Retrospective comes from the Latin word retrospectare, meaning “to look back.” Despite the effortlessness it may seem to entail, the gesture is far from simple. What should and shouldn’t be remembered? And for whom? These questions, which are almost second nature for any meaningful inspections of the past, become more significant when what one proposes to recall isn’t familiar to many. After all, one cannot recover what wasn’t introduced in the first place. In this sense, the Lygia Clark retrospective at the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin—the first dedicated to the artist in Germany—faces a complex challenge.

The exhibition, curated by Irina Hiebert Grun and Maike Steinkamp, is organized around the traditionally recognized phases of the iconic Brazilian artist’s career, divided into themed sections arranged on the ground floor of the renowned, wall-less museum designed by Mies van der Rohe. We start with Clark’s geometric-abstract paintings from the late 1940s, then move on to works increasingly concerned with space, like the Quebra da Moldura series, until we finally reach an area displaying the artist’s most famous pieces from the 1960s and beyond, such as her Bichos and Proposições. This progression prompts a change in the visitor’s attitude, shifting from a somewhat traditional, passive stance to a more engaged interaction with the artworks. What is reflected here is the historical change in the conception of the spectator, who is now encouraged to become a co-creator—or participant, as Clark preferred to call it—with the artist. While the seamless transition between thematic sections is more of a linear mirroring of Clark’s artistic development than a curatorial achievement, it comes with the benefit of straightforwardly presenting her multifaceted career to uninitiated visitors. But in the end, the setup omits more than it reveals. Or rather, what it does reveal extends beyond this particular show: it exposes how hegemonic cultural institutions appropriate peripheral art for their own advantage.

The underlying intention is clearly to subordinate the artist to Western art history. Here, this operation is appealing for at least two reasons. On a formal level, Clark’s career fits neatly in a Greenbergian historiography of (international) modernism. That is, it appears to obey a quasi-teleological artistic progression, with a gradual emphasis on the distinctiveness of the media involved, organically shifting from one technique to another. Secondly, at an institutional level, Clark fills the position of a woman from a peripheral background—traits that deter criticism but ultimately enhance the museum’s reputation during times of supposed cultural decolonization.

The addition of Lygia Clark to the global stage may initially seem like a democratic gesture. However, the internationalization of the artist presents a considerable problem: Clark’s acritical inclusion into a harmonious, egalitarian universal canon can only come at the expense of the specificities of her local reality, issues that had long shaped Brazilian art and her contemporaries’ concerns. Projecting the artist out into the world in such a way means leaving behind her local baggage. Whom does this confiscation serve?