The art of the eerie
Pol Taburet
Paris

When Pol Taburet was a child, his mother would take him to look around museums. It was
a natural choice of activity for her: she was a museum guard at Musée d’Art Moderne de Paris. “She wasn’t educated in art,” says Taburet. “But working all the time in those rooms, you become sensitive to the paintings.” That sensitivity, and an insatiable enthusiasm for the medium, has clearly trickled down.

When Monocle visits Taburet’s studio on the outskirts of Paris, we catch the 28-year-old in the middle of a busy period. He’s just wrapped up a solo exhibition at Madrid’s Pabellón de los Hexágonos – huge paintings that were created specifically for the church-like space. Now he’s finalising the paintings and sculptures for a show at Schinkel Pavillon in Berlin. Next, he’ll be off to Brazil to spend two months creating work to display at the São Paulo Biennial from September.

In his paintings, Taburet typically depicts ghostly figures. Sometimes they sit around the bright white of a tablecloth, in other works figures float and body parts freewheel across the canvas. For someone as warm and effervescent as Taburet, the works seem to have a dark underbelly. But he insists that it’s honesty, rather than darkness, on show. “I am trying to paint something real,” he says. Even if there is a sense of violence within the work, there’s a softness to it too. It’s “violence with gloss on top”, he says. “It makes it easier to look at.”

Francis Bacon is an obvious comparison but Taburet has found more inspiration in the likes of Edvard Munch or Roberto Matta. Taburet is also influenced by what he finds in books such as 1993’s L’art Océanien, a doorstopper full of interesting shapes and faces. But if he had to pick one enduring influence, there’s little competition: South Park. “When you want to talk to children, you have to have this efficiency of information,” he says. “South Park is the best for that, only using round, square and rectangle shapes. But so much is happening.” Taburet thinks that it’s this meeting of venerated art history and childish cartoons that has led to his individuality as an artist. He’s humbled by his success and how his work – “this dark humour, these freaky images”– seems to speak to so many people.

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Parts of a whole
Claire Oswalt
Austin

Texan painter Claire Oswalt ascribes to the theory that all art is generated by the subconscious. “People often ask me where the inspiration for my colours comes from,” she says from her studio in Austin. “And I have absolutely no idea.” After long stints in Los Angeles and New York, the 46-year-old returned to her hometown. Though the Texan capital is an enclave of creativity and progressivism in a state not famed for such things, it is a very different environment from the two megacities that dominate America’s artistic output. Still, any attempts by Monocle to impose a geographical stamp on Oswalt’s work are politely rebuffed. “I don’t feel like my location has much to do with it,” she says. “There’s a quote from the Wim Wenders’ movie Wings of Desire, in which a character says, ‘‘Behind closed eyes, close your eyes once more.’ And I feel like that’s the place from which I’m working.”

Despite this, the colours of Oswalt’s recent output seem to be more informed by the natural than the interior world. And though the scale of the collaged paintings speaks to the western US tradition of grand vistas, their nature and construction are anything but brash or broad brushstroke. Indeed, each honours “that tiny moment of making that first mark on the paper”. This first mark comes after a painstaking process involving the accumulation of dozens, or even hundreds, of pieces of paper piled high on her studio floor. “It’s quite a live thing,” she says. “When I start to move them around, that’s when these abstract pieces emerge… And the edges of these collage papers become the seams of my work.”

Oswalt attributes the methodical, even mathematical, way of producing work to her grandparents. Her grandfather was an engineer who made stained glass in his free time, while her grandmother was an oil painter. “And that kind of dichotomy of math and painterly aspects carried through for me.” 

She describes the final process of bringing all the components of her collages together as symphonic. “I’m fascinated by this idea that, especially in a symphony setting, you can have one instrument, one note, and then you put it all together and you’ve created an opera.”