Staple Fire

"Air Force Two" - Baptiste Debombourg
Presentation: On Wall, Elements: 35,000 staples,  2.7 m x 2.5 m
Realisation time: 75 hours
Date: 25/11/2007 - 7/01/2008 - 13/07/2009

Generally I am a pacifist. Despite a notably bohemian upbringing, there is no use denying the solid foundations of diplomacy underpinning it. As much as my mother's artistic waywardness inspires, there is a distinct air of rebellion about it. Especially when one considers she spent most of her life under the spotlight that accompanies belonging to an ambassadorial family. That is to say, rooted in the golden age of real diplomacy which ended in the 70s, not the whatever diplomacy that exists today. Though there are a few exceptions today, generally no one has any manners, complemented by a dubious education. Diplomatic number plates seem to be handed out like perfume samples. Today's ambassadors make one wonder just how many villages worldwide must be listing a missing person on findyourvillageidiot.com.


Recently I was obliged to attend an "exclusive" reception in a EU city that shall remain nameless, at an embassy whose powerful western nationality will remain concealed for my own personal safety. The gathering was a typical smorgasbord of reclusive, acutely paranoid billionaires, their discreetly glamorous companions/wives/boyfriends, a smattering of people who look after other peoples' money, some depressed looking diplomats and a few arty folk like yours truly, probably in the hope that it would give the gathering a pulse.

I spent most of the evening trying to work out which group the old bumbling buffoon in the stolen suit covered in pastry flakes belonged to. Despite the reception being small, following my introduction as an Englishwoman, he kept overlooking my clipped Queen's English, instead talking to me in an eastern european language which, although the mother tongue of most of the guests, was not his own. It transpired that he was the hosting ambassador. I felt deeply for his nation. Clearly a natural at international relations. Official diplomacy appears to have been in intensive care for decades, but one cannot just pull the plug on it.

It appears there are a few things that override my pacifism. When this happens I imagine carnage and mayhem in my mind. If the pissed-off-o-meter is not sky high, for no particular reason, my weapon of choice is the staple-gun. In my head I sling them up western style from the hip, firing rapidly like semi-automatics. I recall afternoons secretly using the art-room wall in senior school for target practice with a friend. Staple-guns are not very accurate and you have to be quite close to your target, but nevertheless it is fun. Obviously I am not condoning violent acts of stapling anything other than inanimate objects such as walls or paper.

I wonder whether the artist Baptiste Debombourg has ever had such visions whilst creating his staple murals. There is something endearingly humble about the lone staple. Such a banal, often unnoticed object. A mere little twist of wire that binds documents and attaches notices to boards. The attention always on what it is holding. This focus shifts when confronted with one of Debombourg's murals. He ignites a fresh representation of the fall of Icarus, entirely formed out of 35,000 staples. Colossal, masculine aggression tumbling with neo-renaissance grace across walls, a modern replacement for frescoes. The imagery befitting a wall in the vatican. Debombourg cites Flemish Renaissance artist Cornelisz van Haarlem drawings as inspiration, though he thankfully improves on the perspective and foreshortening, allowing Icarus and Co. alluring male proportions rather than that of steroid abusing dwarves.

It is an interesting choice of medium considering how the trend for graffiti art has exploded with the rise of Banksy and his peers. Staples are different. They are also technically harder to remove if we want to get into the nitty-gritty of it, you cannot just paint over them. Though this is neither street-art nor traditional wall-painting, it is a refreshing move away from both. Sensual and sharp at the same time. Icarus is literally stapled to the wall, locked in a frozen moment wrestling with air and his inevitable fate. Icarus seems such an apt character to choose these days, in a world that seems to be filled with the consequences of big egos gotten too big for their boots. The moral of the story does not age. Inevitably the foolhardy get burned. It's just that the higher up the burning, the further down there is to fall.

"Jetset Violet"