Gisa Pantel is educated at Kunstakademie Münster, Konstakademiet i Trondheim and graduated with a MFA from the The Royal Danish Academy of Arts in 2014.
She works in a variety of media ranging from big scale installations to writings, often challenging our perspective on high and low- culture, media representations and social interaction. Connected through an inherent, tongue-in-cheek humor Pantels works question viewing habits and collective image perception.
Pantels recent exhibitions include Afgang 2014 at Kunsthal Charlottenborg, Copenhagen; Process som Porträtt at H. Bergdal Gallery, Malmö; Sexy Primes at TheSpace, Berlin, L'objet travail at Apart, Copenhagen as well as Distinguished from the melee of user comments… at Galleri St. Gertrud, Malmö and One of us cannot be wrong at Kunsthalle Münster.
"Mr. N. says " … and while you sit there, nothing to do, you'll read the ingredients on the shampoo-bottle, for better or worse …"
Inside, I'm agreeing, but I put on a face implying I find it inappropriate for a teacher to talk about his private bathroom-sessions.
But it is stuck forever. Every shampoo-bottle I ever read, makes me think of Mr. N.
Fast forward ten years:
I show Mr. L pictures of women washing their hair. We talk about gender roles, cinematography and commercial manipulation.
I get a sudden rush of braveness and put eroticism in the equation, just to regret it at once. He seems to take it well though, puts one leg on the other, his swinging food facing towards me. I assume, a gesture of unconscious affection (see "Clueless", 1995) and while I try hard to put on a listening-expression, all I can think of is how to elegantly spill the information that I am not attracted to women.
In this moment I make the decision to grow out my hair.
I live in a room with a shower in it. The housing-complex is from a past, when apartments shared showers in the hallways, or basements, or did not include showers in the first place for all I know. So there it is: A square alien-cell, a good meter and a half away from the couch I sleep on.
In my mind I picture a pale teenager that was trying to get a bit wild in the game "The Sims" placing the shower cell in the bedroom, some window might have popped up, refusing to allow it. "This is an impossible action". He typed in some key-combinations or cheated the system to shut up the wiseacre's comment and that's how I end up with a shower in my bedroom.
In an attempt to come to peace with the foreign body, I call her "Ashanti". I am filled with pride of my clever move when I tell a friend. "Couldn't think of a name more curvy", I say, failing to hide my satisfaction."