18 Questions With...
Jean-Rodolphe Petter

My curatorial work begins with listening: to archives, to communities, to the unfinished narratives that ask to be carried forward.

It felt like a first step. And it mattered that it happened here, at CALM, in the neighborhood. The most meaningful part was that Koze — one of the original writers from the 80s who supported the project — later received a Cultural Merit Prize. It showed that something moved in the present, not just in memory.

Graffiti and other militant artistic forms in the street have always struck me as some of the most immediate acts of public speech—assertions of presence in spaces where certain voices are not meant to appear. What fascinates me is how they expose the politics of visibility and erasure in the city: who is allowed to be seen, who is forgotten, and who refuses to disappear.

Yes, the loans were complex. But the real challenge was finding the right form — one that lets the work be seen artistically, socially, historically, without the superfluous. Something direct and sincere.

I bridge them because I grew up seeing culture happen in the streets, in music, in nightlife—not only in museums. Connecting these worlds allows other kinds of knowledge, communities, and stories to enter the conversation.

I’m a researcher first. But when it comes to speaking, I’m more like a loudspeaker — in the sense NTM meant it. The voice isn’t mine. I amplify what needs to be heard.

Absolutely. Sophie Costes (MAMCO, Geneva) taught me that artists define the limits of art. So if something shifts in the process—research, community knowledge, a gesture—we move with it. I don’t fix the frame beforehand; the project evolves with those who make it.

La Compagnie in Marseille. I discovered it briefly this summer, and its community-based practice touched me deeply. I’d love to go back.

I’d say that Lausanne constantly surprises you. When you look closely at its contemporary art history, there’s always another layer, another unexpected connection, another collective experiment. It’s a place where things grow quietly, but in deep and lasting ways.

I don’t start with themes. I start by listening. The exhibition takes shape when a question insists—when something in the present demands to be reopened or repaired. The theme isn’t imposed; it emerges from the relationships that form the work.

New York, 1980 — The Times Square Show. A moment when art and life collided in the streets, and community became the exhibition.

I believe radicality is essential to democracy — it’s what allows us to step outside the frame. Galleries are vessels that connect artists to collectors and publics, so it’s important they don’t smooth out what’s difficult or disruptive. If they protect the edge of the work, then something radical can still happen there.

The TV series Pose, recently. It shows joy and survival together — that moved me deeply.

The moment when we both recognize: yes — this is it. From there, the work can really begin.

The most surprising feedback I received was from someone who asked: “What’s the difference between this place and a public playroom?”

And I loved that question, because it touched something essential about CALM. There is a popular café right next to the exhibition space, so people don’t enter as “visitors,” they enter as neighbors, families, friends, people passing through. Art isn’t separated from daily life here — people come in, sit, talk, play, stay. The space is porous, shared, and alive. So in a way, yes — it is like a playroom: a place for experimentation, curiosity, and being together. For me, that wasn’t a misunderstanding — it was the most meaningful compliment.

What struck me is that Born in Flames doesn’t pretend that struggle is unified. It shows resistance as something multiple, shifting, sometimes even conflicting — and still powerful. That’s very close to how I work in exhibitions: not searching for one voice but creating space for many. This is exactly what shaped the exhibition This is the time of sweet sweet change for us all at CALM, which brought together different forms of resistance without trying to resolve them into a single narrative.

I don’t think in terms of one figure. I think, as the curator and friend Caroline Honorien says, of a constellation — many people, each contributing, each shaping the whole. That’s who I admire.

Attentive.