12 MAY 2007, Page 50

Exhibitions 2

In the labyrinth

Richard Cork

Garden of Love, created by Yinka Shonibare Musée du quai Branly, Paris, until 8 July

Nothing might seem more idyllic than Fragonard’s large, manicured paintings of playful seduction. Executed in the early 1770s for Madame du Barry’s Pavilion at Louveciennes, they celebrate the erotic rituals enacted by aristocratic lovers in the grounds of an opulent estate. The young woman and her equally wellgroomed suitor dart, gesticulate and embrace among overflowing flower-beds dominated by classical urns and statues. But by the time Yinka Shonibare has finished with them, in an elaborate and unnerving installation at the new Musée du quai Branly, all their carefree poise is replaced by a macabre alternative.

The context provided by this museum, recently created to house some of Paris’s great ethnographic collections from Africa, Oceania and elsewhere in the world, ought to warn us before we enter Shonibare’s labyrinth. He tries to lull us by giving his work the deceptive title Garden of Love, and beguiling reproductions of Fragonard’s paintings outside the entrance add to this feel-good aura. Once inside, though, doubts soon start eroding any expectations of straightforward amorous bliss. True, we find ourselves walking through enclosed passages reminiscent of the lovers’ pathways in French rococo gardens. Shonibare’s initial ideas about his exhibition were influenced by his response to the new museum’s external and internal gardens, so he opted right away for a horticultural approach. But the labyrinth soon becomes a place where deception and bewilderment prevail. Suddenly, a sequence of large mirrored walls on our left baffle us with receding reflections. We feel disorientated, and prevailing darkness adds to the sense of confusion.

It is a relief when an aperture leads us through to a clearing. Brightly lit, it contains a sculptural pair of figures lost in besotted dalliance. At first, their costumes appear to be the last word in 18th-century elegance. Shonibare has ensured that every ribbon and tassle is shown off with painterly panache, and the flowers encircling the figures are crafted with exempla ry skill. The lovers, gathered round an ample stone plinth, seem preoccupied with letters. Most of them are heaped beside her, and red sealing-wax gleams in the light. The other letter is clasped in her hand, yet we cannot get near enough to read the words written on the shiny paper. Then, with a shock, we realise that she will never be able to read them either. For the young woman’s head has been severed from her neck, and her suitor is decapitated as well. Although his eager hands close on her breast and waist, he cannot see.

No trace survives of their facial features, let alone the wigs they must once have worn. It is as if the French Revolution had already erupted, and consigned this carefree pair to the savagery of the guillotine. In this respect, Shonibare’s Garden of Love is eerily prophetic, emphasising that its pampered denizens will end up as victims of The Terror. By making his figures lifesize, he magnifies our sense of dread. Nor does he stop there. After carefully scrutinising the clothes worn by the doomed duo, we realise that the fabrics are, in reality, African wax-printed textiles. Shonibare seems bent on reminding us, at the moment when Wilberforce’s triumph over slavery reaches its 200th anniversary, that the luxury enjoyed by Fragonard’s characters is rooted in the suffering of others far less fortunate.

All the same, Garden of Love cannot be described simply as an angry polemic. For Shonibare seduces with exuberance even as he warns us about the origins of the lovers’ immense wealth. The dream-world he has concocted here still has the ability to generate an aura of wellbeing. As we leave the love-letters tableau and return to the labyrinth, its baffling path excites us with the promise of even more spectacular excess.

We are not disappointed. In another clearing, a headless aristocratic woman is seen in the act of running, with both arms dramatically outstretched. The decapitated man beside her is only doffing his hat and proffering her a rose. But she looks as alarmed as Daphne pursued by Apollo, while the plants, blooms and garlands rioting around them add to the feeling of unchecked emotion. The third tableau appears quieter: both woman and man are seated now, clasping each other’s hands as she attempts to crown the void above his severed neck with flowers. Nearby, a large book of music lies beneath a hatbox embellished, satirically, with Shonibare’s version of the Chanel logo. Although the promised crowning can never fully happen, the lovers insist on believing that nothing has gone wrong. Heedless as well as headless, their festive unconcern in a damaged world ends up as the most pertinent aspect of this haunting installation.