Watch: a morning with Urs Fischer in Paris

The bars were packed, the sidewalks crammed. Paris was humming with anticipation, hope and nerves. It was the night of 15th October and France were playing New Zealand in the quarter-finals of the Rugby World Cup. But amongst the city-wide chants of ‘Vive la France’, my evening took me to Place Vendôme and the newly-installed public sculpture, Wave by Swiss artist Urs Fischer, with whom, three days later, we would shoot a (somewhat unorthodox) film and spend an unforgettable morning.

Standing five metres tall in one of Paris’ most recognisable and glamorous squares, Wave is unmissable. The sculpture is part of an ongoing series called Big Clays, which accurately described what stood in front of me: a gigantic lump of clay, blown up and cast in aluminium. These enormous sculptures begin their life inconspicuously in the artist’s studio as tiny clay structures he spends hours shaping and playing around with. Part of Fischer’s tactile exploration, he lets them accumulate until he has a sea of prototypes, then chooses one for enlargement based on a gut feeling rather than any strategic decision. The resulting aluminium casts are typical of Fischer’s style: direct, playful and enigmatic.

Fischer has spent a career turning everyday, unassuming objects into something extraordinary; blending the sensibilities of Dadaism with pop culture trends and a rebellious spirit. In 2007, he famously took a jackhammer to the floor of esteemed gallerist Gavin Brown’s space in New York’s West Village, leaving an eight-feet-deep, dirt-lined crater that destabilised all expectations of a commercial gallery show.

Fischer is an artist unafraid of risk, a characteristic that admittedly influenced my slight apprehension as I waited on the steps of Palais de Tokyo to meet him. I wanted to find out more about Fischer’s creative influences and his relationship to Paris. Where better than in one of the city’s most legendary art bookshops, during Paris+ par Art Basel, now the biggest art event on the city’s calendar?

Our plan was to make a film that followed Fischer around the Palais de Tokyo museum bookshop as he discussed books that piqued his interest – a novelty idea that was thankfully approved by the Gagosian press department.

As we waited for Fischer, I was nervous about how he might respond to our unorthodox idea in practice, and whether we’d have enough time to get the concept over the line given his packed press schedule. 9:56 am, email ping: “Urs will be running ten minutes late”. The nerves increased.  At last, a blacked-out Uber pulled up and the unmistakable artist emerged, clad with a generous smile. He confessed his lateness was, in part, due to a rough hangover brought on by an evening of cheap red wine. After this revelation, we were grateful he had shown up at all. I would have not held it against him if he hadn’t. It showed a level of dedication to all factions of his work life that I hadn’t anticipated. (his only request before filming was a glass of water).

Once fully rehydrated, Fischer stepped into the bookstore and transformed. Surrounded by books, the charismatic artist was seemingly released from his hangover. He was in his element; gliding through the space and picking up books with palpable passion. He told stories and anecdotes and described his relationship with each, entirely unburdened by pretence. This, I thought, was a trait that must have contributed to his enormous success. His charm and passion were infectious and my apprehensions evaporated.

As he guided us through his selections, he was animated and engrossed, rhapsodising about everything from Francis Picabia to Derek Jarman. His love for the books and the art within them served as a reminder of the value of an artist and the service they provide to society — to communicate ideas, provide us with inspiration and make sense of the world around us.

We had scheduled two hours to film with him, but so enraptured by the books, he went over his allotted time. It was only when I reminded him that he had other commitments that we wrapped up. To my surprise and excitement, he revealed that he actually had another hour to spare and wondered if we would like to accompany him to Paris+. It was an opportunity that couldn’t be passed up. Leaving the bookstore, we walked 20 minutes to the Grand Palais Éphémère, stopping off at a cafe for a Diet Coke. There, he described his family and his life in LA, where he now spends most of his time. As he spoke, Fischer was quick-witted yet considered,  giving off the air of a man who has it all figured out, but whose outlook is grounded in no specific philosophy, just the school of life. As the rain poured on Paris, we settled the bill and headed to the fair together.

Walking through Paris+, I felt the weight of his celebrity: he was instantly recognisable and magnetic. He is a figure who turns heads; those who had ignored me at previous fairs were now my best friends, eager for an introduction to the man himself  This, I thought, was a testament to the compelling pull of an artist who is able to communicate so candidly through his artwork. With so many eager to say hello to him, I lost him in the crowd.

And just like that, my time in Paris with Fischer was over. Like one of his famous wax sculptures melting to the ground, he disappeared, and I was left with the lasting memory of spending a morning with one of the most important artists working today.