The great hall of the Chapelle des Petits Augustins is dominated by the larger than life figure of the Colleone; a plaster mold copy based upon an original by Verrocchio which still stands in a Venetian square. A proud figure on horseback; erect, dynamic, for all the world as if were about to charge down the aisle toward the exit and make a break for it.
From a small anteroom to the side, the distinctively haughty French of the 16th arrondissement can be heard. “How old is this artist? Is he still alive?” she enquires. “Good, good. A perfect time to buy then.” When the attendant idly mentions that the artist in question produces work that is already going for quite a sum this causes a minor eruption. “Who are you to tell me what’s expensive? You know nothing about how much money I have. What is expensive to you may not be expensive to me, you know.” And with that she charges out, as proud and erect as Verrocchio’s rider.
The artist in question is Urs Fischer, who will be forty next year and is already selling for millions. But the work besides which this spat took place, a piece of what Gustav Metzger would call “auto-destructive art” could scarcely be more difficult to sell. It was only installed a month ago and already it is close to evanescence; seeping away into the ground upon which it sits like so many bath suds down a drain. But amongst all the grand old replicas which surround it, monuments to permanence and stolidity all; Fischer’s fugacious statue is a true original.
[read the full review at Bonjour Paris]