In the labyrinth

Nothing might seem more idyllic than Fragonard’s large, manicured paintings of playful seduction. Executed in the early 1770s for Madame du Barry’s Pavilion at Louveciennes, they celebrate the erotic rituals enacted by aristocratic lovers in the grounds of an opulent estate. The young woman and her equally well-groomed suitor dart, gesticulate and embrace among overflowing flower-beds dominated by classical urns and statues. But by the time Yinka Shonibare has finished with them, in an elaborate and unnerving installation at the new Musée du quai Branly, all their carefree poise is replaced by a macabre alternative.

The context provided by this museum, recently created to house some of Paris’s great ethnographic collections from Africa, Oceania and elsewhere in the world, ought to warn us before we enter Shonibare’s labyrinth. He tries to lull us by giving his work the deceptive title Garden of Love, and beguiling reproductions of Fragonard’s paintings outside the entrance add to this feel-good aura. Once inside, though, doubts soon start eroding any expectations of straightforward amorous bliss. True, we find ourselves walking through enclosed passages reminiscent of the lovers’ pathways in French rococo gardens. Shonibare’s initial ideas about his exhibition were influenced by his response to the new museum’s external and internal gardens, so he opted right away for a horticultural approach. But the labyrinth soon becomes a place where deception and bewilderment prevail. Suddenly, a sequence of large mirrored walls on our left baffle us with receding reflections. We feel disorientated, and prevailing darkness adds to the sense of confusion.

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It is a relief when an aperture leads us through to a clearing. Brightly lit, it contains a sculptural pair of figures lost in besotted dalliance. At first, their costumes appear to be the last word in 18th-century elegance.