R.I.P Germain at Cabinet
Art criticism is fixated on what is tangibly in the room. The ‘what’, the ‘where’, the ‘who’, and (if you’re lucky) the ‘why’. Whereas many editors don’t want to read anything in the first person, without it, the reader and the viewer assumes some kind of objectivity. Yes, I can describe the colours and sounds and lighting choices, but without placing myself in my writing, the sensations, the emotions, and the impact is lost. If I don’t feel anything about the work, how can I expect my reader to feel anything? Contrary to this, contemporary art also brings the expectation of dealing with, well, contemporary social issues. This is rarely executed properly, either through artists toeing the line, or the message being impactful but the sterile, institutional environment of the gallery dulling its shine.
We say we’ve been moved, but do our preconceived ideas literally move and shift? Or do we feel (over)stimulated for a while, perhaps long enough to invest in the artist or gallery, then proceed with our lives? Ultimately, the capitalist systems under which the art world operates adore the status quo. Very few artworks in prescribed gallery spaces will send you into the streets to join your comrades in protest, and that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.
But what to say about issues that are not universal, which affect one group of people more than others? For the love of god, I am not talking about more women entering the art historical canon. Enough on that, already. I’m talking about issues that are essentially impossible to verbalise if one hasn’t experienced them directly. This is what we find with the latest exhibition of R.I.P Germain’s work, titled Anti-Blackness Is Bad, Even the Parts that We Like, at Cabinet in Vauxhall, south London.
R.I.P Germain, 101 Hour Psycho, Cabinet, London. Photograph: Mark Blower/Mark Blower, courtesy R.I.P Germain and Cabinet.
With Luton-born artist R.I.P Germain, there is an instant uneasy tension between a desperately serious situation that the artist is communicating, and the extremely removed audience to whom he speaks in the gallery. Having walked into the basement gallery at Cabinet, I could already hear the gasps of some people seeing an overturned police car. If you would like a vaguely masochistic pursuit, try raising the topic of the police abolition and/or anti-carceral movement and values in polite conversation. I dare you. This isn’t strictly Germain’s intended point of departure, but the aesthetic potency of this first impression is where the artist’s power first kicks in.
Before going into 101 hour psycho, the central work within the exhibition, it is important to note that I didn’t watch the entire video. The simple primary reason for this is that it is, as the title implies, one hundred and one hours in duration. It is perhaps not anticipated that anyone will watch it in its entirety, but the length is in keeping with the nature of TikTok, which can be an eternal scrolling and viewing process if the user wishes. The second reason I didn’t watch as much as I thought I might, was that one scene in the video piece, which in part takes the forms of multiple TikTok videos surrounding the drill music scene, featured a bloodied face in the aftermath of a stabbing, and given the environmental factors, it was quite an overwhelming experience. I opted to leave the installation soon after this; I’m not proud of this, but it’s something that many viewers will not feel especially comfortable watching.
Now for the ‘environmental factor’ in question: while it is visually impressive to see the lights, sounds and materiality of the overturned police car as a sculpture, it is alarming and alluring in equal measure when the gallery assistant pops open the half of the car to reveal a small screen showing the video element of the work, with the proviso that the viewer must lie down inside the work like a coffin. They are then, strictly one at a time, lowered into darkness before the video starts, and instructed to press the escape button to be let out when desired. It is incredibly claustrophobic, but the artist’s point is that, between violence and incarceration, the drill music scene is being completely dismantled, eviscerated. A sense of the ‘uncomfortable’ is key in the show, dragging us out of the emotional blankness that many exhibitions can produce.
Another uncomfortable aspect of Anti Blackness is Bad… is the tense relationship between the audience and the artist’s subject matter. I would expect a wider demographic of people to enter Cabinet’s doors once word spreads about this show, due to its subject matter, but I would largely expect that most visitors to the gallery will be unfamiliar with the nuances of the drill scene. This is something that the artist will know, but there is no hand-holding narrative here. Get in the van, lie in the coffin, and watch the video of first-person narratives of incarceration among drill rappers. This would be an easier exhibition to write about if you wanted the who, what, where, and why. But that would be doing a disservice to the tensions, details, and odd familiarity of the ways in which the message is conveyed.
In an interview with Eddy Frankel at The Guardian, the artist discussed the ways in which genuine violent crime is a consumable part of the drill music scene for fans and artists alike. He mentioned one rapper, Suspect, based in Camden, who “blew up…when he was releasing tracks and getting hundreds of thousands of views [while] he was already on the run for murder and living in Kenya.” [1] The clips that make up the video work seem to be in media res; the audience is thrown into conversation about people and events most will not know about. It’s disorientating and isolating, even without the horizontal angle of the viewing body. We’re in the back of a police car, we’re in jail, we’re in a coffin.
Before going into 101 hour psycho, the central work within the exhibition, it is important to note that I didn’t watch the entire video. The simple primary reason for this is that it is, as the title implies, one hundred and one hours in duration. It is perhaps not anticipated that anyone will watch it in its entirety, but the length is in keeping with the nature of TikTok, which can be an eternal scrolling and viewing process if the user wishes. The second reason I didn’t watch as much as I thought I might, was that one scene in the video piece, which in part takes the forms of multiple TikTok videos surrounding the drill music scene, featured a bloodied face in the aftermath of a stabbing, and given the environmental factors, it was quite an overwhelming experience. I opted to leave the installation soon after this; I’m not proud of this, but it’s something that many viewers will not feel especially comfortable watching.
Now for the ‘environmental factor’ in question: while it is visually impressive to see the lights, sounds and materiality of the overturned police car as a sculpture, it is alarming and alluring in equal measure when the gallery assistant pops open the half of the car to reveal a small screen showing the video element of the work, with the proviso that the viewer must lie down inside the work like a coffin. They are then, strictly one at a time, lowered into darkness before the video starts, and instructed to press the escape button to be let out when desired. It is incredibly claustrophobic, but the artist’s point is that, between violence and incarceration, the drill music scene is being completely dismantled, eviscerated. A sense of the ‘uncomfortable’ is key in the show, dragging us out of the emotional blankness that many exhibitions can produce.
Another uncomfortable aspect of Anti Blackness is Bad… is the tense relationship between the audience and the artist’s subject matter. I would expect a wider demographic of people to enter Cabinet’s doors once word spreads about this show, due to its subject matter, but I would largely expect that most visitors to the gallery will be unfamiliar with the nuances of the drill scene. This is something that the artist will know, but there is no hand-holding narrative here. Get in the van, lie in the coffin, and watch the video of first-person narratives of incarceration among drill rappers. This would be an easier exhibition to write about if you wanted the who, what, where, and why. But that would be doing a disservice to the tensions, details, and odd familiarity of the ways in which the message is conveyed.
In an interview with Eddy Frankel at The Guardian, the artist discussed the ways in which genuine violent crime is a consumable part of the drill music scene for fans and artists alike. He mentioned one rapper, Suspect, based in Camden, who “blew up…when he was releasing tracks and getting hundreds of thousands of views [while] he was already on the run for murder and living in Kenya.” [1] The clips that make up the video work seem to be in media res; the audience is thrown into conversation about people and events most will not know about. It’s disorientating and isolating, even without the horizontal angle of the viewing body. We’re in the back of a police car, we’re in jail, we’re in a coffin.
R.I.P Germain, 101 Hour Psycho, Cabinet, London. Photograph: Mark Blower/Mark Blower, courtesy R.I.P Germain and Cabinet.
Germain, who makes art using a pseudonym, is both parodying and recreating the elitist culture of whiteness and of the dominant classes, by creating an installation which prioritises his concerns and passions, with a stunning knowing that the art world will pretend to totally understand. A morbid curiosity will get the better of many of Cabinet’s visitors, but the tangible cultural and social difference is what makes this exhibition unique. In a similar way to which heterosexual people watch RuPaul’s Drag Race and feel emboldened to co-opt queer language and behaviours, or people who move to Streatham after graduating from university boast about living in ‘the hood’, it will be interesting to observe how traditional art criticism talks about this body of work, if they even bother. (The piece in The Guardian managed to dodge this potential code-switching by basing their article on an interview with the artist; if they really couldn’t commission a writer of colour who also has insight into drill music and the culture, I suppose this is the second best option.) The show is impressive, it is unabashed in its messaging and its commentary on the systems and hierarchies that leave young (mostly) men of colour in the drill scene in cycles of glory and incarceration through its violent culture, as the artist says himself [1].
In the press release written by the artist, he asks: “so…what’s next? I’m genuinely asking this question by the way, because I’ve never seen a generation get wiped out this quickly and so completely.” The same press release uses a photo collage of forty-two rappers who are currently in prison [2]. Most look notably young, and it’s hard not to think that the failing is not just in the glorification of violence, which the artist rightfully points out has existed before drill, and will exist beyond it, but also the systemic and discriminatory practices that leave Black men disproportionately represented in the UK’s prison system [3]. It is hard to assert a moral grounding when there are real assaults, violence and murders on the table, but the nuance in both the works and the experience of R.I.P Germain’s exhibition truly leaves the mind racing, querying the correct thing to say, think, or do. When this is the case, the artist is telling us to listen to what is being said on the ground, the stories and the realities of this strand of contemporary culture are complex and legitimate, they may just not be yours.
Anti-Blackness is Bad, Even the Parts We Like, an exhibition of work by R.I.P Germain. 14 March - 10 May 2025. Cabinet, London. cabinet.uk.com
[1] https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2025/mar/20/rip-germain-show-uk-drill-coffin-installation-cabinet-london
[2] https://www.cabinet.uk.com/rip-germain-2025
[3] https://prisonreformtrust.org.uk/project/race/
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