KADER ATTIA PRESENTS THE PAIN OF WAR AND HIS PROCESS OF REPARATION THROUGH ART IN THE EXHIBITION ‘URGENCY OF EXISTENCE’
TEXT: TUNYAPORN HONGTONG
PHOTO: KETSIREE WONGWAN
(For Thai, press here)
Kader Attia’s immersive installation in the ‘Urgency of Existence’ exhibition carries a profound sense of ‘satiation,’ both emotionally and intellectually. When experienced alongside the exhibition’s two remaining works, it unfurls a cascade of associations: wounds, war, incarceration, faith, freedom, loss, and more.
Born in Paris and raised between France and Algeria—a country once under French colonial rule—Attia’s perspective has been shaped by a lifetime of extensive travels. Years spent in Congo and South America further broadened his engagement with disparate cultures, deepening his fascination with the ways societies construct their histories, particularly through the lens of loss, oppression, and violence. He examines how these traumas coalesce into collective memory, binding individuals into the fabric of a nation. Over the years, this inquiry has led him to a central, recurring motif in his practice: the concept of ‘repair’.
In On Silence (2021/2024), Kader Attia’s immersive installation, a multitude of prosthetic limbs—arms, legs, feet, hands—are suspended from the ceiling, scattered midair as if caught in the force of an explosion. This was the first work in which his exploration of repair came into focus. In its most direct sense, prosthetic limbs serve to restore bodies that have been severed, allowing them to regain function as closely as possible to their original state.
Yet Attia deliberately resists framing these prosthetic limbs as mere artistic objects. Since the piece’s first exhibition in 2021, he has chosen to use prosthetics that have been previously worn—particularly those once belonging to Syrian refugees, victims of one of the most complex and brutal conflicts in modern history. As a result, every prosthetic in the installation carries remnants of its former owner. These silent imprints remind us that what is at stake is not only the repair of the body but, more profoundly, the psychological wounds of those who have survived war—wounds that may never fully heal.
Three years later, as the installation is shown once more, it is apparent that little has changed. The Syrian war, though it may appear to have subsided, lingers in unresolved tensions, while new conflicts continue to erupt elsewhere. Many of these wars, sustained as proxy battles by global powers with vested interests, show no sign of abating. What also remains unchanged—and what Attia persistently underscores—is that while war takes lives every day, many of us continue to respond with silence.
Stepping out from the gallery space where On Silence is exhibited, visitors will encounter a small screening area showing Attia’s latest film, La Valise Oubliée (The Forgotten Suitcase, 2024). The film follows Attia as he meets with three individuals: Jean-Jacques Lebel, a French artist who supported Algeria’s independence movement; Françoise Vergès, a feminist decolonial thinker; and Attia’s mother. Each of them possesses a suitcase—some inherited from relatives, some given to them by others, and some belonging to lifelong partners. During their encounters with Attia, they open these suitcases to explore the objects inside—family photo albums, letters, and other personal belongings. These seemingly ordinary artifacts become conduits for painful memories of the Algerian War of Independence (1954–1962), a conflict that claimed countless Algerian lives.
The film plays a crucial role in illustrating the lingering consequences of colonialism—one of the central themes in Attia’s artistic practice. Yet, regrettably, many visitors (at least those I observed) do not spend much time with it. Perhaps the 32-minute documentary format struggles to hold the attention of exhibition-goers, or the intimate screening space—small, with just a few closely placed chairs—deters viewers from staying for long. Some step in, watch briefly, then leave. More unfortunate still, this fleeting engagement means that many miss another of Attia’s installations, discreetly tucked behind a narrow opening concealed behind the black curtain of the screening room.
The installation in question is Ghost (2007/2024), the work that Wallpaper* (UK Edition) once hailed as Attia’s breakthrough piece. Confronting Ghost in person, it becomes clear why the magazine made such a claim—and why, in this exhibition, the entrance to the work has been deliberately concealed behind a narrow passage.
The first image upon entering the Ghost exhibition space is a vast assembly of human figures, crafted from aluminum foil, cloaked, and kneeling in prayer. Due to the gallery’s layout, visitors are guided into the room from the back left corner, meaning that, at first glance, only the rear view of these figures is visible. Their sheer number, the reflective silver surfaces, their bowed postures, and the way they are packed tightly together—leaving only a narrow pathway for viewers—combine to evoke a range of emotions: awe, unease, even an underlying sense of agitation, as though being encroached upon. But it is only upon walking to the front of the room and turning back toward the figures that a more striking revelation emerges: the aluminum shells encase nothing. The kneeling bodies are hollow, their faces absent. The encounter elicits an immediate, almost indescribable response.
When Attia first created Ghost, he used his mother as a model, wrapping aluminum foil around her to mold the figures. The kneeling posture—bent forward in prayer—was drawn from childhood memories of watching his mother and other Muslim women engaged in worship. Over time, the work has often been interpreted through the lens of imperialism, reflecting how colonial forces eroded local cultures to the point where women in veils were rendered faceless, almost completely devoid of identity.
Yet, in this viewing of Ghost, I found myself thinking less about Islam and more about Christian monks in hooded robes. Perhaps this shift in perception stems from the fact that, as an Asian viewer, I am more familiar with Islam than many Western audiences. The sense of mystery that Ghost conveys—rather than evoking a familiar cultural or religious reference—feels instead tied to Western religious traditions that remain foreign and enigmatic. (This is, after all, Attia’s first solo exhibition in Asia, and given that his work engages deeply with cultural identity, audience interpretations are bound to differ from those in previous exhibitions.) Viewed through the lens of Christian monasticism, Ghost takes on a new interpretation. No longer merely an assembly of drained, soulless bodies—stripped of identity and reduced to empty shells—the figures—these ‘ghosts’ are evoked and wielded as political instruments, used to unify empires and justify colonial expansion under the guise of civilization.
For Attia, true repair is not about erasing wounds or imperfections to restore an object to a pristine, idealized state—an impulse often seen in the way Western powers have sought to reconstruct the nations they once colonized. Instead, he aligns repair with pre-modern, non-Western traditions, such as those of Indigenous African communities, where damage is not concealed but preserved and embraced, allowing the object to take on new life. In this view, repair serves as a reconciliation between past and present.
This philosophy is crystallized in two of Attia’s remaining works: Untitled (Mirrors) (2024) and Repaired Broken Mirror (2023). The first consists of three pieces of silk stretched across canvas frames, each in colors commonly found in national flags—red, white, and black. The fabric bears visible stitches with the torn sections mended. Similarly, in Repaired Broken Mirror, Attia binds together the fractured halves of a mirror using copper wire, leaving the breakage exposed. In the modern world, signs of repair are often seen as flaws—imperfections that diminish an object’s value. But in these two pieces, repair is what gives them meaning. Without the sutures, the fabric remains empty, devoid of narrative. Without the copper bindings, the mirror is just a mirror—not a work of art shaped by the artist’s vision. In this way, the act of repair becomes an allegory for the history of all nations and peoples.
‘Urgency of Existence’, a solo exhibition by Kader Attia, curated by Gridthiya Gaweewong, is on view at the Jim Thompson Art Center from November 23, 2024, to March 16, 2025.