H is for Horse

The trojan horse is no author of its contents, it is a carrier: a messenger, a sneaky and sly but pretty vessel for what acts, subverts, attacks, critiques, disrupts, or burns to ashes. It does not claim ownership. It views its contents as a being to treat with utmost care and to carry from a to z.

Usually I don't boggle my mind with questions of effectiveness or reasons for being in relation to curating. But while I find myself swept up in the unstoppable machine of exhibition production. It has become a promise I find much harder to keep. Why, in the light of policy change that is all but encouraging, would I be doing this? Why would I spend my time on building these neat little vehicles for knowledge sharing? I am not proud to admit that—as in everyone—my inner pessimist can sometimes take the upper hand.

In a climate marked by shifting policies and uncertain outcomes, the curator is confronted with existential questions that grapple with the very purpose of their endeavours. Luckily, the time I dedicate to this inner nag is mostly short-lived. Some might call me stubborn and naive, but I wholeheartedly believe in the possibility of change in this field. In this paper, I will be looking for a way to name my motifs. How would I define my method of curating and what are the objectives I find important to strive towards?

A CURATORIAL METHOD

Concerning curatorial practice, the Trojan horse embodies an act of conscious intervention. Much like its mythical simile, the curator can operate as a clandestine agent, allowing covert tactics into the framework of the exhibition to challenge the established. Throughout the vast history of artistic theorem, this term has been coined and recoined by multiple writers, critics, curators and poets. But how do the current challenges and the contemporary artistic climate affect my view on this notion within the arts? And is this where I can find a curatorial method?

Though the mythological and metaphorical use of the Trojan horse might make us reminisce of Lucy Lippard’s famous essay on activist art called Trojan Horses: Activist Art and Power (1984), I do not want to take this writing in the direction of the broad area of so called political art, and the debates that surround it. I have allowed myself to become influenced by Lipard’s writing. I am not here to claim authorship over this approach, nor will I claim to only curate with the most radical of political ideology in mind, but I will allow this steed to guide my views on the field and how I can relate myself to it. I find little attitudes in these writings that could sneak themselves into my own way of curating.

In Lippard's essay, the Trojan horse illustrates how artists embed politically and socially charged motives within their work. Similar to the Greek soldiers hiding inside the wooden horse to infiltrate Troy, activist artists strategically insert subversive ideas into the mainstream: a vehicle that acts as a tactic for challenging hegemonic structures. Just as the Trojan horse was a vessel for unexpected consequences, activist art serves as a vehicle for inciting change from within.

Through a series of case studies and critical analyses, Lippard examines various tactics employed by artists to effect social change. From guerrilla street art to institutional interventions, these artistic forms of critique are provocations, challenging viewers to confront their own complicity in oppressive systems. By infiltrating galleries, museums, and public spaces, activist artists aim to disrupt. They encourage moments of collective reflection and resistance.

By embracing the Trojan horse as a metaphorical framework, Lippard invites us to reimagine the role of art in society, not as a passive reflection of reality but as a powerful tool for shaping it. Especially now—a time where institutional critique and the so-called ‘archive fever’ has reached a much needed boiling point—Lippards views on these strategies become much more clear. I wonder, however, if clarity plays to the advantage of a vessel filled with hidden attack. Perhaps opacity is much more needed.

On the other hand, in Dan Hill's Dark Matter and Trojan Horses: A Strategic Design Vocabulary (2012) the Trojan horse metaphor lives up to its mythological denominator and aligns with the idea of strategic intervention within complex systems. The horse becomes much more aware of its destination: its eyes locked onto the gate and its focus directed at a specific square, hidden deep inside the city.

The writer touches on dark matter, a term he lends from quantum physics to name the hidden dynamics that influence user behaviours and interactions, often operating beyond the realm of conscious awareness. Much like the invisible gravitational forces that shape the universe, these hidden dynamics exert an immense impact on our daily experiences, while often operating beyond the purview of traditional designerly methods. Hill discusses design as a means of infiltrating and reshaping the dark matter of cities and digital environments—the unseen forces and systems that influence user experiences and behaviours. Strategic design interventions aim to disrupt and bring about change. Hill advocates for designers to adopt Trojan horse strategies that enable them to navigate and influence complex socio-technical systems, while pressing on the importance of understanding hidden dynamics to identify points of leverage.

In the current time, a time where I myself am on the lookout for methods and eventually a form of curatorial agency, I find my own tactics of Trojan subversion. Tactics that one could call more gentle, but definitely not less disruptive. I ask myself how my horse can be caring, honest and equitable. How does my horse relate itself to the artist and their position within the cultural and artistic landscape? How does it engage and interact with an audience that is not always at ease and is always multiple? How does my horse open up the gates to excluded bodies?
In applying this metaphor to curatorial practice, I envision the curator as a strategic agent who employs these covert tactics to challenge and create space.

SNEAKING AND SMUGGLING THE ARTIST

I have asked myself plenty of times why I see my curatorial gaze gravitating toward emerging artists. It might be because of a generational familiarity or because I enjoy taking part in more bottom-up initiatives, but I have come to realise that it flows from a deep rooted belief in artistic development. If we want to build an artistic climate that is equitable and deeply rooted in its local fabric, we have to realise the importance of opening the doors to artists that are still hard at work on finding their way in. Especially as curators we have to be knowledgeable of the position of power we reside in: we roam the streets of the citadel but remain able to look over its thick, robust walls. If the gate stays shut, then let’s sneak and smuggle.

Recent budget cuts and austerity measures have cast a dark shadow over the cultural and artistic landscape, particularly impacting emerging artists who find themselves trapped in a suffocating cycle of immobility. As funding streams dwindle and institutional support wanes, the once-promising pathways to success have been obscured, leaving emerging talent to fend for themselves. Allocating funding to such talents, who have not yet had the opportunity to present themselves, proves quite the challenge. However, curators must adopt a radical stance of trust to recognise the potential in their work despite the absence of established accolades.

How can I bring forth transformation from within? In what ways can strategic intervention and collective action contribute in shaping a more sustainable environment for artists? How do I ensure that all voices are heard and valued in the process? My curatorial method has to be one that is conscious of these questions and actively engages with them.

THE VIEWER

I feel generally at ease in cold, marbled museum halls. I am quite fond of them, actually. This affinity has been one of the pulling factors in my introduction to the field. However, I must recognise the position of privilege that fondness grew from. The museum, a colonial entity, is only accessible and legible to a small population that is allowed to feel welcomed or celebrated. It takes some sly manoeuvring to make space for the ones that remain outside. In the process of curation, exhibition production, or the planning of a public program, there are ways of constructing a Trojan horse that allow the museum to be reconfigured or—if needed—for it to be broken down completely.

This is about more than just providing physical entry; it is about dismantling barriers to understanding and connection, ensuring that art and culture remain a fundamental human right, accessible to all. This ethos is deeply ingrained in my curatorial attitude.

SPACE

In Michel de Certeau's The Practice of Everyday Life (1984), the writer introduces tactics of resistance through which an individual can engage in everyday resistance against spatial hegemony. The tactic consists of an improvised, everyday practice employed by individuals to negotiate acts of power and navigate their environment. These allow individuals to assert agency through creative and often subtle means. Similar to urban spaces, museums are designed and curated according to specific spatial arrangements and crafted by the institutional authority. Visitors are guided along prescribed routes and encouraged to interact with exhibits in predetermined ways. De Certeau’s approach to space forms a fundamental aspect of my curatorial method. While shaping the visitor's experience, I want to embrace the idea that individuals can creatively navigate their surroundings as an invitation to roam and live.

FAILURE

In unveiling the contents of this text, I am entrusting you, the reader, with a glimpse into the inner workings of my motives. I am sharing what these words imply—the motivations, the aspirations, and the challenges that underpin this siege. I extend an invitation.

In the act of writing this text, the Trojan horse of my curatorial intentions indeed becomes conspicuous. Its once-hidden contents are now laid bare for all to see, revealing not only my tactics but also their inherent flaws. A sabotage. However, in acknowledging this inevitable exposure, I am reminded of the insights offered by The Queer Art of Failure (2011) by Jack Halberstam. While my tactics may falter, the essence of my motives remains steadfast. Halberstam explains that success and failure are not binary opposites but rather fluid and interconnected states. Just as the Trojan horse may ultimately fail in its mission, it is through this failure that new possibilities and alternative realities emerge.

I can call myself a curator, yet I remain critical to that position. In recognizing the power dynamics inherent in this position, I seek not to fortify walls but to dismantle them—to open gates long closed and welcome in voices once silenced. It is a gesture of ultimate hospitality, to shape a method through my commitment to dialogue and dissent, and to the potential of what we call care.

My sincere appreciation to Barbi García for the editorial support.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Cobussen, M. (2014). The Trojan Horse. On Artistic Research and Knowledge. Dutch Journal of Music Theory. 12. 18-33.

Le Guin, U. K. (2019). The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction. Terra Ignota.

Lippard, L. R. ‘Trojan Horses: activist art and power’. (1984). In Art After Modernism: rethinking Representation (pp. 174–176).

Halberstam, J. (2011). The Queer Art of Failure. Duke University Press.

De Certeau, M. (1984). The Practice of Everyday Life. University of California Press.