The reader should always be aware that the entries in this blog, which often deal with occurrences of everyday life, give the impression of corresponding to reality. But they always remain a text, a written word, and thus an abstraction from something called reality. Misunderstandings and interpretations are inherent in the transformation of what should be mediated. A novel, for example, sets a story that the reader follows. Depending on the authors, but mostly easy to comprehend. Nonetheless, the fantasy playing out in the reader's mind will differ from what the authors envisioned before they put their ideas into words.
El Anatsui Blood of Sweat 2015
Aluminium (Liquor Bottle Caps) and Copper Wire, 330 x 280 cm (ref)
at Dak'Art 13, Dakar 2018
Thursday, 23
Of course, there are also great male artists: El Anatsui.
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I know that I often write about myself. Even if it's about a topic other than myself, I'm quick to relate it to myself, even though it has nothing to do with me per se. I then build up a relationship in order to be able to contribute my personality. Like yesterday, when it came to disregard for women artists, I immediately got down to my personal story. Well, this is a diary, so I'm taking my liberty, but I'll restrain myself if necessary.
Decades ago, my brother asked me if I had learned to control my emotions. I still don't think I have them under control. So many things go through my head uncontrollably that I have to conclude that I'm not really in control. To quote my psychiatrist again, she once mentioned that I was too outgoing. I think I believed the session was to explain myself. Later I learned to withdraw and keep things to myself. With which she had achieved her goal. In fact, it's often helpful if I don't say what I'm thinking, preferring to let the thoughts through a filter before revealing them. She insisted on an analysis where I had to lie on the sofa and describe the dreams I had the night before or others I remembered.
Tuesday, 21
When I imagine that only in 1999 a woman occupied the German Pavilion at the Venice Biennale for the first time, I understand why it was difficult for me in the early 1980s to get artistically acceptance at Art Academy. My mother - even she is a woman herself - advised me not to become a musician or painter on the grounds that I should consider the history in which only male luminaries were succesful. I wouldn't have a chance. Unfortunately, I was not fast enough to name Frida Kahlo, Meret Oppenheim and Virginia Woolf as examples to proove the contrary. I think I was just disappointed and let my head hang. Nothing of the fighter nature that I later became. Indeed, at that time there were only male professors and we women were not really respected. They played with us, but seriously promoted the male students. Today, when I read this in the e-flux newsletter about Rosemarie Trockel and her labeled cups in the Fridericianum Café, I could hardly believe it. A lot has changed in the 20 years since then. Fortunately, women are much more represented these days and I now regard it as normal to find a large number of women at all exhibitions. Just think of the last Biennale, where the vast majority consisted of female artists.
Tuesday, 14
Well, now at the following morning, everything is covered with dust again. Everything I touch feels dusty, including the keyboard I type on. It penetrates through all the cracks, after all, closing the doors is not what makes the difference. I have no choice but to start the day calmly. Actually, we had planned to go to the GRA in Kanefing to renew the road tax for this year. That has now been postponed to tomorrow. I'm considering cycling to the bakery to buy bread or serving porridge for breakfast. I'm undecided.
my valentine
Most of the time we don't use a lot of words and that's fine as such. But when it comes to decisions, it's up to me. Additionally, I like to accompany my actions with words that describe what I am doing or will do. However, I've been trying to break this habit since a while to make our life more comfortable. But having had this habit for as long as I can remember means having a hard time. Thoughts keep inside going nowhere. That is not so much my style. I am a talker, I like to talk. It's not entirely clear to me where the need to explain myself comes from. I think I'm looking for the certainty that what I'm doing is right. Probably it is related to a lack of self-esteem and a strong belief in having to do the right thing. That mistakes are not so easily forgiven. My psychiatrist told me at the time that it was because of the relationship with my mother, which is also the reason for my love difficulties.
Yes, communication can be difficult. Of course I know that and at large it's going quite well, no quarrels, no sulkiness. But I could imagine it differently, togetherness accompanied by verbal communication. On the contrary, every word I say seems to be too much, words fall into the void. So I had to learn to keep my mouth shut so as not to get frustrated. Yes, communication can be difficult. It works well as long as nothing is in the way. When our life follows a pattern. But as soon as something changes, it becomes difficult precisely because we are not used to talking about it. Then we are at a loss. It's then up to me to gather myself, which I usually do in a Zen Buddhist work, until I'm ready to suggest what we can do together to overcome the problem. When I then find and offer multiple solutions, the most common response is: anything, which means I can choose whatever I want. I even say that this answer doesn't help me at all, but it doesn't evoke a reaction either. I should decide and give clear instructions. But that's not the way I prefer. There should be an exchange of views to come to conclusions. Neither tells the other what to do without an opportunity to question it. I'd rather walk hand in hand where we feel each other than trudge blindfolded one by one.
Monday, 13
Today I learned to close everything in the future when there is a lot of dust. Already in the morning he said that there is a lot of dust today. Okay, I said to myself, we've had this before, nothing new. But I'm telling you, it was almost a sandstorm. Ignorant as I was, I opened the studio door as usual, as well as the living room area, all of which is now covered in dust. My head was crooked all day, I couldn't concentrate on anything and finally opened a bottle of wine. Now that I've written this, I can dust it all off. Ahoy!
Sunday, 12
Almost two weeks and no words, no pictures. Why don't I have the urge to produce like a good artist is supposed to do? Is it due to depression? No, I really do not know. What I know is that I keep thinking about this phenomenon of inactivity, but that I'm still not getting to the point. Thinking about it doesn't make me more active, which I actually hope. But most of the time the thought just stops and something everyday distracts me from continuing further in that certain direction. If I see through myself, I can set the decisive movements in motion. But well, that doesn't seem to be the case. Because I am not able to activate the shaping of probable decisions. Of course, like today, it's so simple: I said to myself, sit down and write something and then you'll get in the mood. That's how it usually is. Get over your weaker self and get started. But only the wish to write was there, a topic was missing. Nothing, only the subject of the object itself. Of course, I also have beautiful inspirations. Most of the time they go just as quickly as they come. And yet capturing these is so crucial to start working on something. Everyday chores necessary for survival, such as gardening or housework or shopping go well though (unless you want to indulge in a state of neglect, because then nothing goes anymore). The reward is obvious because you have managed to master your life, which is absolutely not to be scoffed at. But everything that goes beyond that and is not in demand becomes heavy as iron. Precisely because resistance has to be overcome, not much other than the mechanisms that can be observed in physics. Further, the idle question about the sense of the doing. Does it even make sense? This question is the absolute brake when it comes to tackling something. If you spend too much time thinking about doing something, it means you are fifty percent predicting you won't do it. waste of time.
Wednesday,
1
Today I was glad to discover that names or terms I use here in this blog are not found by the search engines (probably because I use frames). I find that reassuring. In fact, what I write stays more in the context of a personal diary, like in times without the internet. Also reassuring in that I don't have to worry about anyone being flattered or offended by finding themselves here. They only find themselves here if they really engage with the diary, which means that they can comprehend the nexus.
Art Space Work of the Month
Jean Baptiste Mondino
Veronica Webb for Azzedine Alaïa, 1987, photography