Johan Creten

MARGAUX PLESSY: Johan, I’d like to know what ceramics represent to you personally and artistically. How is this material incorporated into your work and, most of all, what does clay symbolize for you?

JOHAN CRETEN: Clay is wet and dirty—very disgusting. I hate ceramics! [Laughs] More seriously, I have been trying for a long time to incorporate my work with clay into the contemporary art conversation. This doesn’t just mean talking about firing temperature or techniques, but exploring other dimensions: dimensions that are political, social, activist, and also formal, but most of all conceptual. For me, clay symbolizes great freedom. Forty years ago, in the contemporary art world, it was a separate material, almost taboo. It represented unexplored territory, far from the standard discussions. This material lets you address profound themes, connected to mother earth, land, and territories, “Die Erde,” the work of farmers, class struggles, and more.

MP: When do you think a turning point occurred in your artistic practice, giving ceramics more importance and influence?

JC: I started off as a painter and I never studied ceramics formally. In the ’80s, I found a studio that was almost abandoned where two older ladies were working. First, I incorporated ceramic elements into my paintings, and then I explored this material more directly. At that time, I made artworks that looked like what Sterling Ruby is doing today: broken pieces, pseudo-archaeological experiments. Bit by bit, I understood that I could make a place in the contemporary art world for this medium, and it became my favorite material.

MP: Two important elements that we find in your sculptures—and in your work generally—are the strong narrative dimension, with hybrid figures and very organic forms, and the use of color. Let’s start with narrative depth: how do you construct it and what role does narrative play in your work?

JC: My inspiration comes from the world around me. In the ’90s, I explored themes such as Autoportrait en tête de Turc (1993) or L’appel (1993) that are still resonant with what’s happening today. I recently posted on Instagram an image of an artwork I made in Kohler in 1993 that anticipated what we’re seeing today in America. I think artists feel changes coming long before they occur. My work functions like a saga: each piece is added to the story and constructs a continuity.

MP: So let’s talk about color. What is the importance of color for you?

JC: For me, color is inseparable from enamel, which, after firing, becomes a true skin. A “skin” like in The Skin by Malaparte. It’s an essential element of my work, like plaster for Rodin or wax for Medardo Rosso. I have a very pictorial approach to this material, connected to my past as a painter. I love accidents and the unpredictable. Long before “Instagrammable” colors, my colors already had this kind of intensity that was both seductive and violent. The color and the surface are inseparable. And the nature of ceramics is to continuously transform the color of their surface.

MP: The word “violence” often occurs in your vocabulary. Is this a central aspect of your approach?

JC: Absolutely. We live in a world of gangsters. I felt this violence very early on, and throughout my career. It shows through in my work. Already when I was very young, being an artist at age eleven was a way to exist, but at the same time I was necessarily this person on the margins surrounded by torturers. And later, some people saw in my work an almost excessive beauty—the flowers, the bright colors. But beauty is a lubricant that lets you take on painful subjects: racism, homophobia, the role of women, the rejection of the other. For a long time, I traveled, rejecting boundaries, exploring other languages, other cultures. I like the idea of not being ourselves when we meet others, of opening up and becoming curious about other stories.

Today, this spirit of openness is threatened and in danger, and some people only recall the seductive aspect of my work, forgetting the raw, political dimension. I think this is a mistake and you have to stay with what is raw and true, which doesn’t mean you can’t make life more enjoyable through the beauty of art.

MP: You traveled for a long time, for twenty-five years, before settling into a permanent studio. Has this change influenced your work?

JC: Yes, completely. For twenty-five years, I was nomadic, adapting to the places I found so that I could continue to create. It was organic, based on encounters and opportunities. Today, with La Solfatara, I have a permanent studio, with kilns, a team, and a solid infrastructure. This is a new experience for me. But I still travel and go work in other places. For instance, I’m leaving for the Netherlands soon. I always need to be outside a little bit, to keep moving. But what has had the most influence is the fact that I’m no longer alone. Before, I worked on my own. Today, I’m surrounded by many people, and that has changed something. This new work space opens the door to more experimentation. But I don’t yet know where this is going to take me. It’s too soon to say. The space itself doesn’t have great importance for me. It’s not what directly inspires me. It’s a space that I am still discovering.

MP: And learning to take hold of a new space takes time. For instance, now you are living with your artworks all around you. How does that affect you? Has this vast, imposing space led to a new paradigm in your creative approach, making you want to work on a different scale?

JC: Yes, before, once an artwork was finished, it was packed up and it went out into the world or into storage. Today, I find myself constantly faced with my own work. This proximity is significant. Before, I liked having nothing but a suitcase. Now, I’m surrounded by my sculptures. And, in fact, this anticipates death a little bit. Because you realize that all this is temporary, and that you have to think about what comes after. What has changed most of all is the outside perception of my work. For the first time, collectors, curators, and critics can see my sculptures gathered in one place. They become aware of the size of the artworks, the complexity of the subjects, the sprawling nature of my history. Before, you had to wait three or four years to see a show. And even then, you only saw a fragment. Today, people from American museums stop by my studio when they come through Paris.

MP: So, ultimately, how does the environment influence the design and the installation of your artworks? Does the site itself play a role in their creation, or do you already have a specific vision before encountering the space?

JC: What I call a “real” exhibition is a time when you create something that isn’t just a series of pieces hanging on a wall. I like doing real exhibitions. An exhibition should be thought out like a story, almost like a play. It’s not just showing artworks; it’s creating a whole. Every exhibition means working on a place. This doesn’t mean that the artworks are made for the space (that rarely happens), but you have to conceive of the whole as a spectacle. The exhibition must affect the mind. It should be designed as a Gesamtkunstwerk, a total work of art.

MP: This brings us back to the importance of narrative in your work. Narrative goes beyond the artwork itself and finds its way into the very exhibition process, which you imagine as a kind of staging. What about you, Johan—what exhibition had a profound effect on you?

JC: Michael Buthe’s show at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Gand in the ’80s. He installed thousands of lighted candles in the museum. Today, no one would let you do that. There were installations, the music of Maria Callas, and underground people who were specially brought in from Berlin. It was incredibly real. I’ve felt the same intensity in the installations of Joseph Beuys, in the work of Wolfgang Tillmans or Pierre Huyghe.

MP: All the examples you mention share a complete approach to exhibition design, or even an immersive aspect, with lighting and sound...

JC: Yes, but I hardly ever take spectacle that far. Except in the exhibition ‘La Quarantaine’ (1991) on the brise-lames in Sète (a former quarantine site), maybe.

MP: Today, in a world where people say it is harder than ever to feel astonishment, do you think that monumental or spectacular art has become a means of stimulating emotion?

JC: No, I don’t think so. Emotion doesn’t come from the format, lighting, or sound. A very small sculpture can have more power than a monumental work. I showed a minuscule vulva in bronze all by itself on a vast white wall that was seven meters tall at an exhibition in Dubai. This work had more impact than sculptures that were four meters tall. The important thing is to find “the right artwork” in the right place at the right time. Today, we’re flooded with images, deluged with Instagram…

JC: We no longer take the time to go deeper. But you don’t touch people by accumulating spectacle. You have to be able to swim against the tide.

JC: We no longer take the time to go deeper. But you don’t touch people by accumulating spectacle. You have to be able to swim against the tide.

MP: And you, Johan, are you taking the time now to try to go deeper into things?

JC: I try. I live with objects, with books. For me, living with a book already means living with art and with time. That’s why I put so much energy into my exhibition catalogues. The catalogue for the exhibition in Orléans, for instance, required a colossal effort, but it was essential. In fact, I can’t fall asleep without a book.

MP: For this exhibition, ‘Jouer avec le feu,’ how did your desire to show these monumental sculptures come about?

JC: The key impetus was the pandemic. When Covid happened, the bronze founders had many of their orders canceled. I decided to invest my savings into having my sculptures cast in bronze. I took a huge risk. I told myself: “If I die tomorrow, I might as well produce what I want today.” And because of this decision, when Olivia Voisin came to me with her idea and asked me to install three sculptures in the city of Orléans, I replied: “I have eleven.” She thought that was amazing. So this project came about from a crazy gamble, but also from the desire to support the foundry and its 45 artisans. So I put all my money into it. Maybe one day these pieces will find collectors or museums or a place to welcome them, but for now, at least they exist.

MP: They exist and they seem to have been adopted by the public, to use your term. How do you think people should interact with works like these in a public space?

JC: Ever since my performances in the Paris metro in the ’80s, I always say to myself: When I die, my artworks have to be strong enough to be able to survive in any context. They have to be strong enough for people to be interested in them and to love them enough to save them. There is a lot of art that, once it’s removed from its context, no longer exists or falls into oblivion. This doesn’t mean that these are bad artworks. Maurizio Cattelan’s banana, for example, isn’t bad. In fact, I had already made an artwork in the ’80s called Présentoir d’orange. There was a real orange on a little ceramic shelf attached to the wall. An artist can take any object at all to make an artwork. But now, I tell myself that the pieces I make must contain enough love so that people want to save them and so that they will survive.

MP: I find that so beautiful and poetic. It must be very moving for you to see the public in dialogue with your sculptures when you think about objects surviving us because they are saved by the love of others.

JC: Of course! When you put a piece into the public space, it’s defenseless. It has to survive on its own. That’s when you see if they are strong enough to survive. They only survive if they are adopted by the public. In Orléans, for example, I was told that people think that my sculptures have been there for five years, when they’ve only been there for one! They are part of their environment now.

MP: So it’s about the power of the location, of their placement?

JC: Exactly. As an artist, you must be very sure of the location. Down to the centimeter. It’s an issue of sensibility. It’s fascinating. Take the example of the bat. It was flown by helicopter to a mountain in Sweden facing the sea. To see it, you had…

JC: To cross a natural park and climb up... There, it resonates in a completely different way than if it were placed in front of a museum in Roubaix. In Orléans, in front of the cathedral, it evokes gargoyles and the world of Victor Hugo instead. But this doesn’t always happen without strife. Sometimes, a sculpture installation triggers a wave of violence just because people are losing three parking spaces, or because they don’t like it. But, in the end, things always calm down. I’ve even had fierce opponents who, a few months later, have become the protectors of my work. For example, in northern Holland, a retired policewoman was furious about one of my sculptures. She was categorically against it being installed. Then, the day when the crane set the sculpture down, she changed. The artwork spoke to her. Today, she protects it.

MP: These people become something like the guardian angels of your artworks?

JC: That’s exactly right. Just as artists need guardian angels—gallerists, collectors, artist friends—artworks also need a public to adopt them. And reactions are always different. Like the bat that was shown in Sweden and in Paris, in front of the Petit Palais... Every time, it’s in a different dialogue with its environment and its public. Sometimes, some parts almost lose their patina because they have been touched so much.

MP: Do you think that sculptures should be touched, or should they remain sacred?

JC: I like the idea of touching them. A sculpture says something different when you touch it. You have to move around it, perceive it from all angles, but also feel it physically. Despite everything, the idea of the “untouchability” of ceramics is “touching.”

MP: It’s great news that the exhibition of your monumental sculptures has been extended. You must have been very moved by this. What does this involve for you?

JC: An exhibition like this, ultimately, there are about one hundred people who are involved in it. With all the different jobs involved, it comes to around one hundred people. That’s what we felt at the time of Covid, for example, that when an artist isn’t available anymore, all of a sudden this has implications for a huge…

MP: This raises the question of the place of artists and how they have to reinvent themselves as they face changes in the world. Do you know where we’re headed?

JC: I’m trying to figure it out. The hyper-commercialization of art and growing censorship worry me: we’re under direct attack and the coming months or even years may be difficult. So I think that artists must once more question themselves and see if it’s through beauty that resistance will happen or if it’s through action that resistance will happen. I don’t know, but it’s certain that there will always be “art that goes with the color of the couch.” But for me, art is something else entirely.

MP: This may seem a bit utopian, but in a less violent world, what do you think the artist’s place would be? What is the role of artists, or even their responsibility?

JC: We don’t live in a world without violence, unfortunately. The role of the artist is therefore in the real world. The way artists reacted during the Vietnam War, the way Goya reacted, the way Picasso reacted. I made artworks called Je serais ton miroir. These are very old pieces about the fact that the artist must be the mirror of their time. I think that an artist must be the mirror of their time. What is happening is unimaginable. Of course, I could go back to my studio and make flowers, but shouldn’t I be much more raw, more of a warrior? These are all very complex questions.

MP: This actually brings me to my final question, one that I ask myself every day and that haunts me deeply. Do you think it is important to find an artwork beautiful? Or ultimately does its meaning go completely beyond aesthetic satisfaction?

JC: For me, that’s not what I’m looking for. In fact, I talk about beauty as a 'lubricant' to get messages across. I don’t think art should be aesthetic... On the contrary, there are artworks that have affected me deeply, and you can’t say that Goya’s art is necessarily beautiful. Some pieces by Picasso aren’t either; he used ugliness, in fact.

No, art must awaken you, upset you. It has to move you, make you think, make things change. And really, these are all dangerous words today, because they represent a vision of liberty.