(from my post at fb Art Space group)
🐣 In prospect of Easter - Happy Holidays 🐣
Lázlò Moholy-Nagy (1895-1946)
Untitled, La Sarraz, 1928, photography, 40x30cm
Griffelkunst Edition 1994
Tuesday, 30
The wind whistles through all the gaps and it is uncomfortably chilly. Saying goodbye to the gallery is not easy. We had a foot in town and are now completely thrown back on country life again. My dream is to make it more urban here in Tintinto. Yes, now that I have more time to work on the house, I can hopefully remove this or that rural bump - the nests of the black mud bee for example. There are still two weeks left in which we will spend a few hours in the old Art Space. Yesterday we made the first transport. Anyway, whether rural or urban, there are always moments when I am very proud of the house, also or precisely because it corresponds more to the demands of the bohemian than those of the bourgeoisie.
Monday, 29
(from my yoga calendar) By yoga we understand the methodical endeavor to achieve self-perfection by expressing all forces and talents that are hidden within us. Sri Aurobindo (my translation from German)
Anna Trökes, Yoga- Weisheit, Kraftquellen für 52 Wochen, 2011
Sunday, 28
(no notes)
Saturday, 27
Some people say they are spoiled. And? You admit something in order to get rid of it to some extent. I'm not spoiled. I have long since curtailed my desire for a comfortable life. Recently, a young American woman (it was crucial to her coming from America) came to Art Space, took a quick look around, asked a few questions, and then concluded by observing that artists suffer a lot. In fact, I'm this kind of an artist, even though I want exactly the opposite. Of course, I think artists have exactly the same right to lead a dignified life as other people. I also know many successful artists who I hope don't have to suffer, but rather practice their profession with dignity. This dignity was never really given to me. I received little support in my wish to become or be an artist. Sure, I was encouraged to the extent that I am the artist that I am now. But for me, art always came after other things were done. The things that I thought were more necessary and that unfortunately mostly had to do with housework or let's call it homework in the sense of fulfilling given tasks. Indeed, since I've been living here at Casa Tintinto (I got the lovely name from Ivo), I have managed to keep the wonderful studio in good condition, but didn't create any work to speak of. You see, what does good condition actually mean? No spiderwebs or Lizzard shit? In fact, and it is all about that I am running away from something like myself. The Medusa I'm afraid to be, or Xantippe as my mother called me when she was angry about the way I talked. Unless what I do conforms to the general canon by which I judge my own actions, I am satisfied with myself. Then there is no ego any more, but the correctly functioning person that I should be. I don't think it really matters what I produce, but when I produce, the work has to speak to me. Otherwise I don't see any point in it. I prefer to leave it that way. This has nothing to do with a lack of discipline, but with a deep-seated inferiority complex that I've been working on for decades and that I can't get rid of. If you are a frequent reader of this diary, you already know it. Perhaps the first step is to take this complex for granted and to observe when that particular feeling arises, to stop and think about it. What did I say before, I'm the director in my film. Nobody can play a part in it without being asked. Well, unfortunately it's not that easy. Or let's put it this way, even if I am open to things or living beings that do not belong in my concept, I still have the opportunity to give them the meaning I want. I shape my environment with every step I take. Perhaps that was what Joseph Beuys meant when he made the claim that everyone is an artist - being creative in perceiving, thinking and acting.
Friday, 26
A few days ago I was wondering what went wrong with the Art Space. I think it's a phenomenon that repeats itself in my life and means never to have the success I actually dreamed of - something is always wrong. The few successes I had were exceptions and I always felt that I didn't deserve success, which of course led to depressed behavior and loss of interest in success. You get used to feeling mediocre. It's a bit like being invisible. But of course I'm not really satisfied with that. I like it when everything goes like a movie (no unpleasant events that turn my life upside down, but a film in which I am a director and my perception is in line with what I do. I mean unpleasant events in a psychological sense or, in other words, bullying).
When I traveled to Lagos in April 2014, a visit to the CCA was on my agenda. When I got there, I was told that I had unfortunately missed the El Anatsui exhibition which had ended the day before. Again - right place, wrong time. Today I saw a panel discussion on YouTube with Bona and Simon in the Haus der Kunst about curatorial practices, interesting, maybe I'll go into it another time. At the moment I want to point out something else. After this video, youtube suggested a salon talk with El Anatsui and Silvia Bisi at Art Basel in 2014. And now I'm getting to the point where I'm at: where the hell was I as I just had arrived in Basel from Lagos? and why didn't I see this panel discussion? As you can see, it's like I'm always moving on the periphery. It's like my brain lacks vital information and nobody wants to see the movies I move in. I think people call that these days not getting connected.
Thursday, 25
For the first time in football history Gambia's team qualified for the African Cup of Nations.
Wednesday, 24
Wow - what a treat to read this book. Here are a few more passages about Amma and Yazz, mother and daughter, that really made me smile.
the sight of her daughter curled up on the sofa under a duvet in the living room on Saturdays, watching television, until she's ready to go out at midnight
Amma can just about remember that she too used to go out late and return home on the morning bus
Evaristo, Bernardine. Girl, Woman, Other (p. 40). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.
Amma misses her daughter now she's away at university
not the spiteful snake that slithers out of her tongue to hurt her mother, because in Yazz's world young people are the only ones with feelings
but she misses the Yazz who stomps about the place
Evaristo, Bernardine. Girl, Woman, Other (p. 39). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.
feminism is so herd-like, Yazz told her, to be honest, even being a woman is passé these days, we had a non-binary activist at uni called Morgan Malenga who opened my eyes, I reckon we're all going to be non-binary in the future, neither male nor female, which are gendered performances anyway, which means your women's politics, Mumsy, will become redundant, and by the way, I'm humanitarian, which is on a much higher plane than feminism
Evaristo, Bernardine. Girl, Woman, Other (p. 39). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.
not to mention The Boyfriend, glimpsed when he dropped her off in his car
as soon as Yazz was in the door, Amma was waiting in the hallway to ask her the sort of harmless question any parent would ask
who is he and what does he do? hoping Yazz would say he was in the sixth form, a relatively harmless schoolboy then
Yazz replied with dead-pan insolence, Mum, he's a thirty-year-old psychopath who abducts vulnerable women and locks them in a cellar for weeks on end while he has his wicked way with them before chopping them into pieces and sticking them in the freezer for his winter stews
Evaristo, Bernardine. Girl, Woman, Other (pp. 38-39). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.
Tuesday, 23
(from my notes)
Mum, Yazz said at fourteen when she was pitching to go to Reading Music Festival with her friends, it would be to the detriment of my juvenile development if you curtailed my activities at this critical stage in my journey towards becoming the independent-minded and fully self-expressed adult you expect me to be, I mean, do you really want me rebelling against your old-fashioned rules by running away from the safety of my home to live on the streets and having to resort to prostitution to survive and thereafter drug addiction, crime, anorexia and abusive relationships with exploitative bastards twice my age before my early demise in a crack house?
Evaristo, Bernardine. Girl, Woman, Other (p. 38). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.
Monday, 22
Those days in the gallery make me think. Why didn't it work, why didn't we get clients? There's a bit of a corona reason, but mostly it was a lack of advertising, even though we told everyone we knew about it. I've often thought about an opening. The problem was how to inspire people and get them there, which is actually going to be a bigger problem in Tujereng. Then what kind of exhibition? I don't have any newer works and as far as my parents' collection is concerned, the appropriate frames to hang them up are missing. I kept asking around to find out where I could find a frame maker, but was always referred to sort of carpenter who made frames, but usually without glass and passpartout. Of course, Corona played a role. The lockdown even made me forget to think about a vernissage. I later started cataloging, which took some time. And then suddenly the year was over and waterproofing the roof of TintintoHouse became more important. Although still there is no contract on the table by now. By the way, I haven't forgotten the idea of an auction - one day it will happen, wherever.
Sunday, 21
(from my notes) Already yesterday we had planned to go to the bar on the beach on the Tunbung side. While I was doing the dishes after breakfast, I glanced at the TV screen on the wall and saw that Coppola's film The Godfather was on. Fascinated by the good film work, I suggested watching the film through to the end. Then it was announced that The Godfather II would be shown afterwards. I saw the beginning, which included Vito Corleone's childhood, and I was torn. Still, I decided to stick with our original idea and go for a walk on the beach. When we arrived at the bar they said the cook went out. We got a mattress for the wooden lounger under a thatched roof, the frame of which was already half bare. A cold wind was blowing and I lay down on the sand for a moment, just a moment for fear of sunburn and melanons. Then a quick swim in the sea. The sea was rough and the bottom was full of broken shells that made bathing difficult. Back in the windy shade, unable to concentrate on reading, I suggested we go home. On the way back - this time with a tail wind - we found Squid. At home, The Godfather II was still up and running. Ous was preparing a very fine late seafood lunch while I finished the second episode. Even The Godfather III was on the program. We just had to water the plants after lunch and give the mafia a break.
Saturday, 20
It's cold at home so I decided to walk to the Tujereng Housing Estate to meet John, the builder of the future roof. A cool wind is blowing and it seems like this is the first time I've been doing this walk without breaking a sweat. Arriving I see the gates closed and of course he's not there. I called shortly before to tell him we would meet there. We have been trying to meet for days. I call him there in front of the closed gate and he tells me he's at the Turntable, already on the way home. We will meet tomorrow in the morning. Okay, another tomorrow again. I continue walking to Keninding Saibali, where is a bar and I have a beer. Looks like that the New Year decoration became a permanent fixture. When walking, I didn't really take into account the strength of the sun. Better relax in the shade before going home. While I'm drinking my beer, I read Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo, of which I've read a review in the current New African, which cover story is about African Writers titled An Explosion of African Creative Writing. I like her style, which seems to be written without a period or comma. Each sentence is a new paragraph, more or less. It reads as if someone is talking incessantly. While I am drinking my beer, a few drinkers argue over who is drunkest.
Friday, 19
(from my notes) Ous' Birthday - yeah, we really celebrate it and have a wonderful day.
But not good news from my father. He went to the oncology department in the same hospital. He had a conversation with the doctor there who recommended that he do a gastroscopy and colonoscopy in order to identify the primary tumor and to consider possible therapies. So he will spend a few days in the hospital next week. He is too weak for outpatient treatment. I'm very, very sorry and cry for him inside.
Thursday, 18
(from my notes) Rain clouds gather, but it is not raining.
Wednesday, 17
(no notes)
Tuesday, 16
new sofa cover
Monday, 15
(from my notes) Yoga-Sutra 2.11: At the moment when the activities of disturbing forces can be felt in us, we should find a way to pause and think. (my translation from German)
Anna Trökes, Yoga- Weisheit, Kraftquellen für 52 Wochen, 2011
Sunday, 14
Cleaning and preparing the studio to let the Art Space in.
Saturday, 13
(from my notes) Yvonnes's Birthday ❀ ♥
Friday, 12
Today a hot desert wind is blowing. It makes me tired and sluggish. Or I'm still exhausted from the last training session with the women outside in the yard. I really wanted to keep up and didn't expect my muscles to ache for days. My body had been warm from my previous exercises, so I no longer noticed that I was actually overextending.
Thursday, 11
Yeah, today I've decided to terminate the contract for the gallery. It should be done 30 days in advance, today was the last day. We have to be out by the 13th of April. We'll move the Art Space to the studio at the House of Culture Tintinto - two in one then. I even plan to put a sign on the Coastal Road to make it easier to find. In addition, it is necessary to carry out waterproofing of the roof, which takes money and time. I hope it works with the roof over the roofterrace, so that we also have the opportunity to spend more time on the roof or even do workshops there.
Wednesday, 10
(from my notes) Chilling, not much going on at the Art Space, business is slow as the Gambians say. Will I be able to collect the rent for another year? I have to decide soon ...
Tuesday, 9
Yes, they found metastases in the liver. This means that there must be a malignant tumor somewhere else in the body. My father called me today. I asked if something could be done about it. With his typical sense of humor, he said, "Abwarten und Tee trinken," which means wait and see. They had just had their afternoon tea. And then he laughed. The laughter disappeared into nowhere, I could hardly understand anything. This time it was on the phone and I only heard a distant: Bye.
Monday, 8
(from my notes) At fb Art Space Group I posted a picture dedicated to my father because he chose it for his collection as he is also a kind of photographer. He was doctor from profession, from his heart and passionate about it. Now he can also be a patient, although he always looks at the examinations on his own body with the interest and perspective of a doctor.
Daniel Richter - The photographer, 2001, lithography, 59x42 cm
Sunday, 7
What worries me is my father. He'll be doing a computed tomography scan this Tuesday. Metastases in the liver and possibly in the intestines, as my sister informed me, are suspected. He told me that he would be pushed into the tube naked and then have to stay there for 20 to 40 minutes. For some, this time of being locked in is difficult. But I don't think that's a problem for him. We spoke on the phone earlier, but when I asked when the result would be announced, he wanted to end the call. I don't think he heard my question anymore. After the less than 10-minute call on WhatsApp, he was already too tired.
Saturday, 6
Stylo D Touchdown Live in Gambia at Qcity
Friday, 5
(no notes)
Thursday, 4
Many times in my life I have seen meaning change. I noticed, thought, and got excited. I don't mean that a red picture suddenly looked blue - even if that can be exciting as well. I mean the meaning of the content. At the same time, I never talked about it because I learned that there is only one meaning, or at least it should be. A meaning for now and forever. No discussions. Just as astrologers explain how the stars appear in the firmament, then paint a picture of the human character or try to predict the future. There are irregularities that they cannot be aware of. Therefore, in my opinion, predictions are questionable. The same applies to the climate. The climate on earth has changed constantly since the earth's existence. Of course, the climate changes with the people who belabour the earth in the name of development and within the framework of civilization. To what extent is another question, but it is likely that mankind, just like man is mortal, will come to an end at some point. But that's for sure, the earth and its people will always change.
No, I'm drifting away. I actually mean that the meaning of pictures or books or music should be understood in a cultural context. To connect it with prediction, I say that the meaning of a work of art is unpredictable. The meaning of the work of art at the time of production differs from that in decades or perhaps only years afterwards. Political changes, changes in fashion and design, economic changes, technical progress and many other attributes make a work of art that was already completed in the past appear different in a differently perceived present.
Wednesday, 3
(from my notes) I had already called in thought and postponed the appointment with the optician. But now I'm sitting here in the waiting area. It had been a sleepless night. Repeated problems with the pump spoiled my day yesterday. It wasn't the pump itself, but the coupling at the exit of the waterhole. In addition, the covering of the waterhole is a disaster. Nobody knows exactly how it should look and neither do I.
Tuesday, 2
In these days when we don't go to the gallery, I like to read in the morning. Today, too, I took the time to read a few passages. I read about her trip to Lisbon, where she went to Fernando Pessoa's personal library. With white gloves on, she leafed through books by William Blake, Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman.
I had a special dream last night. I had been in a kind of camp or workshop with artists, only women. I sat with two of them and we talked. I explained that I have been making art for over thirty years but have never really been successful. So, I said, I could kill myself the next day and nobody would care. At that moment the other two worried about me and tried to convince me that suicide was not the answer. Then I woke up.
When I was doing psychoanalysis, my psychiatrist (a Jungian) told me that every person who appeared in my dreams was myself. (I understand it as if my subconscious is the director of the actors in my dreams and the actors are all myself, in different roles.) Once when I asked her if I was a masochist, she explained that I wasn't. The reason she gave was that in that dream, when I was removing pins from my throat, I wanted to get rid of the pain. Masochists, on the contrary, like to suffer. In last night's dream, I tried to convince myself (I was also the two women) not to commit suicide. So I guess I'm not suicidal.
Monday, 1
Work of the month at Art Space: Head of a Girl by Otto Ruths, 1952, lithography, 64x48 cm
