Nothing in Justin Weiler’s work is given at once. His installations shift with their context ~ the space, the time of day, the position of the viewer.
Justin’s practice is anchored in in-between spaces, which he captures through glass constructions, ink, and color. Drawn to the idea of capturing a transition and of placing the viewer within it not as a mere witness but as a participant, he develops an elusive visual language grounded in precision and a rigorously constructed process.

FVTVRIST speaks with Justin Weiler about this thresholds and the balance he builds between his strict calculated approach, fragile and demanding materials and a more intuitive use of color.
 

On the occasion of Plans de lumière at RX&SLAG Gallery.
On view until April 11.

Audrey Freeman @Elené Kristé

Audrey Freeman @Elené Kristé

Let’s start with your relationship to space. How do you approach it, and how would you describe the space your works produce?

There’s a particular type of space that interests me - transitional.
These are spaces tied to movement, to circulation through the city, places that are constantly opening or closing. What draws me in is this idea of the threshold.
 

For me, it is always a passage between inside and outside. I am drawn to spaces that are themselves in motion, for example, under construction or partially concealed by metal shutters or blinds, where visibility is never fixed. Through these shifting conditions, they become a way of speaking about a city, or about a specific situation. It is a very narrow field, but precisely because of that, it gives me a great deal of formal freedom.
 

At the beginning, I was painting plants in shop windows, and it took me quite some time to understand that it was not really the plant that interested me, but the space it occupied. The way it was positioned between the glass and a closed interior, almost trapped, like a suspended still life. At the same time, the glass reflects the viewer, introducing a kind of uncertainty. You no longer know whether you are looking at the plant, or whether you are somehow inside with it.
 

So gradually, space became a way for me to think about time, a suspended, almost frozen time, and that is what began to matter more and more. The plant, in the end, was simply a way into painting space and light. Later on, when I was in Lebanon, I realized there were almost no shop windows, but instead many metal shutters closed during the day. That is where the work naturally extended. From there, I moved more and more toward these layered structures, shutters and blinds, as a way of approaching what exists behind them and of working through what remains partially hidden.