J'ai ecrit "Chère sœur". Puis, pensant que cela avait une connation trop familière, trop intime, trahissant une volonté de créer une complicité artificielle, je me suie rabbatu sur un "Chère Sarah", plus neutre.
Simon Njami, La Mécanique des souvenirs, p. 186, Kindle Edition
this hesitation between sœur and Sarah reveals how delicate the boundaries of intimacy can be—how a single word can shift the distance between two people. it reminded me of my own sister. whenever i visited her, or when we spoke on the phone, i would hear her say to her boyfriend, "My sister is here," or "I'm talking to my sister right now." each time, i felt slightly alienated. why didn't she say my name? it sounded as if he didn't know who i was by my name. yet it wasn't about him—it was about her way of situating herself.
saying my sister was, in a sense, drawing me closer to her while at the same time pulling me away, as though i existed only in relation to her. the possessive my made the connection personal, but also proprietary. sister defined the kinship. it affirmed closeness while creating distance.
this tendency wasn't unique to her. it ran quietly through our family. my father often referred to his own relatives in the same way—"my brother," "my mother"—rather than calling them by their names, as we do. and it always made my mother slightly tense, the language of possession can subtly exclude, even within the most intimate bonds.
in a way, the family map explained it. my father had fully integrated into my mother's family. his parents lived somewhere in england, his sister in thailand, and only his brother remained nearby, sometimes dropping by unexpectedly and paying us a surprise visit. those unannounced visits were a reminder that language and belonging aren't fixed—they shift depending on who is near, who is far, and how we define our closeness.
if i remember correctly, my mother was not enthusiastic about these visits.
perhaps that's what Moïse (the narrator in Njami's novel) expresses in his hesitation: the uncertainty of where we stand with one another, and the quiet realization that every word—even a greeting—carries the weight of our emotional geography.
20071231 Casamance, Senegal
i discovered the existence of Simon Njami's book La Mécanique des souvenirs two weeks ago. since then, the book has accompanied me like a quiet undercurrent. my intention was to write about it only after finishing it, but halfway through, i can't hold back. it moves me deeply. the text resonates with my own experience of living in Africa—that shifting tension between proximity and distance, between belonging and estrangement.
i often experience what he calls le décalage—that misalignment between where one stands and where one belongs.
Déjà le décalage que j'avais ressenti à mon arrivée s'estompait. Le pays essayait de me dire quelque chose. Et je crois que je commençais à l'entendre. Si la matière de l'écriture ne réside sans doute pas dans ce que l'on note, mais dans tout ce qu'on oublie, je suis en bonne voie. Je réinvente mes souvenirs, les adapte à mes désirs.
Simon Njami, La Mécanique des souvenirs, p. 178, Kindle Edition
Njami's idea that writing draws its substance from what is forgotten, not only from what we record, opens a new way of thinking about memory. it suggests that memory is not a fixed archive but a living material—something we shape, bend, and transform.
reading La Mécanique des souvenirs here, amid my own surroundings, i realise how memory is conditioned by place. the Africa i inhabit is not the same as Njami's, yet through his voice i sense a shared movement: the negotiation between inner landscapes and external realities.
Njami is not only telling his own story but also helping me to read mine. yet, as he writes, "the gap I had felt when I arrived was fading. The country was trying to tell me something. And I think I was beginning to hear it." he names something subtle: the slow moment when a foreign place stops being just "elsewhere" and starts to turn towards you, as if it recognizes you all of a sudden. it's not about belonging in the conventional sense, but about entering into a conversation with the landscape, the people, and one's own memories.
Njami's book is less an autobiography than a meditation on identity as flux, on how identity is constantly being rewritten. his "mechanics" are not mechanical at all; they are human and fragile, built from loss, imagination, and desire. to read him is to be reminded that our stories are never complete. each day rewrites them, balancing what we remember against what we let go.
Sunday, 19
in the morning, i'm not allowed to ask anything. just serve.
there must always be a mission behind everything we do.
what is the mission?—the question returns each time i suggest an action.
the idea of simply enjoying something, taking a moment for ourselves, doesn't fit into the framework. except at night, when we go out for party. but a simple walk on the beach—what's the point?
pleasure without a deeper purpose seems suspicious.
it took a lot of persuasion to make this weekend possible. it was about a change of scenery, to be more fit to start the following week again. yet even that—rest, recovery—needs to be defended, as if it were an indulgence rather than a necessity.
anyway, we finally made it, and for me, it was a bliss. now that i'm back, i feel very refreshed. next time i'll go alone again for a week, that seems more appropriate.
Saturday, 18
we're in Kololi, treating ourselves to a break and enjoying the Dolce Far Niente.
the heat makes our bodies feel heavy.
across the courtyard the children play on the veranda. they are loud again, their voices echoing. when i was here longer, the screaming gave me a headache. now i don't care.
the smell of freshly baked cake wafts over—soothening.
amazing how a scent can enliven the senses.
i think of everyone who bakes. a quiet kind of generosity.
nothing for me anymore. i wouldn't like the smell if i baked myself. i used to, as a teenager. later, sometimes, too, but that was years ago.
i'm glad others still do it.
Thursday, 16
i wonder if the nature of an experiment must justify its steps, or the act itself as a whole.
in my current work, i deliberately chose the colours blindly—without reference to colour theory or preconceived harmony. the intention was to let the process decide, to discover what would happen if i surrendered control.
at times i'm afraid of the outcome—as if the painting might reveal something i didn't mean to show. or that something might occur, like a crooked line, a collision of tones, that i wouldn't usually allow to remain—an imballance i would normally correct.
perhaps this discomfort is part of the truth. it confronts my own aesthetic expectations and questions the boundaries i have built through habit and preference..
the justification of the experiment does not lie in order or reason, but in its authencity—in allowing the painting to become what it wants to be.
when the work feels stronger than me, it begins to speak its own language. it takes on a life of its own. that experience is not entirely new. in earlier paintings, i also sensed unpredictability. the transformation from photo to drawing has always carried uncertainty—the movement of the pen could never be fully anticipated. yet, in this current work, uncertainty itself has become the subject. the focus is no longer on translation, but on the random encounter between colour and form.
Tuesday, 14
IN THE GYM
words fly like birds
twisting through the music
i move alone
some work in groups
their laughter weaves
a net i cannot enter
i walk
as if in a bubble
sometimes i drop
a phrase like an anchor
a moment of ease
newcomers stare
their gaze too long
difference is a stranger
still, i train.
that's how i get through
that's why i come
from somewhere behind
a voice claimed:
he is collecting paper
it stuck to me,
light as a feather
sharp as a beak
i
don't know who he is
nor what paper means
but the words won't leave me
unless i bring them
to let them go
over the years, i've met a few of white european women living in gambia. about half have carved out lives of success. most of these have been around for twenty years or more, building thriving businesses and establishing themselves firmly. the other half, newer arrivals, live differently. they drift like beachcombers, fallen for or hanging out with beachboys, surviving more than living, drawn to freedom rather than structure—dropouts, in a sense, from the world they left behind. sometimes trying to gain back what they had been taken from.
i came here with a plan, a vision rooted in art and culture, after much preparation and reflection. and yet, sometimes i wonder if, in the daily unfolding of life here, i am moving closer to the second group—not by conscious choice, but because circumstances make the familiar frameworks of the Western world feel distant and irrelevant.
rural gambia reshapes intentions in subtle ways: the rhythm of life, the available structures, the social expectations, even the pace of days—they are all different from what i knew before. it's not merely a matter of material success; it's a question of identity. how do i define myself between these two models: the long-established, business-oriented women, and the free-floating wanderers? i am neither and both. i am creating something meaningful, but within a context where familiar rules of recognition and progress do not always apply. perhaps it's less about moving toward or away from western norms, and more about allowing a third identity to emerge—one shaped by this in-between space i inhabit. structure and purpose remain, yet the form they take has adapted to the surroundings.
Sunday, 12
i came across the word immaculate and realised how unfamiliar it feels to me. i never use it. perfect would be rather my word of choice—though, i rarely encounter anything that could be called immaculate.
we spent the afternoon at the beach. it was beautiful: the sand, the sea, the calmness of it all. last night, rain poured down again, heavy and steady. the puddles in the streets are overflowing once more. they say the climate is changing, that the rainy season now stretches into october. the october used to be dry before.
Saturday, 11
i'm undecided about how to proceed.
the third step isn't complete, yet my thoughts already move beyond it.
perhaps this is part of the process itself—one gesture still forming while the next begins to imagine its own arrival.
creation never happens in sequence; it spills forward, overlaps, anticipates, as if the work itself were thinking ahead, imagining its own continuation.
i'll probably connect the inner pieces next.
i know i'm speaking in riddles, but that's how it is when things are still in becoming.
once the picture is finished, it will show what i try to explain.
for now, only the words can stand in its place.
i had considered reducing the spaces between the pieces to the colours of fire.
the inkjet prints of the fire have remained part of the whole, faintly echoing their source, as traces of something that once burned.
yet when i made the draft, the result felt too warm, too natural—too obedient to what fire already means.
i'm searching for something that radiates, that projects energy outward rather than absorbing it.
probably a pause will be needed after this third phase.
not as delay, but to let hesitation be part of the experiment—a moment of quiet in which the work itself can speak,
and i can listen to what wants to happen next.
Friday, 10
here and then i feel the wish to speak about my experiment.
i think that belongs to the nature of an experiment. sharing is part of it, like exploring what is happening and encoutering different perspectives— before it is fully understood. only through dialogue, even with oneself (like i do) does the process reveal how it might continue. yet speaking about something still in motion risks solidifying it too early. the unfinished gesture should remain unbound when exposed to someone's gaze.
language leans towards definition, toward coherence, while an experiment thrives in uncertainty, in the vastness of what cannot yet be clarified.
there is that fragile instant between sensing and naming, when things are still forming, undecided.
once language enters, the fluid begins to settle; outlines appear, meaning starts to lean toward conclusion. still, the wish remains—to see whether uncertainty can survive in words, whether vagueness can persist once spoken.
the talking is not outside the experiment at all, but part of it. another gesture within the same field of exploration.
Thursday, 9
lately, i've been experimenting with abstract painting by choosing colours blindly, without intention, without meaning, yet even in this attempt, a sense of inevitability emerges.
the phrase Das ist so vorgesehen came to mind. each colour began to feel strangely predetermined, as if it had been waiting for me, already arranged somewhere in advance.
Vorgesehen literally means "foreseen," but in everyday german it sounds final, administrative. it doesn't suggest possibility; it closes it. when something ist so vorgesehen, it is not to be questioned. one's only task is to follow. there is no space left for improvisation, it has been seen already.
in the studio, i recognize that tone of quiet insistence. even when i try to act freely, meaning seeps in. even when i attempt to let the work decide, something in me insists that it was always meant to happen this way. creation, i realise, is never free from what is already seen—only a negotiation with it.
perhaps that is what vorgesehen truly exposes: between freedom and predestination lies a space of gestures that feel both inevitable and accidental, as if the future had glanced back at us before we began.
Wednesday, 8
the following phenomenon somehow shaped my life:
i feel guilty when i do what i like.
it's as if joy needs to be justified. a part of me believes that pleasure must be earned. whenever i follow what gives me pleasure or meaning, a voice inside whispers:
do something harder, more useful, and less selfish.
as soon as i enjoy myself, i start feeling uneasy, asking whether what i am doing is wrong. but when i push myself to do what i don't enjoy, i feel like i'm being good, useful, and disciplined.
i do understand where that comes from. i learned that being loved or accepted meant being responsible, helpful or good. pleasure was a luxury, not a right. enjoyment came second. culturally, i absorbed the idea that self-denial is virtuous, and that ease means laziness. comfort or joy seemed suspicious. (the time i moved to Gambia i declared i was leaving my comfort zone)
i've carried a deep empathy for others' suffering, feeling that my own happiness somehow betrays them—which is even a lie. my allegedly suffering won't help people in need at all.
i learned to measure my worth through effort and sacrifice.
i carry an invisible loyalty to others who have struggled more. i often think,
who am i to rest or enjoy myself whilst others can't?
these thoughts have kept me from allowing myself a peaceful mind, as well as from things that bring me alive—art, beauty, curiosity, rest.
i want to unlearn the idea that suffering makes me good and pleasures make me guilty.
i want to give myself permission to do what i love—not as a reward, but as nourishment, as a natural part of being alive.
from now on, when the guilt shows up, i'll name it without obeying it. i'll remind myself that the rule "you must earn joy" is no longer true. i'll let pleasures coexist with responsibilities—doing my artwork even when chores wait, resting even when my mind protests. smiling without apology. hopefully with time, i am able to make space for both responsibility and joy, without feeling like one cancels the other.
Tuesday, 7
Oliver Stone's documentary on the Palestine/Israel conflict (2003)
People Non Grata
Monday, 6
yesterday, on the road back to Tujereng, someone waved from a passing car. it was cousin A. i asked whether i should stop, but the familiar answer came: you are driving. the decision was mine, though it seemed to carry no particular meaning.
A greeted my partner first. from there, the exchange unfolded mostly between them, in their language, which i don't understand. i followed the words like a hungry dog, alert to their rhythm but starved of meaning. their conversation drew a circle that closed just before me. i stayed where i was, listening to sounds without context, aware of how smoothly one can disappear from a scene while still standing in it. when something came to my mind i spoke it—just enough to break their flow and show i was still part of the group.
i mentioned Fireman and how we had shaken his hand the night before. A had been to a party in Sita Joyeh near the village of Kuloro, which had been great. yeah, i remembered hearing about that event.
when the talk turned to cars, i said i was not sure whether it made sense to buy a new one—that the price might equal five years of taxi rides. and the old one is still running. half in jest, i added that i might die soon anyway. A replied that wouldn't matter; i could leave the car to my partner. the sentence landed lightly, without cruelty, yet with the indifference of habit—as if my existence were already a matter of inheritance.
later, the topic shifted to visas. A stated it would be easy for me to arrange one for my partner, since he had already been to europe once. i mentioned that i had inquired at the swiss consulate at Yosh restaurant in Bakau New Town, and that the procedure was the same like before. my words made no difference. facts had little to do with the kind of conversation they wanted—affirmation and male understanding.
the talk seemed to confirm a natural order: that decisions should be mine in form, yet not in weight; that language could run its course without me. by the time we said good bye, i had grown accustomed to that small, familiar position—visible yet secondary—a presence acknowledged at the edge of things. when we finally drove off, i felt neither anger nor surprise, only the faint awareness of a pattern repeating itself.
Sunday, 5
last night we went to another party—a birthday celebration at Sunsplash in Brufut. Fireman was playing again, though this time his set was early and brief. Smokie, a young artist from Brufut whom i met when i lived there, was also performing. it was great to see him on stage again. we met many old friends, and it was pure fun catching up with everyone. the sound system was excellent—warm, groovy, and perfect for dancing. by 4:30 in the morning, i was ready to go home, happy and tired.
this morning, i met a neighbour on the stairs. she told me that she is originally from Somalia but lived in the US for a long time. we had a lovely chat and exchanged contacts. what a joy to start the day with such a friendly encounter.
Saturday, 4
Of the trio Damas, Césaire and Senghor, it has been said that the last is more of a "theoretician" than his companions—that he takes up for himself the construction of exactly those things which Césaire does not want Negritude to be: a metaphysics or a conception of the universe. For Senghor, there exists an Africanity as real as the material objects it has produced, which are, before all else, its works of art. These objects speak a language to be deciphered and they manifest an ontology that is consubstantial with the ontology of traditional religions. Senghor claims to have experienced this language, this ontology and the traditional religion of his Serer homeland and, in his poetry, he speaks of it as the "Kingdom of Childhood." This is not simply a poetic topos with no reality beyond that of a nostalgic evocation, from exile, of home as a mythic elsewhere. This kingdom is, one could say, a Platonic Idea, more real than reality itself and which reveals itself in certain encounters. For Senghor, Africanity is thus necessarily something more than a figure of dialectic—the negation of negation—a simple moment bound to disappear in the next synthesis.
Souleymane Bachir Diagne African Art as Philosophy: Senghor, Bergson, and the Idea of Negritude (pp. 26-27). (Function). Kindle Edition.
i wrote about Senghor’s understanding of Negritude last month, but i want to return to it here because Diagne captures something essential about the philosophical depth of Senghor’s vision. what strikes me is how Senghor refuses to let Negritude be reduced to a phase of reaction or resistance. Diagne highlights Senghor's effort to ground Negritude in an ontology rather than in a reactive cultural position. Africanity, in this view, is not a temporary affirmation within a historical dialectic but a metaphysical constant expressed through art and spiritual experience,. Art becomes the medium through which this being manifests, not as representation but as revelation. Senghor's thought invites us to see African art not as cultural evidence but as a mode of knowledge, one that articulates existence itself. by linking aesthetic production to ontology, Senghor situates African art as a philosophical language—one that reveals being itself rather than merely illustrating identity.
in this sense, creating—or even perceiving—art becomes a philosophical act: a way of listening to what the world already knows about itself.
Friday, 3
At times I do feel like a snail who has lost his shell. I have to learn to live without it. But when I stand still, I feel claustrophobia of the soul, and must maintain a vast switchboard with an expanded universe, the international life, Paris, Mexico, New York, the United Nations, the artist world. The African jungle seems far less dangerous than complete trust in one love, than a place where one's housework is more important than one's creativity.
Anaïs Nin, Spring 1955, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5 (1947–1955), p 237
Thursday, 2
we’re both in a kind of denial, each of us avoiding what lies just beneath the surface.
still, we’ve returned to the gym, picking up the rhythm of training again. there’s something reassuring in the repetition—the movements, the sweat, the discipline.
it feels like we’re building strength not only in our bodies but also in the parts of ourselves we’d rather not face directly.
Wednesday, 1
Art Space Work of the Month
Pidder Auberger (1946-2012), Untitled, colour relief print, 1990, 49,5 x 37,5 cm