Beyond Beyond Borders

Surrealism Beyond Borders, on view through January 30, 2022, at The Met and traveling to the Tate Modern, London, in February 2022, challenges conventional narratives of a revolutionary artistic, literary, and philosophical movement. Though international in scope from its beginnings, Surrealism is often discussed through the lens of its activities in Western Europe. The exhibition and accompanying publication trace the movement’s influence and legacy from the 1920s to the late 1970s in places as geographically diverse as Colombia, Czechoslovakia, Egypt, Japan, Korea, Mexico, the Philippines, Romania, Syria, Thailand, and Turkey.

In this conversation, Mark Polizzotti, publisher and editor-in-chief at The Met and independent Surrealist scholar, speaks to Stephanie D’Alessandro, Leonard A. Lauder Curator of Modern Art and co-organizer of the exhibition and co-editor of the catalogue, about this more inclusive look at the history of Surrealism and the compelling details in the catalogue that didn’t make it to the gallery wall.

Mark Polizzotti: Many people think of Surrealism as a specifically French, even Parisian, phenomenon, involving a well-known group of artists and writers. What prompted you and your co-organizer and co-editor, Matthew Gale, to move away from the standard Eurocentric narrative and look beyond the usual cast of characters?

Stephanie D’Alessandro: There are a number of factors that led us to think about Surrealism in this way. One of the first was simply [Surrealism’s founder] André Breton himself, who is such a central and important figure, even from the expanded perspective we have in our publication and exhibition. Breton was very focused on the circle around him. Sometimes people left or declined his invitation to join, but they were still influenced by Surrealism, even though they were outside the “official” group. We also thought about the conventional story of Surrealists coming to the United States during World War II and how this led to its contributions to other movements, like Abstract Expressionism, but also to its “end.” Of course, lots of artists still practiced Surrealism, even after the war, and it never really died.

Surrealism was intended from the start to be international, but it’s critical to remember that Breton and his colleagues—even with the best of intentions—defined what was “international” through the lens of a particular time and space. That point spurred us to look beyond the places typically considered and to ask about other places that have been overlooked in that story, especially as we approach the hundredth year of it being told. It was an opportunity for us to dig into how histories are constructed and all the factors involved in their telling.

Polizzotti: That’s really interesting: On the one hand, you used the phrase “the end of Surrealism,” which for a lot of people means either World War II or the late 1960s. But you also said that it “never really died,” pointing to the fact that Surrealism as a practice continues to this day.

D’Alessandro: I think that’s absolutely accurate. One way to retell the story, or think beyond the story, is to challenge the whole question of an ending. There are, of course, lots of artists who are involved in Surrealism today. It’s also important to remember that Surrealism is not a style, but an idea that is flexible and moving. Surrealism engages a set of practices and challenges that are not bound by time or place, so it’s hard to see an end.

Polizzotti: Most of us, when we think of an art movement, assume a certain visual coherence that makes a work “Impressionist” or “Cubist.” Looking at the range of visual styles associated with Surrealism, could you comment on how you went about choosing the works in the show and accompanying catalogue?

D’Alessandro: Surrealism is an idea and definitely not a style. And there are so many artists and places where Surrealism had meaning. It took a long time to come up with a way to highlight shared visual concerns without suggesting hierarchies, but also allowing overlapping chronologies, places, and concerns to be related but distinct. Part of our hope for both the exhibition and publication was to make visitors and readers aware of our collective habit of tidying up history—of imposing definitive characteristics and a beginning and an end, a period at the end of the sentence. Art and life don’t usually happen that way, and while formal properties in art can suggest an identification with a specific style or movement, it’s much harder to do this in Surrealism. To offset this, we didn’t focus on “Surrealist work” or “Surrealist artists” as defined by art historians, but instead selected works that artists themselves identified, works that were included in historic exhibitions organized by their circles, or works that had other important connections to Surrealism’s life in a place or time.

Since we worked on the project with many international collaborators, we also knew that this is a multivocal story. We tried to highlight works that represent particular circumstances but also reflect the larger, shared history of Surrealism. Take the example of De Schone Zakdoek (The Clean Kerchief), a journal made in Utrecht during the Nazi occupation that Tessel Bauduin wrote about for the exhibition catalogue. It is a remarkable example of Surrealism made under pressure. Despite the threat to their lives and the possibility of their work being confiscated or destroyed, Dutch artists and poets collaborated because the idea of gathering and working together—of making something that embodied that collaboration—was so powerful. Until now, De Schone Zakdoek has never been shown in the United States. The story it tells about the strength in group work, especially in difficult times, is a recurring theme in our expanded view of Surrealism.

Some stories couldn’t be told with art in the exhibition, but could be covered in the publication. A wonderful essay by Anneka Lenssen explores the story of Surrealism in Aleppo, where a group of poets and artists took up automatism as a vital form of creative expression. And there are other ideas that we could probe more deeply in print—like the fascinating tension between national and international audiences. In 1920s and ’30s Brazil, for example, there was a great interest in forging a new Brazilian art—national but not nationalistic—a modern art of their own. And at the same time, this interest was buoyed in many ways by Surrealism and its productive instigations. We can see this play out in Tarsila do Amaral’s 1929 painting, Cidade (A rua) (City [The Street]).

Polizzotti: One thing that really struck me in our early discussions about the book is the malleability of Surrealist ideas, the way in which the movement has been adapted in so many different contexts and so many different ways, and often takes on, as you say, a national but not nationalistic cast that’s very different from one place to another.

D’Alessandro: When we started our research, Matthew and I tried to set aside traditional definitions and themes of Surrealism—automatic writing, dreams, the uncanny or desire, for example—so that we could be more receptive to new ideas and forms we might uncover. In the end, we were pleased to see that many of the fresh examples we learned about could be brought together, and remained consistent with those traditional themes. But it was also fascinating to note how, for example, in a transnational and transhistorical theme like dreams, artists come at it differently: sometimes responding to political circumstances, sometimes cultural, social, sexual, racial, or personal circumstances. That complexity reminds us how Surrealism lands on different grounds and in different times in different ways.

I’m thinking about the example of Eugenio Granell, who came to Surrealism with a very radical political perspective, coming from the Spanish Civil War. He saw revolution and freedom in the movement, so much so that he was forced into exile from Spain, had to leave the Dominican Republic and later Guatemala, and when he finally arrived in Puerto Rico, he found freedom. There he shared his ideas of Surrealism, but for the group of artists that formed in Puerto Rico—the Mirador Azul, or “Blue Lookout”—it was not political in the same way. As young artists, they saw in Surrealism an opportunity for liberation from the conservative strictures of the art academy. They benefited from what Granell brought but take it in another direction. Surrealism is infinitely open.

Polizzotti: Why do you think Surrealism still engages our interest today? We’ve been talking about it for nearly a century. Why are people still so fascinated?

D’Alessandro: I think there’s an initial romance with wonderful and surprising works, like Dalí’s Lobster Telephone (1938), which visitors will find in the exhibition. For me, I see an alternate history to our long-held singular narrative about modern art and the twentieth century. Instead of Impressionism to Cubism to Abstract Expressionism and so on as a series of stops and starts, we can trace a continuing current of ideas and actions. Surrealism has continued for nearly one hundred years—and far beyond Europe and North America.

More personally, I also have to say that even though the exhibition was conceived several years before the pandemic, with our continuing experiences and the challenges we face to make a more equitable world, I find in Surrealism something powerful, poetic, and even hopeful. I take heart in the Martinican poet Suzanne Césaire’s characterization of Surrealism as “the tightrope of our hope.” It gives me the opportunity to think about a positive way to navigate the issues we face today—to see how art and thinking about art have broader meaning. It’s not just a single idea to me, and it’s helped me find my way through these times. I hope it can do that for other people too.