Pierre Huyghe

About three years ago, discussing what he planned next for his practice, Pierre Huyghe told me that he was on the hunt for a place “to grow the work to the condition I want it to grow,” perhaps a stretch of land or an old building, somewhere maybe a bit off the beaten path. “The museum is a place of separation, in a certain way, and I need a place of continuity,” he said. “That’s why I need that site—whatever that site is.”

Huyghe has transformed that abandoned rink into one of the most formidable and mysterious artworks ever; an alien environment that seems secretly to teem with life and that operates according to its own furtive schedule. The concrete floor of the rink has been sliced apart and the ground dug up so that visitors can descend along clay pathways that are interrupted by pools of water harbouring algae. Just when you begin to get your bearings, a buzzing sound emanates from up above and sleek panels glide open from the otherwise decrepit ceiling, exposing the room to the elements.

Huyghe has transformed an inside space into an outside environment or landscape. I am especially interested in his concept of growing his work to where he wants it to be, rather than directly arranging and orchestrating every element. Growth seems much less controlled and more natural.