from the naive and the childlike towards erotic and ambiguous sensual desires. Yet in your universe, their coming together doesn’t feel provocative. Rather, the fact that you welcome all of this in your practice stirs the spectator into introspection: exploring the depths of our childhood memories, our unconscious instincts, or our current fears and desires. To me, it’s about how one’s biography and life experience are always in force: a constant overlapping of our own past within our present. It’s about confronting oneself, gently and with softness (fluffy wool, smooth leather, comforting blankets). How would you position yourself within this dynamic?
That’s a nice way to put it. Of course, many facets of myself find expression in my work; and both the past and the present are getting a lot of space. I do not set out to create a hierarchy between all of these thoughts. I prefer for them to just coexist, maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel provocative? Coline Davenne once wrote that in my work I was “finding fulfilment in this intermediate state of psychological surgery and emotional self-defence,” and I thought that was very true. My work has always been about surviving life’s challenges. It’s all about transforming to heal from the past and present.
What do you hope to bring into people’s lives with your work?
I hope to introduce ideas that are double, triple; multiple. Naturally, one hopes to create something that’s universal, that resonates with a multitude of people, and that can be owned up by anyone. But I also want that thing to be weird, uncanny, unexpected and disruptive, in a way. I want my work to hold both uncomfortable confrontations, painful truths and worries, as well as joy, humour, playfulness, childish naivety and beauty.
How would you like to see yourself grow as an artist?
Preserving the freedom I have now. I like the fact that it’s difficult to categorise my practice, and I want to hold on to this hybridity. I like to be untaggable, and intangible in a way. I’m also longing to do more projects and collaborations abroad. And finally, I hope I never cease to continuously question and transform myself and my work.
***
Last spring, I went to visit Jot during her residency at Academia Belgica in Rome. She was at the time preparing for her final presentation, beautifully titled “We’ve Been Many Things”, which would eventually take shape as a giant patchwork body to be presented in the monumental black marbled entry hall to the Academia. Jot looked at “Spolia”, the Roman practice of recycling stone fragments from ancient architecture and sculptures into new constructions. With found materials – tree barks, stones, delicate branches and fabrics from the Porta Portese second-hand market – taking on the value of talismans and relics, she conveyed a fragmented human body. Legs and feet for how we move through the world; the bust and what it contains; the face as its portal between the self and the outside; and the hands for what they hold, give, receive and build. Having lived in Rome for a while during my studies, the city has anchored itself into my body. It’s like revisiting an old friend, looking back on one’s trajectory. Jot’s installation heightened this experience, exploring the porosity of our beings, absorbing whom and whatever we encounter on our paths, constantly transforming, constantly becoming.
Interview by Evelyn Simons
Photography by Sander Houthuys