Anne Le Troter: Les Pornoplantes
Past exhibition
Overview
Exterior, daytime. Closed Speech. Explicit intimacy like headphones. Three sand-colored benches, a black cable. Under the butt, from behind, the sound, the voice. Ploc, Ploc.
When Anne Le Troter awoke one morning from a sleep filled with disturbing dreams, she found herself transformed in her bed, somewhere in a forest, into a kind of plant. Like the Heliades, who had so mourned the death of their brother Phaethon (struck down for borrowing the keys of their daddy's solar chariot) that they turned into poplars and alders, their fingers lengthened so immeasurably that soon one could only allude to branches and stems. The rest of the body followed, affected on all sides by a multitude of germinations and buddings. In this plant becoming that was happening, she retained a more or less human silhouette, like the aphrodisiac roots of the Mandragora officinarum: a head, legs, genitals (intermittently). Daily exercise: pass the head between the legs to see whatʼs happening there and feel the blood hammering on the temples. And a voice. Well, yeah. Because this plant does audio porn and ASMR, unleashes and is never at loss for words. Season after season, she explores plant sexuality and whispers the euphoria of spring to us, the loss of autonomous sex and the renewal of hair flowering. A trilogy: 1. The intensity of a sociability of friction 2. The solitude of isolation 3. The hope and prospects of rediscovered exchanges. This voice has ambitions. It doesnʼt just want to be heard; it wants to seep into its contemporaries. To touch, to infiltrate, to contact, like a sort of impalpable and vibrant skin, whose pores have been replaced by audio jacks. I say skin, but bark or surface of foliage would probably be more on point. Can the term ʻhapticʼ be applied to voice?
Installation Views
