Not at any price

m&k: Chris Dercon, Let me start with a question that sounds simple: What comes to mind when you hear the word «creativity»?

Chris Dercon: What comes to mind are articles and lectures I gave almost 10 years ago, when I was working in Germany. Back then, I was very critical of the overuse of the word «creativity.» For me, creativity was—and still is—very closely tied to a neoliberal concept. It’s really about exploitation—self-exploitation. The so-called «creative class» in our Western society has largely become a construct in which people live in precarious conditions and have hardly any opportunities to «make it.» Meanwhile, a select few decision-makers dictate to them how they are to think, how they are to be, and how they are to behave “creatively.”.

«Creativity leads to enthusiasm, and unbridled enthusiasm can be a dangerous thing.»

Could you explain that in more detail?

We’re always saying that we want «people to be creative.» But creativity leads to enthusiasm, and unbridled enthusiasm can be a dangerous thing: it shifts your focus and makes you forget that life isn’t limited to the one thing you’re passionate about. When I look at cities like Berlin, I see all these communities of people who are enthusiastically «creative» and dream of using their work to escape their precarious living conditions. But the more enthusiastic they become, the more precarious their living conditions often become. Because others profit from their work; those who employ them for little money profit, but they themselves do not.

That sounds like the concept of a false, pseudo-creativity. But is there also room in our world for «real creativity»?

I would define true creativity as the ability to think outside the box; the ability to think transformatively. It’s the ability to connect things; to find answers to questions for which no solution had previously been found… it’s a way of thinking that goes beyond established categories. I consider everything else to be false creativity or, as I said before, a form of exploitation. It’s quite interesting: When I looked up the word «creativity» before our interview, I discovered that Verso has just published a book titled *Against Creativity*. This book contains many of the ideas I’ve been talking about for years—which is quite gratifying, but also a bit sad. I thought the issue was «settled.» I thought we’d dealt with creativity enough (laughs). But obviously, the misuse of the word isn’t over yet. I’ll say it again: We need to be aware that many people still use the word «creativity» to maintain a system in which there are only a few winners and many, many “creative” losers.

«For me, creativity is very closely linked to a neoliberal concept. It's about exploitation—self-exploitation.»

This «true creativity» you mentioned—I wonder if it’s limited to the arts: theater, music, painting, and sculpture. Or would you say that true creativity also exists in the business world?

True creativity exists in areas other than art as well. Scientists in almost every field of research must be creative—they must come up with original ideas, take risks, and try new things. And sometimes the same could apply to the business world, couldn’t it? On the other hand, the purpose of every company is, of course, to develop mechanisms for making money. And most of these mechanisms are based on exploitation, which brings us back to square one. As Kolja Reichert recently wrote in a brilliant essay titled «The Trump-Balenciaga Complex,» «the meaning, content, and success of a brand are created by the users themselves, with their unpaid labor leading to a new model of exploitation that is difficult to track and particularly difficult to stop.».

A shout-out to the fashion industry!

Yes, all of this becomes particularly clear in industries that are considered rather «glamorous»: Just think of the poor interns who are completely exploited by the fashion industry. Famous models are well-paid, as are well-known designers… but up-and-coming photographers, stylists, and makeup artists accept almost any form of lousy pay because they have to work to stay in the system. And of course they have so-called creative jobs, but my God, what a form of exploitation this is!

«Being a curator is a profession in which you take many risks and can lose battles.»

Is the job of a curator essentially a «truly creative» one?

My job is to think outside the box. My job is about taking risks and connecting things that come from many different directions in a way that’s never been done before. I greatly admire the writings of Alexander Kluge, who says that everything can be «connected» to everything else if you approach it the right way. For me, that’s the essence of what I do. But… does that make it creative? I’ll leave that judgment to others. For my part, I mainly realize that the work is very hard and very complex. And that it’s about applying what I’ve learned in a transformative way. If others call that creative, that’s fine by me. I’d rather say it’s a form of intellectual authorship—and not least, a profession in which you take many risks. One in which you can lose battles, but ultimately perhaps win the war.

I didn’t just want to talk to you about creativity; I wanted us to explore together the connection between creativity and brands, or branding. You’ve led some of the world’s most prestigious «museum brands»—how did you handle the expectations that the history of these brands entailed?

I know what you’re getting at with your question, but I would be very cautious about using the term «museum brand.» I’ve worked in many museums, but very rarely were they brands. Let’s say the Tate in London has become a brand because it appeals to a mass audience. If you set out to do that and succeed, then you’ll likely evolve into a brand. But to do that, you have to generate incredible revenue and implement an aggressive business model and a strategy of continuous growth. That said… I don’t believe that achieving «brand status» is necessarily a criterion for a successful museum.

Or what?

A successful museum project is about creating life after death—a life after death that emerges from new connections between existing works; from a sense of moral and intellectual authorship; and from a vision, a particular understanding that invites visitors to share in it.

But what about artists« »brand status”? Do they generally strive to become their own brand?

I have been engaged in an intensive dialogue with Rem Koolhaas for many years. He is an architect, but as I understand it, he is also an artist. Rem is often referred to in the media as a «brand.» And I know how angry that makes him. He is firmly convinced that—if you’re given a concise but static label—that’s the best reason to seek out a completely different form of expression. And that is exactly what he does, for example, in his collaboration with Miuccia Prada. In a sense, they are kindred spirits: they steer strong and clearly distinguishable brands, but not in a way that makes them static or recognizable solely through repetition. Prada and Koolhaas are the moral and intellectual masters of their image, and that’s why they have no problem repeatedly pushing beyond their supposed boundaries. That’s the kind of branding I’m interested in.

I can also think of a few artists who play with the concept of branding—those who comment, either humorously or critically, on the idea of being an «artist brand» …

Yes, you can be an artist and, for artistic purposes, act like a brand! Andy Warhol did that, Jeff Koons does that, Maurizio Cattelan does too, in a way … and, of course, Damien Hirst. Their work is about recognition within the art world and the various nuances that come with it.

«A successful museum project is about creating life after death.»

Chris Dercon's venues: Tate Modern in London, the Grand Palais in Paris, and the Haus der Künste in Munich.

The Damien Hirst retrospective at London’s Tate in 2012 was one of your first major exhibitions as director of the museum. I remember seeing it—and being hugely impressed. There were many works that played with the idea of what brands and branding mean.

You’re right. You were certainly impressed by the artist’s intelligence, which was evident in that exhibition. And I think the exhibition also made a point back then: «Listen up, folks—you need to take Damien Hirst much more seriously!» However: If this exhibition had any effect, it wasn’t that it strengthened Damien Hirst’s brand. Rather, it helped establish an understanding of his creative power and authorship. Because it showcased all the depths and nuances of his work. And of course, we also exhibited the pill cabinets, which are likewise about branding and labeling. But artists like Hirst and Warhol—they essentially sell themselves short at first by leading people to view them primarily as “artist brands.” In a second step, however, they challenge us to look beyond precisely that, and when we do, we see just how rich, intelligent, and beautiful their work is—and how deep its roots run.

«In the end, the question is: How can my work live on beyond me, and how will it?»

In an interview with *The Independent* shortly before the exhibition mentioned above, Hirst said of himself: «I’m not an artist—I’m a brand!» Is he referring with this statement to something specific, such as the «dot paintings,» which are reproduced by his staff and then sold? Or do you think he’s playing with the concept of brand identity?

He’s playing around. Just like he’s doing now with his work on NFTs. He’s created a kind of meta-concept of authorship. Just as Andy Warhol did when he said that everyone has a chance at fifteen minutes of fame. Of course, that was a game for Andy, who pretended to be completely relaxed about his own fame! Or think of Jeff Koons, who seems almost too honest to be real. He, too, plays with this image. None of the artists mentioned is really a brand, but they represent work that engages with the concept of branding.

Are you also trying to expose the mechanisms of the art market?

Yes, absolutely. And they make it very difficult for you to reach that point of realization. They cover their tracks because that gives them the opportunity to talk about fame in the art world. It’s a way to philosophize about the end of the avant-garde. It’s also a very clever method for imbuing their works with many different layers and dimensions.

But when certain artists are actually «hyped,» does that change their work? Do they end up chasing the brand that galleries or collectors have created for them?

Of course, there are artists for whom becoming popular is synonymous with success. And while they may attract a few collectors, they are rarely selected by reputable curators for exhibitions; their work rarely ends up in museums, and, I suspect, not in truly good private collections either. Consumer art has always existed, based on the simple principle of «return on investment.» But that is something entirely different from the pursuit of artistic authorship. Because in the end, the most important question one must ask is not about the work’s recognizability or its return on investment, but rather: «How can and will my work live on beyond myself? How will it remain significant and continue to exist?» And when you ask yourself these questions, you can only reject the idea of a static brand.

So, as an artist, one should view one’s work from the perspective of a fictional retrospective—and consider how one’s body of work will be viewed in its entirety in the future?

That's right, exactly! It's an internal, artistic process. You try to understand what you’re doing and what else you’d like to accomplish in the time you have. If you focus solely on making a name for yourself, you won’t achieve that—there are simply too many contributing factors that are beyond your control. What you can do, however, is build confidence in your own work—a confidence that comes from within and isn’t imposed on your work from the outside. If there is such a thing as true creativity, it’s the attempt to attain that confidence.