The importance of being Five

In many traditions around the world the fifth birthday is considered an achievement. I guess it can be in real something to be congratulated for (that you made it up to here; a concept that stays attached to each birthday, especially to the later ones, or the latest ones) involving all related persons, as they still do in Holland. “Congratulations for your son’s, aunts, grandmother’s, sister’s, cousin’s birthday”. It belongs to the “crown” years; you are supposed to get an extra big present and an extra loud cheer (Hoera!).

As I see it, the fifth birthday is the celebration of the awakening of the intellect; this including mind and soul. Children who have the luck growing up in an encouraging environment, around this age  become happier; their brightness is daily and intense as a spurting star. Those  unhappy or difficult as babies find their place in the things their mind and hand create.  Their talks, screams and cries take form and clear content, thus become communicable.

At the same time, these little people become active socially; they have their friends with whom they share things of their own era, already. I remember a fellow artist, years ago, who was almost mourning when his daughter went to school and her “socialization” began. I agree that it is a shocking moment for the parents; their baby is not in their hands anymore. At a seminar for parents of toddlers that I followed in desperate times when Mickey was two,  an interesting moment of mind reset occured when together with another mother I had to put in order of importance qualities or capabilities. I was about to put creativity or independence at the top, when she put with certainty sociability as first. Other teams did the same without thinking twice. I kept that in mind gurgling it through the stages of a sudden encounter with a truth that is hard to digest: denial, anger, acceptance. Away with the lonesome poets of our youth. Hurray to the socially well-adjusted.

My wish to Mickey is borrowed from a poet who envied the luck of the socially involved; a confusing act, as it proved to be.

‘I wish you to be madly loved ‘ αγάπη μου.

P.S. ‘Je vous souhaite d’être follement aimée’  is the closing line of a letter  written by Andre Breton addressed to his daughter for when she would become 16; it was published in the book L’Amour Fou (Mad Love), 1937.  I totally agree with him that some things should better be said when thought; better earlier than later.

2012: on track

The new year means battle in the streets of The Hague which starts in the morning of 31 December with junior crackers and ends late in the night after the year change with major noise and flame attacks. Smoke and  dust pass by the windows and fire residues cover all the flat surfaces. There are also casualties; eye injuries mostly, but sometimes arms and ears also fall. Half of the population can’t wait to fire up the year, the other half tries to ignore it.

For the new year, apart from the essentials, only one wish: to reset course, to avoid deviations more and more.

This concerns me personally but applies to all the new years of the last 20 years at least, more generally. I remember discussing with friends in the small studio at Erressou street in Athens, year 1995, how much our world had lost connection to its basis wandering off course and in purposeless bliss (or was it agony); maybe just an imprinted image from the science fiction series ‘Space 1999′, maybe just a clear look. Nevertheless, now with the financial crisis, many voices are heard describing the same, as a situation to reverse towards a solution. That brings to mind the anti-consumerism exercises, a game that amused me for years; very simply long visits to the market without buying anything at all. Later, the more my time was eaten up by irrelevant to my course duties, the more I felt the need to consume; mind in blur, strength shut down, submission. Never in excess though and quite reversible, believe me.

For our health’s sake let it be a reset year; 2012 on track.

Help someone, 2010, embroidery

The Map and the Territory – the book that made 2011 less tedious but not less painful

Writer: Michel Houellebecq
Translator for the English language: Gavin Bowd
Publisher for the English language: William Heinemann-Random House, 2011
Original title: La carte et le territoire
Original French Edition by Flammarion, 2010

Pinch me if I am dreaming. Or rather pull this knife out of my heart; I am awake and yes, I do acknowledge the pain.

In a time span of 50 years we are told the life story of the artist Jed Martin and his encounter with the writer Michel Houellebecq. The main part of the novel is a story of professional success, backed up by passive relationships and voluntary isolation. The artist’s figure fits to the stereotype of the willingly socially outsider who makes it in the world as opposed to another stereotype of the macho artist (see Picasso) who nevertheless also  made it in the same world. Both come along from the creepy backyard of the writer; but actually not. In this book everyone has found their position in the world and even more carry a certain nobility. The same do the three series of artworks made at the beginning, at the pick and at the end of the artist’s life. It is hard to distinguish to what extent humour plays a role when formalism (the how weighs more than the what) is mentioned as a biased way of making or seeing art. To that I would comment that it is much easier to describe a work than to make it. Houellebecq is  in favour of painting within the visual arts but doesn’t let his artist fall in the sphere of banality; he also does photography and video in the end, even using complicated software made especially for him. Mostly in but also around the atelier, this first part of the book establishes a human warmth; in the frame of the expected peculiarity of course.

Then, with a clean-cut we are thrown into a police investigation. The images drawn and the surrounding script are references to the TV series of the last decade which have put us at ease with details of our insides and stories connected to them. The writer entrusts in art (his art) his own death. The more details he gives about it, the further away he can walk from it in real life. Triumphantly, art saves lives.

Yet, the absolute triumph comes at the closing of the novel when Houellebecq drives us back into the woods. This could be a reference to himself (The possibility of an island), but I take it more as an obsession (wish or fear) that has become artistic vision. The years pass and the artist lets nature devour his personal history and all the things related to him. Nature simply triumphs on man and man as an intelligent being documents his fading away while it actually happens.

The novel has a strong plot and depth and atmosphere. It was accused as being too smooth for the writer’s capacity and maybe it is. However, the overall  irony and the total destruction of everything we believed as settled, written with clarity and passion, do point at Michel Houellebecq, writer.

P.S. 1 It is good that the artist destroyed the painting where Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst divide the artworld. The concept itself is as schematic as the impersonation of Death by Brad Pitt.

P.S. 2 Isolation when the eyes of an audience are on you can be a fulfilling state; almost a luxury. Think of isolation when you devote yourself to your work without feedback from anywhere. That is what it means to float in the world, alone.

We'll meet again, 1998, acrylic on canvas, 100x140 cm

thread of life

"thread of life" sketch, 2010

‘Thread of life’  is designed as a light memorial construction; it carries a thread which runs along the wooden elements. The thread is embroidered on perforated wooden boards and can form a variety of images; from totally abstract traces to a faint portrait, a date, a name or a symbol connected to the life of the deceased. The thread, apart from its visual presence,  also gives a tangible experience. Felt with eyes closed, it touches to the remembrance of the homemade warmth while in fact being in the openness of nature. The monument is susceptible to weather and time; it will change color and eventually its shape will be deformed. It has a life expectancy of 3 to 5 years, long enough to allow the body to pass in its final state of minimum existence.

Initially the monument was placed in three locations marking a line from South to North. These are their stories:

In the desert of Nigeria, the monument existed for almost a  year without alteration, despite the hot sun, until it disappeared most probably during a sand storm. However, it is not certain if its disapperance is a work of nature or of man.

In the black forest of Germany, eighteen months after its placement, the wooden parts had become green and their shape had changed drastically; the  thread had disappeared, most probably gathered by birds and little animals. There are still pieces of the construction laying on the ground; only for those who can distinguish it as a former art object.

In Northern Finland, the monument rested well on ice. Tourists in the area reported that parts of it had become transparant just a few months after its placement; later, the  snowy owl  was seen sitting on it every night for a week; sometime in December was that. The same week was the last that the structure stayed in place before taking a slide on the ice and ending up in the water. This was never actually confirmed; tourists claimed that the monument was carried away on a slay during the night. The driver of the slay was never identified. The artist did not request a police investigation; she preferred to engolph this theory as an alternative ending to the story of her construction. The work was then complete.

 

Kron – part 2

Mr Kron fitted well in the buzzing community of happy passengers; we would never find a common ground. Yet, we had three more hours to spend together, including a dinner just the two of us. I could skip dinner altogether; still, this man would be eating next to me. We were isolated from the others. I was his companion and he was to blame for putting us in this position without asking. I began falling naturally into panic when Mr Kron said ‘What is your destination?’ My destination? This was getting out of hand. I would not discuss my destination with a total stranger, an intruder to my peace, a rude dangerous man. ‘Amsterdam’ I said quietly. ‘So close, you’re lucky. I have to change flight in Amsterdam to get home to New York; got seven hours waiting. I hope I’ll find an interesting book to buy out there, in English’ he said with a little laugh. I nodded without sound. I had read many books in airplanes and airports; once or twice I almost missed my flight because of a book. That, in other times of course. So, Mr Kron was still alive; he could still read books and even find them interesting. How old was he anyway? I turned to him unconsciously following this thought. He met my look simply without reserve then turned back to his tablet; he was playing games all this time while talking to me. Irritated I looked straight to his face; he was young, hardly in his twenties. He looked back at me and said ‘I was on Syros island for an animation festival, pretty cool’. You could trace no uncertainty in his voice; so mature for such a young face. ‘I met a girl from Sweden and, you know, I see myself coming back to Europe soon’. His face was shining of nice fresh memories, all content, all happy. I kept staring for a second then sunk to the back of my brain where the memory of my last love was hanging. It was neither painful nor pleasant; it was nothing. We were served dinner last of all passengers while flying over the Alpes with the usual shakes of this point of the flight. He laughed with the dancing trays; I looked at the shaking glass in my hand and let a soft sigh. Youth flashed in me for a second; then dispersed again leaving a hazy murmur. You’re gonna fall from a great height like everybody else. ‘Cheers Kron’.

Kron – part 1*

Sometimes it is really too late.
Sitting at the last row of the airplane on the window, I was looking at the passengers streaming in, hoping that I could be left alone in my peace with the seats next to me empty. I was still red and puffy from the dramatic goodbye of this afternoon. You see, after a bright early youth, where travelling was the greatest way for self positioning, things went back to the silliness of family life. There is more crying attached to goodbyes than the sense of flying freed from everything. Any non-irrupted life left in me finds no other way to manifest itself. Sadly, the person that I finally became failed to use the experience of youth. A couple came and sat on the same row across the corridor. I closed my eyes in hope; a few more minutes and my loneliness would be secured. A shift of air shook me and before I could focus back to image world, a sturdy voice punched me brutally. ‘Hello’. My eyes gasped on the letters K-R-O-N that appeared next to me covering the shirt of the man.  I said hello back with a faint voice, shocked by the intimidating move of this person who came and sat next to me in the middle seat when there was obviously no one else waiting to sit in our row. He must be of Viking descent for being so arrogant and brutal, I thought. If Kron is his name it suits him perfectly. Anger and despair filled my lunges and I turned to the window as last attempt for protecting my trip. To my relief, silence was established again; we were ready for take off. I closed my eyes and concentrated on absorbing the force of the accelerating aircraft. ‘Would you like a mint? It seems to help the body stay in balance.’ I must have shaken slightly because when I turned to him he was looking at me with a dubious little smile. I took the mint with a plain ‘thank you’ and the inexpressive face of someone in depression or in polite annoyance. I was already exposed; he already knew – I gave it away so easily – that I was an unhappy person, unable to enjoy what was offered to me. The image of my mother passed in front of my eyes. I was becoming exactly the same ‘lights off’ woman and even aware of it; a deeper hell than oblivion. The mint felt good indeed but the thick wall surrounding my body would not let any trace of satisfaction walk away. My head stayed numbed and my face features solidly sober.

Kron – part 2 will be published on Monday 19 December.

* This short story won the prize of the literary magazine Diavazo and the International Airport of Athens at the competition with theme “journeys by air”. The story was published in the issue of November 2011.

December End

December, it marks an end for our side of the world. It is also the darkest month of the year, at least in the Northern hemisphere; the only one I know I’m afraid. It is a difficult month for melancholic temperaments;  driving home for Xmas (in the past), family reunions, compulsory happiness, heartpricking gifts and hardest of all the year’s summary. Now, let’s see: work, Mickey starts the preliminary school, work,  Mickey and I in Athens, mama falls and breaks hip, back to work, London in a hurry, work, summer, July rain, August rain, work, mama in The Hague not going out at all, conference, Venice, book layout, book layout with hick-ups, small prize for a short story (good one), in Athens for conference (good one), book layout, work meeting and the year is almost finished. It doesn’t look good at all. If only I think that my summaries in the past were lists of the works that I had made (as good points) and lists of worthless personal contacts ending in a continuous unbeatable loneliness (as minus points)… Today Mickey and I bought a small Xmas tree in a pot. We carried it on the bike, on his kiddie’s seat. Once at home, we realized that it is a bit skew; like the year that passed, I thought; like a rocket, Mickey thought.

The road through

No, no, I am not going to allow myself to write a word about politics again in this blog, unless it concerns the arts and their servants.

Visual arts have taken anyhow the role of the public demonstrator of flaws -  much more than wonders – of humanity, very often leaving aside the object itself of the profession; the creation of visual artworks, I thought. I don’t know if it is a matter of absolute hospitality or a sign of weakness that the field of visual arts has embraced journalism (documentary, interview, etc.), scientific research, commentary of other art forms or other artworks, agriculture, biology, social sciences, information sciences (recently), plus the since long circulating and thus assimilated bits of theatre, dance and text.

The trend is still engaged art, at least for the A productions. Naturally, the fresh generation of artists went through its studies under this rule, so this is what it learned to understand and admire at least content wise. This is what will give them a place in the curators’ dreams.

A typical project of a serious Art Biennale would be:

The new road that the national or local authorities plan to open through a nature area: the background of the plan (reasons, technical details, past and present state of the area), the people involved (politicians, engineers, local people), the timeline (calendars, steps to follow), obstacles natural or artificial (legal measures for preventing the plan, side problems arising), the result till present. Since living in a globalised environment, we present three parallel cases: Bolivia, the Netherlands and Greece. We are working on real situations pointing out the different approaches to the problem, which is however one: the objection of the people living in the area (including those who represent the animals of the area). In one case the president is himself busy with the problem and conversating with his folk; in another there is a long discussion between parties that takes years just as a legal case does; in another case the politician orders a fire starter to do his job so then the road is open all by natural means and since there is no State-protector of the area there is no further problem. If we focus on the politicians we already have the evil mass to mould our structure. All the rest is the yeast to make the dough rise.

This project in numerous thematic variations can be seen at all major art showcases, including the Venice Art Biennale. More about the VAB to come soon.

The pictures are from three exhibits of the VAB.
relevant websites:
www.cap2011.net
www.cyprusinvenice.org
www.ccrp.be

exhibit at the Central Asia pavilion (kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan). Title of the show: Lingua Franca. Experiences of Universal

Exhibit at the Cyprus pavilion. Title of the show: Temporal Taxonomy

Koen Vanmechelen: Born in Venice-Open University of Diversity. A contemporary manifestation on the borderline of art and science. A virtual research laboratory at the Palazzo Loredan Library

This is not a love song

This is a genuine political thriller.The extensions of it are difficult to grasp in their totality; it is a 4D (time including) craft that we can only view from the side that we are standing.  G.A.Papandreou (GAP) proves to be equal to his father in viciousness; his passion is gambling and he has apparently exercised in poker faces. The referendum was a bad idea at this point, but we have to give it to him. He is  brave, naturally or  chemically achieved is not easy to say, but still. I don’t think that anyone else would dare to make such a manoeuvre that was guaranteed to infuriate everyone, internally and even more externally, jeopardise all what he has worked for (even if it was wrong) and has been blamed for (lightly said) and even more bury his future together with the future of those who voted for him and simultaneously cursed him. Good or evil, he is nonetheless brave. Whereas, Samaras, the head of Nea Democratia, is the typical coward who becomes more pale than normal and backs off whenever the goal that he is striving for is coming closer. The idea of having him as representative of Greece insults me more than all what I have heard of and about my country the last 3 years.

Hundreds of scenarios and occasionally solution proposals have been heard during this time. Since even the most seemingly reasonable of them turn out to be as absurd or/and inhumane as bombing Irak for establishing democracy, I think that it does no harm to add two more. I make a plea on the main positive points of  the Greeks: surrealistic thinking and family consciousness.

1. With the last funds for travelling, the Greek State should send GAP to Hollywood to negotiate with a production studio the making of a series of political thrillers, preferably directed by Michael Mann. GAP should make a deal for the rights of the story of these last years and background information for the previous 30 years on behalf and for the benefit of Greece.

2. The Greek omogeneia should make a need-funds for paying off part of the Greek debt. I know that many of us have left – among other reasons – because of the unbearable situation of systematically cultivated  uncertainty reigning in Greece for years. Others had immigrated much earlier for economic reasons just as it is happening now again. Whatever the reason, I know that we would not refuse to help now and also that 100 EUR contribution (a feasible basis amount I dare to think) would not cover the debt. But, 200 million less debt would be something better than nothing.

Those said, I have faith that the lesson of individualism so broadly tought since the 90′s can prove to be a good skill for detaching the Greeks from the State, in the sense of expectations. The Greek State has not much to give anymore: no jobs, no subsidies, no coverage. We have to make it on our own, so time to wake up and go for it.

The pessimistic estimate for the situation is to see in what is happening a repetition of history. As the crisis is spreading to Italy, we could expect an invasion from the North, of course not with axes and fire this time. Anyway GAP helped to that at least. Germany, with France at its side, finally said it clearly: this is our Europe and you can be with us with the rules that we made or you can buzz off.  The lust for power at that level has an ugly face. They can spare us their caring words about the people. This is not a love song.

Europe reaching maturity

Open Ateliers – Day 2

The second day of the open ateliers weekend went well with many visitors again. Quite a number of them took the time to make questions and I had the chance to explain things about intentions and techniques. Events like this but also events where I am the spectator help define better the position of my work; this is what I earn. I hope that our visitors found their tour meaningful too.

Mickey in front of his own wall; only fair as he also paints in this atelier. We see a house, a volcano, an explosion and a sewerige system (the yellow on blue) of which he has made a whole series.

Showing the sketch on which the painting at the back is based