Michaël de Saint-Cheron Interview | Alex Gilbert #273

Michaël de Saint-Cheron, french philosopher of religions and leading expert on André Malraux, participated in a tribute to Resistance heroes Geneviève de Gaulle-Anthonioz, Pierre Brossolette, Germaine Tillion, and Jean Zay at the Panthéon and published Les Sept palais célestes de Anselm Kiefer: La Mémoire du monde, in 2025 (Actes-Sud).

Why did Emmanuel Macron choose Anselm Kiefer to exhibit in major French institutions like the Panthéon and the Grand Palais Éphémère, and what does this reveal about Macron’s view of Kiefer, art, and their place in the French Republic?
Michaël de Saint Cheron: It might be a question of memory, which was, after all, one of the central questions in Paul Ricoeur’s work and reflections, and also a question of forgetting, and, as Levinas would say, of the forgetting of being, perhaps. That is to say, for me, what is interesting and striking in the work is the presence of Kiefer in France and that he chose France. So, why did he choose France? He doesn’t really say; he kind of says it was by chance—he could have chosen England, Italy, and by the way, he’s highly regarded in Italy, as you know, or the United States. Is it because France is the closest country, or the country most directly confronted among major European countries with what Nazism was? So it’s a question that arises, and this is where we all escape, since Kiefer says again that he didn’t really choose France, that France just happened to be there as if by accident. I don’t really believe it was by accident, and the way Macron welcomes Kiefer may not be so much through a philosophical or Ricœurian lens, but more through the presence of a German who, for the past thirty years now, was born in 1945 and who represents both the presence and absence of memory—of the genocide, of the war, of the Nazi occupation, and of all the heavy past between France and Germany.

So it may be on that philosophical, memorial level that Macron is particularly interested, because, as you know better than I do—or as well as I do—Macron is, I wouldn’t say obsessed, or obsessed in the best sense of the word, with the question of war memory and the Franco-German relationship. So in my opinion, I don’t know if there is an allegorical dimension in Macron’s thinking, but there is probably that Ricœurian element of presence, absence, and memory. Memory that is very strong. And it’s true that, in spite of himself, Kiefer perhaps embodies that German presence—and the presence of a German—but what also interests me a lot is that, in the eyes of the Germans, even if they don’t realize it, he represents a certain re-Judaization of German thought, even though he isn’t Jewish, as everyone knows.

But still, the recurrence of themes related to Jewish poetry, among others, and to the Kabbalah leads me to believe that beyond guilt—because you don’t build a 40-year career on guilt—there is in his work and in his references to Jewish thought a kind of re-Judaization of the great German culture, which since Nazism—even though today there’s some reconsideration—has for at least the 15 years of Nazism completely erased, destroyed, and persecuted every form of Jewish thought and expression. So in my view, that might be the question—but Macron will surely have a different explanation to offer. Yet this Franco-German axis is essential, and the axis of war and memory is also something Macron is deeply interested in, as you know as well as I do, and all of his memorial references show that Kiefer, for him, is ultimately the ideal artist.

Ricoeur was criticized for linking forgiveness to forgetting, but he writes: “To forgive is not to forget, but to remember differently” (Memory, History, Forgetting, 2004). Like in Kiefer’s work, the goal is not to erase memory but to transform it. The pantheonization of Genevoix and the Paul Celan exhibition reflect a new, more sensitive and literary form of memorialism.
Michaël de Saint Cheron: Absolutely. I just published a text that will appear in fifteen days in the Études journal, the Jesuit review, entitled What Can Art Do, or Art After Auschwitz, or something along those lines. At the end of this short essay, I contrast Richter’s and Kiefer’s relationships to the Shoah. I say—perhaps rightly or wrongly—that in the past 10 to 15 years, Richter felt the need to refer to the infamous, terrifying photographs of the Sonderkommando, revealed notably by Didi-Huberman and others, which he rediscovered in 2008 for his Birkenau series. In stark contrast, and without framing it philosophically or explicitly, Kiefer’s work never required any reference, any photograph, to convey an oeuvre haunted by destruction, memory, and especially the absence of the Jews and the entire question of Nazism and fascism.

I found this unspoken yet powerful opposition quite striking: Richter, born in 1933, thus contemporary to Nazism, only felt the need late in life, around age 75, to connect to that historical reality through the materiality of those photos; whereas Kiefer, born after the war, has for over 50 years produced work deeply infused with absence, opposition to Nazism, and the paradoxical gesture of recalling while simultaneously erasing memory. Kiefer once said he doesn’t aim to provoke but to awaken consciousness. I don’t presume to judge Richter’s work, but I do believe that Kiefer has undertaken a decades-long exploration of Jewish absence, unspeakable memory, and an utterly intransmissible past in a more sustained and powerful way, without referencing any specific imagery. The same applies to his relationship to World War I, as seen in his works on Verdun and the Marne—no images, no bodies, only bare landscapes through which the viewer must interpret the hidden trauma. His work demands not so much remembrance as it does inquiry into what the artist says, means, or perhaps conceals. Richter’s work is compelling, particularly because he draws from the very material Claude Lanzmann rejected—photographs of the Holocaust—arguing that the only way to speak of the Shoah is without images.

Richter’s approach is thus the polar opposite of Lanzmann’s philosophy. Regarding forgiveness, Kiefer has produced significant texts on the theme of absence and memory—or rather, the lack of memory—particularly in 1970s Germany, where generations of 30–50-year-olds actively avoided confronting this tragic past. Today, there’s perhaps a way to rethink memory beyond memory itself—what some might call post-memory or even post-anti-memory, a term I use jokingly but seriously as a “mal-ancien.” This memory dynamic is of great interest to me. As for Macron, I don’t think his connection to Richter is necessarily about memory, guilt, or forgiveness; rather, it might be more about the importance, as a President of the Republic, of maintaining strong ties with Germany and recognizing an artist like Kiefer—who, though German, has lived in France for 30 years and established monumental foundations and studios like those in Barjac or Croissy-Beaubourg.

It’s striking that Macron chose Kiefer over a French artist to commemorate World War I—perhaps a political gesture, echoing themes Paul Ricoeur often explored between memory and politics. In Macron’s mind, there may indeed be a link between memory, war, absence, the clash of two great nations, and the presence of this towering artist who embodies silence, absence, and a kind of scream through his oeuvre. I’m not sure if Macron personally called for the Paul Celan exhibition at the Grand Palais Éphémère—it’s worth checking who the Minister of Culture was—but he clearly holds great admiration for Kiefer (editor’s note: organized by the Réunion des Musées Nationaux – Grand Palais (RMN – Grand Palais) in partnership with the Thaddaeus Ropac Gallery).

You described Kiefer’s work as “haunted”—a word Derrida also used for Van Gogh’s paintings. Heidegger noted that Van Gogh didn’t merely represent being, but brought it into being. Kiefer, who currently has two exhibitions focused on Van Gogh, paints very much in his spirit, sharing a deep connection to rural life.
Michaël de Saint Cheron: When I say Kiefer’s work is haunted, it ties into this genealogy—yet we must be cautious with definitions. Derrida likely didn’t know Kiefer’s work deeply. But Kiefer is clearly obsessive. If you’ve been to one of his studios, you know war is omnipresent—not just the Shoah, but war in general, with fighter jets, submarines, and dark, piercing forms. Destruction and death, rendered with violence, permeate everything.

So yes, his work is haunted. Whether we can say, as Derrida did, that it “makes being come into being” is possible, but what’s certain is that it’s filled with obsession, forgetting, and a deep fascination with ruins—philosophically, artistically, and biblically. There’s a strong biblical dimension in his work, perhaps more than a philosophical one. What may trouble some Jewish thinkers in France is that he admires and celebrates Céline, which creates an intriguing contradiction worth exploring—particularly in light of Kiefer’s embrace of both Céline and Heidegger. Does he overlook too much the irreparable silence from Heidegger, the absence of any reckoning for 40 years after the Shoah?

When I spoke with Kiefer in Barjac, he told me that the disagreement between Céline and Heidegger was personal, not philosophical—I’m not so sure. Someone like Paul Celan, who lived with such intensity, would have judged a philosophy by the moral fiber of its author. And Heidegger never uttered a single word about Nazism or its crimes. Can we truly believe that Celan, at the end of his life, still admired Heidegger’s philosophy? I have my doubts.