Daria de Beauvais’ Curated Odysseys

To speak of Daria de Beauvais as only a curator would be accurate, but incomplete. As Senior Curator and Head of International Relations at Palais de Tokyo, she operates within one of Paris’ top contemporary art institutions, but as a leader in the industry for over 20 years, her influence spans far beyond the raw, industrial halls. For over two decades, she has moved fluidly between biennales, fairs, and international projects, shaping a curatorial practice that assembles exhibitions as both research and journey, both wound and salve. Her approach is rooted in literature, sharpened by an attraction for overlooked histories and Indigenous voices, and always tethered to one simple principle: everything we do is for an audience.

In this conversation with hube, de Beauvais reflects on the shock of her first Yves Klein blue, the way space can command or liberate an exhibition, and why the most enduring shows are the ones that move us inward towards the intimate, the unknown, the unseen.

hube: Every artist or curator has a unique origin story. What early influences or pivotal moments helped define your passion and purpose?

Daria de Beauvais: My parents were antique dealers, so I grew up surrounded by art. But a few key moments in my Parisian childhood connected me more specifically to modern and contemporary art. I remember my father taking me to see the Pont-Neuf wrapped by Christo and Jeanne-Claude—I was very young, but the sense of awe from that project still stays with me. Later, on a school trip to the Centre Pompidou, I had what I’d call my first real aesthetic shock: a room devoted to Yves Klein’s blue monochromes, with huge windows opening onto the sky.

I went on to study Comparative Literature at university, and during a class that bridged literature and visual arts, I realised I wanted to work with artists. That led me to pursue a master’s in Contemporary Art History and another in Curatorial Practices, before taking on various international roles. I never set out to ‘become a curator’—I just wanted to accompany artists, and eventually that path made me one. Very early on, I also became deeply inspired by major female figures like Marina Abramović, Louise Bourgeois, Sophie Calle, Rebecca Horn, Ana Mendieta, Annette Messager, and Cindy Sherman. They were artists whose assertiveness resonated with me—women I’ve never worked with, but who stand as guardian figures in my mind.

h: Palais de Tokyo is known for its raw architecture and experimental programming. How does space, physically, conceptually, or institutionally, shape your curatorial imagination?

DB: In a world that is constantly shifting, and in a rapidly evolving Parisian scene, Palais de Tokyo continues to hold its ground. After twenty-three years, it remains a place of creation, knowledge, collaboration, discovery, and exchange.

The architecture is at once grandiose and raw, yet incredibly modular—the result of a building constructed in the 1930s, adapted by the architectural duo Lacaton & Vassal. Its scale allows us to experiment in many directions: from a young artist’s first solo show to carte blanche projects that take over the entire building, long-term site-specific commissions, or group exhibitions that can span anywhere from a few hundred to several thousand square metres. And of course, the cultural programme: performances, screenings, talks or special events. For me, Palais de Tokyo is an extraordinary playground for both artists and curators. Because the directors are appointed for fixed terms, the institution is always shifting and always challenging itself. I think that is part of why I have stayed here for a long time: it never becomes static. Our curatorial team also evolves over time, bringing in different voices and perspectives.

To widen our scope, we regularly invite guest curators. One example is the collaboration with Naomi Beckwith, Deputy Director and Chief Curator of the Guggenheim Museum and Artistic Director for documenta 16, who curates with our team the collective exhibition ECHO DELAY REVERB in autumn 2025. It explores the relationship between American art and francophone thought, tracing the transatlantic circulation of forms and ideas. It is an ambitious and landmark project.

h: Out of all the exhibitions you’ve created at Palais de Tokyo, is there one that still echoes? A project that surprised you, shifted your perspective, or stayed with you longer than expected?

DB: I have organised dozens of exhibitions at the Palais de Tokyo, so it is a difficult question. It feels a bit like being asked to choose a favourite child! But I would mention Reclaim the Earth in 2022, a research project for which I invited Léuli Eshrāghi and Ariel Salleh as scientific advisors. It intertwined ecofeminist, Indigenous and postcolonial perspectives. The project aimed to move away from a Eurocentric vision of the world, imagining other relationships to the land, reanimating narratives that have been forgotten or silenced, and underlining the need for reparation, care and healing among cultures that have been historically invalidated.

An older project that remains dear to me is the collective exhibition Inside, curated by Jean de Loisy, Katell Jaffrès and me in 2014. It offered visitors a passage into the interior of the self, with the exhibition space serving as a metaphor. This odyssey, both physical and psychological, invited visitors to move through two floors transformed by artists so that, from one installation to the next, they remained constantly immersed in the works. Each step led them further inward, from the surface of the skin to their most intimate thoughts.

h: Is there something you feel exhibitions often leave out, such as a recurring absence, a blind spot, a form of silence that still needs to be addressed within the institutional context?

DB: There are still many topics and artists that have been overlooked, but I feel fortunate to live in a time that is increasingly addressing important historical, political and societal issues. I see artists as lookouts, attentive to the world’s upheavals and the major movements shaping our societies. To be a lookout is to witness one’s time, using the power of imagination to explore the realities of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

In 2025 I curated two solo shows that reflect this approach. One was with Raphaël Barontini, who challenges the historical canon surrounding cultures and territories marked by slavery or colonisation, particularly in Africa and the Caribbean. The other was with Thảo Nguyên Phan, whose work engages with Vietnam’s history and examines its environmental, spiritual and societal changes; combining for this purpose real events and traditional folklore.

h: You’ve worked within both established institutions and in more fluid, international contexts. How do you navigate the tension between institutional constraints and artistic experimentation?

DB: It’s a matter of flexibility. I believe that every exhibition context, from the most underground to the most institutional, has its own requirements and difficulties. The key is to be able to adapt to them, as making an exhibition is always a collective process, while trying to push the boundaries when necessary — whether it concerns human relations, work processes or budgetary issues. But the non-negotiable part is respecting the artists and their vision; every decision must be made in agreement with them.

h: As an educator at Panthéon-Sorbonne, how has teaching influenced or deepened your perspective on curating?

DB: My course at the Panthéon-Sorbonne University, entitled “Exhibition Practice”, offers practical experience of exhibitions in the field, in venues with a variety of challenges: art centres, museums, foundations, non-profits, artists-run-spaces, and commercial galleries. I provide the students with an opportunity to meet professionals onsite and see how curatorial practice continues to reinvent itself. At the end of the course, I ask the students to imagine an exhibition for each of the spaces we visited together.

I love teaching, I see it as a dialogue: I learn from the students as much as they learn from me. It’s also true in the context of the seminar I organise with Morgan Labar at the Ecole Normale Supérieure, “Indigeneity, Hybridity, Anthropophagy”, which studies contemporary Indigenous arts in a globalised context.

h: Is there a project you’ve dreamed of curating, but haven’t had the opportunity to realize yet? What would it look like if there were no limits?

DB: After co-curating the Lyon biennale in 2019, I became very interested in the biennale as a form of exhibition, especially in a globalised art world. Furthermore, like all curators, I have a list of projects that have not been realised for various reasons. Some of them are particularly close to my heart, but I won’t say any more about that, hopefully they will happen one day!

h: From Buenos Aires to Bucharest, you’ve worked across vastly different cultural landscapes. How do you adapt your curatorial voice in response to context, and how does place change the meaning or rhythm of a show?

DB: Not every exhibition can take place anywhere. Context, particularly geographical but also cultural or architectural, is extremely important. I like to adapt my vision to the context of the exhibition; I didn’t think in the same way for an art fair in Chicago, an old palace in Bucharest, or an art centre in Sydney. You can recognise my curatorial voice in these projects, but they also belong to a particular place.

h: How do you define responsibility as a curator? Do responsibilities to the artist, the audience, the institution, and the social moment ever conflict?

DB: Working as an independent curator and working in an institution are very different, and I will answer this question from my position at the Palais de Tokyo. I believe the curator is indeed responsible to the artist, but also to the audience, the institution, and the social moment — it is a situated job. And yes, these demands can be in conflict, but it is the curator’s role to defuse these conflicts. The curator acts as a kind of intermediary between artists and the audience. Everything we do is for an audience.

h: Do you see curating as a form of authorship, or more as a choreography between ideas, materials, and people?

DB: There is of course a form of authorship in curating, but it is always a collaborative process. I see it first as a form of companionship with artists, a conversation that unfolds over a long period of time. I feel connected to the etymology of the term ‘curator’: from the Latin “curare”, which means ‘to take care of’. It can be a dialogue with other curators too, as I regularly co-curate projects and find it to be a very rewarding and humbling exercise. Thinkers also shape curatorial practice: Donna Haraway or Barbara Glowczewski, for instance, have been pivotal for me.

Over time, you develop a curatorial voice. In my case, literature is a major source of inspiration. I tend to work primarily with female artists, though not exclusively. I have developed knowledge in Indigenous creation, particularly in Australia, and I am drawn to artists who have a strong sense of making and explore the fine line between art and craftsmanship, such as Marie-Claire Messouma Manlanbien and Sonia Gomes. I am also interested in those who investigate forms of spirituality or the overlooked corners of history, like Jonathan Jones or Myriam Mihindou. And since my early days, I have been interested in the display of moving images, with artists such as Mika Rottenberg or Angelica Mesiti.

Equally important for me is the exhibition itself. Beyond the research, the exhibition is the object we share with the public, and it should always be presented with a spirit of generosity, creating a meaningful experience. Also, exhibitions are a good testing ground for more ecologically friendly practices, to reduce our impact and eventually create an environmentally responsible artworld.

h: If you reflect on your early years as a curator, what has shifted most in the role itself? How have the demands, freedoms, or responsibilities of curating evolved over the past decade?

DB: It seems to me that curators have a more important social role, that they are asked to make a commitment that goes beyond artistic considerations. But contemporary art curators must maintain a sense of humility, even though it is a job becoming increasingly fashionable, because the most important is the artists. Curators do not have all the answers. In a world getting more polarised, it is a complicated position: not replacing the voices of artists and continuing to support them.

h: Looking at the current landscape, whose voices do you find most compelling in steering the direction of art and culture? Are there any upcoming shows or voices you feel are offering something we urgently need to hear?

DB: I think mostly of women curators from diverse backgrounds and generations whose vision is both committed and inspiring, each for different reasons: Hoor Al Qasimi (Director of the Sharjah Biennial and founder of the Sharjah Art Foundation), Elena Filipovic (Director of the Kunstmuseum Basel), Candice Hopkins (Executive Director and Chief Curator of the Forge Project, Hudson River Valley), Kimberley Moulton (Adjunct Curator, First Nations and Indigenous Art, Tate Modern, London), Susanne Pfeffer (Director of the Museum für Moderne Kunst in Frankfurt), Lucia Pietroiusti (Head of Ecologies at the Serpentine Galleries, London)… I would also like to pay tribute to Koyo Kouoh (Director of Cape Town’s Zeitz MOCAA, founder of RAW Material Company in Dakar and Artistic Director of the 2026 Venice Biennale), who recently passed away.

The next exhibitions I am most looking forward to are the biennales of São Paulo, which has just opened under the artistic direction of Bonaventure Soh Bejeng Ndikung, and Sydney in 2026, under the artistic direction of Hoor Al Qasimi. I am also eager to visit Emily Kam Kngwarray’s major exhibition and Máret Ánne Sara’s site-specific commission at Tate Modern. It is encouraging to see more Indigenous artists represented in Western institutions.