ELLIPSIS


I am not submitting
June 26, 2009, 9:45 pm
Filed under: Kunst / Art, Santiago stories, bla bla on writing and language

I have known about this competetion for months. I have known what I wanted to write about. And now, in the last hour of submission, I must admit that I have not done the job I should. I am not submitting.

If I won, I would receive more than 13 months of minimum wage in Chile. So why did I not just write it? Well, I did. I did my research, interviewed the artist, took notes, wrote a draft, and a second draft. And still I did not write, not for real.

Excuse number 1:
I did not find the exhibition I really, like really, wanted to write about.

Excuse number 2:
The exhibition I really wanted to write about was not fashionable and famous enough.

Excuse number 3:
The exhibition I wanted to write about would never win a competition like this.

At the end of the day, I am in the wrong part of the world, not finding the perfect exhibition. I can place all of the guilt on that. This city, this country is behind in the race of contemporary art, running on the same spot of latinamerican art, doing the same steps over and over again.

Or, at then end of the day I was in the wrong part of the world, a part that care about itself, its own problems and ways of expressing, obeying to the new, to innovation, and at the same time to forms, ways of doing artwriting about the new, that might in fact just be the same, as always.

And now, at the end of the day I am in a café, not finding the space in me to obey, either to this or to that, but to myself. And my own writings. And maybe this is where I want to be, for now, until something else passes by and things appear, things that complement, rather than contrast.



Queering – or what is queer, on what terms, and because of what, the fish?
June 3, 2009, 9:16 pm
Filed under: Kunst / Art, X

IMG_2328

Since Gavin Butt gave his talk Should we take Performances Seriously? at the PSI 14 conference in Copenhagen and since I saw the nutrition guru Anne Knudsen Larsen on the front cover of the Danish weekly Søndagsavisen I have been thinking; which one of these moments of “kissing fish performance” is most odd?

IMG_2484



But how she looks like my mother
May 29, 2009, 4:40 pm
Filed under: Kunst / Art, Santiago stories

princess_soraya_esfandiary_life_story

So, we are watching this Antonioni movie, I tre volti. She looks like my mother, as young. We’re in an auditorium. There’s a cat on the floor.

It’s her lips, the lower one is ”dripping.” She’s calling her mother, she asks her to come. She’s alone, perdida en el mundo, sentimentalismo puro (a mí, no funcione). She asks her to come. In German. She’s a young German girl in Italy trying her way as an extra, as an actress.

The quality is bad, there are no subtitles. But how she looks like my mother.

”Why are you suspicious, I have the impression that you are very cold? Why do you want to be an actress?”

After the film he talks about participation, about a moment of fascination between a public and 3 melodrama actors. They believe, the public. Like my sister. We once went to a theatre to see Medea. When Medea killed her to kids, raised the theatre knife and stabbed them, my sister screamed. She believed. Her husband, a film director, always says she’s the best public ever, because she really believes. Yesterday she had her second kid and she never watches the tele at night in order to sleep undisturbed by the reality the tele brings her.
- – -
Neorealismus – that the actors participate. The moment where the actors believe, act what they are acting – or the other way around.

The gesture of pointing to the screen and saying to his wife; ”look, look, look what’s gonna happen!” Cada vez – otra vez, it happens again for the first time.

We don’t just perceive fictional worlds from without, we live with them, sharing their sorrows and joys. We are perfectly aware they’re fictional, but from within they look real.
- – -
Now the cat is cuddling his leg.
- – -
El participación en la obra del arte es constitutiva. The artwork exists in this tension, in this difficulty of being within these two, inside and outside, real and fictional, of being constitutive.
- – -
Ambigüedad con el arte
- – -

(Inspired by the lecture “Quasi. Antonioni y la participación en el arte” by Alex Düttmann at Universidad Diego Portales, Santiago)



I Wanted to be Lost in Focused Intensity
May 28, 2009, 9:53 pm
Filed under: Dagens ord / Word(s) of the day

12.35: Hans Ulrich Gumbricht quoting (whom I heard to be) Pablo Morales. Universidad Diego Portales, Facultad de Comunicación y Letras.



I love you badly

Listen

There he was, again: ”You can do better than that. Bring interesting thoughts to the fore. Don’t think you have to please people.” This time we were sitting on a terrase viewing Valparaiso at night. I had invited both of them for a Pisco Sour. I looked at the lights, the sea and the dark reflections moving in the cold summer wind. Soon it would be autumn, in April. This was just another thing I had to get used to; inversion of rythms that meant clashes and conflicts between my body, it’s stubborn habbit of orchestrating itself by seasons, daylight, weather. Now I could only submit and it, my body, didn’t like it.

urbano

I registered his presence next to me, how he was attentive for an answer, or more, a response. ”But I cannot do that, you cannot expect me to be clever on behalf of being displaced, uprooted.” … ”I’m exhausted, I’m trying, but I really don’t know what to do. I can only register, I can only take in; I can smell, look and listen as far as my body lets me do it.” … “And just to let you know, to register is a phenomenological methodology; always first register. And this, I want to follow.” (1)

Now our voices were loud, in front of us was a smiling face, a smiling, but investigating face. What are they doing, why are they word fighting? Why this clash?

vogn1

Today, I learned that ”soy” does not only mean I am in Spanish, but also spoken word and woven material in Dogon language. (2)

Yesterday, a woman told me she by chance had read my story on returning to Denmark. She really liked it. It made her hair rise. ”It’s Sisi who’s writing this!” She didn’t know I liked to write. Or, like to write.

garn
That’s another thing. I’m learning a language. A new language. One day I wrote in my diary: ”Today I said the rr-sound correctly for the first time.” I felt like a baby registering its own first word. It’s on this stage I find myself, like a fragile being without words in a new world. How does he want me to reflect, to bring interesting thoughts to the fore?

What felt in the fore, in front of me, was a wall. I met it everytime I went out. ”So, what are you doing here?” ”Do you know Spanish? Oh, you’re learning. You really have to improve your Spanish to get somewhere.” (I know that, I’m not stupid, why do you think I’m spending my savings on private lessons?) ”What would you like to do here?” ”Oh, you came here because of love? I suppose that’s good, I mean, or what….” ”Do you have any plans for your future?” (What do you think yourself, I do, of course, but how can I make plans in a situation I cannot control, a situation I don’t know?)

stole

One night I told someone that my future doings would not only depend on me, but also on the place, Santiago, my new city. She got aggressive, it did not depend on the place, but on the attitude. One can make it everywhere, it only depends on one’s attitude. I retrieved from that discussion. Didn’t care and didn’t dare. Too much, just let me be, don’t look at me, don’t reflect me, I don’t want to face myself.

Today, an other woman told me: ”There’s a difference between seeing oneself as a link in the net and being subjected to comparisons of oneself to others.” (3) It helps me to retrospectively answer back that other woman, the aggressive one. I don’t want to compare myself, “to make it.” But maybe this is what people see in me, a Western woman coming here to make it?

emmigration office

Traditionally, I cannot be an other woman as I’m from the West, from Europe. I have red hair and milk white skin with a bit of freckles. I cannot be Other. My body tells the world so. And yet, I feel so other, so otherly other. It’s nice. And it’s completely horrible – like when the nasty speaker in the conference wants secretely to know about that wonderful woman in the back. Viejo verde (4) was a clever response of an other older woman. She’s been in the business for some years. She has found her way.

job

This is what I’m trying to do; find my way. I get small confirmations on the way. Like reading this sentence: ”To be an other among others can be a profoundly transformative experience.” (5) This is what i want. I want to be transformed, I want to experience, to live and to love. And this is what I am doing, what makes me so utterly happy. But also what rubs off so otherly many sparks, so much heat that it’s not only nice and warm, but hot like hell.

-

It was today he played the song that said I love you badly. We were sitting in the same room in front of each a table. Writing and reading. Concentrated. The refrain made us look at one another. This is why we’re here, we’re here because we love, badly, too much. We sleep close, we eat close, we bike close, even our desks, our books, our clothes want to be close.

vogn 2

And here we are, now, again, he’s looking at me, with a smile. An investigating smile. Why is she so concentrated, what is it that she’s writing? He hasn’t known me always, he’s still learning. But he knows. He approaches me and kisses me. Just in time, at times, I guess. (6) Outside, Santiago is turning dark, the cars are flickering together with light from commercials. Champagne and socks. The Madonna is still there, on the hill, holding her hands over the city together with the 80’s cell phone shaped building. We have to finish, we have to go out there, to become embraced by noise, smell, pollution and the many encounters, between people, in nets, among others, among each others. Once again, I ask the tissue of neighbourhood to grasp me when I’m falling. I think it likes me, I think it’ll grap me, rescue me and give me a hand everytime something pushes me over the limit. Up, again, we’re here, we’ll hold you, as you’ll hold us.

kys

1: Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. London: Routledge, 1992, p. viii: ‘It is a matter of describing, not of explaining or analysing.’
2: Minh-ha, Trinh T. Woman, Native, Other. Bloomington: Indiana university Press, 1989, p. 128.
3: Minh-ha, Trinh T. Trinh T. Minh-ha’s Films Featured at Documenta. An interview with Trinh T. Minh-ha and Genevieve Shiffrar. June 26, 2002. Page last visited May 10, 2009.
4: Viejo verde means an old man who likes young women in Chilean slang.
5: Minh-ha, 2002.
6: Bowie, David. “Cygnet Commitee” in Space Odity, 1972.



transition and what place does to you; the “in” and the “out” of art scenes
April 16, 2009, 4:31 pm
Filed under: Kunst / Art, Santiago stories, notes on cph

The fifteenth of January 2009 Sisi moved. From Copenhagen to Santiago de Chile. One month and five days before, on the tenth of December 2008, Sisi attended an art event in Copenhagen and got photographed by the local “talk of the town” art organ, Kopenhagen.dk. One month and 25 days later, on the 12th of March 2009, Sisi got photographed by the major Chilean newspaper El Mercurio at an art opening.

Sisi in Copenhagen, Denmark
Sisi in Santiago, Chile

In Denmark the local newspapers do not have pages of “who went to what opening” paid by the hosting exhibition/gallery space. In Chile the local art scenes do not have homepages with small talk photography, interviews and a weekly calendar made primarily by young volunteers.

K, a friend and artist of Sisi, recently moved from Copenhagen to Beirut. When flickering through a kopenhagen.dk “small talk” with photographs from an opening in Copenhagen she felt ambiguous; on the one hand she couldn’t see herself in a Copenhagen art scene setting, on the other hand she felt anxious from being deleted from the Copenhagen “picture,” from her root. Looking through these photographs of a Copenhagen art life evoked a feeling of rootlessness. In what image did she belong?

Are belonging, photographs and imaginary images connected? If they are, how is one’s belonging related to art scenes and their economical structure of visually choosing, photographing and displaying the people of this art scene? How does one engage with art scenes and their visual gossip organs, whether being private, state and volunteer funded or being capitalistic and neoliberal?



Seven Songs
November 19, 2008, 6:51 pm
Filed under: Kunst / Art, bla bla on writing and language

Check the new SUM #3 magazine for contemporary art – an international magazine in danish and english published by U-turn Quadrennial for Contemporary Art and the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts
this time the theme is on re-enactment and i’m participating with an article on Black Audio Film Collective/biography/re-enactment.
the magazine is available in selected bookshops and museums.
enjoy!



Hvad ellipsen slugte / What the ellipsis swallowed

Hvad jeg gerne ville skrive om på bloggen lige nu:

En intro om at læse en intro, der udreder et kludret og endeløst forgrenet stamtræ, som vokser og vokser og bare bliver ved og ved og er kortlagt bagest i bogen, så man bladrer frem og tilbage og repeterer på vejen, men forstår kun lidt – min intro ditto.

Om det hemmeliges potentiale som værende det ultimative skabelses-frirum i en kunstnerisk kontekst

Om Walid Raad, “performance as faith” og Raads fascination af enkeltpersoner i historien.

Om at vågne op og ikke vide hvem man er eller hvor man er, men være sikker på, at det er juleaften.



Love is a labyrinth of misunderstandings whose way out doesn’t exist

“If you play me, I’ll play you” is a sentence I still haven’t understood. It appeared in a talk by artist Hassan Khan at Homeworks IV in Beirut last April. It was just a sentence in a sampled pop song or something like that – but it has kept lingering in my head. Like a play back system. Now, reading an interview on love with the psychoanalyst Jacques-Alain Miller I’m wondering whether the sentence might be a synonym for a psychoanalytical understanding of a love relation between two people. Jacques Alain Miller says that one loves the person that can answer the question: “Who am I?” and it means that one has to acknowledge one has a lack that the other person can fill. As such, one is also dependent on the other person, which is why some people become aggressive from love – it’s difficult to admit one’s dependency and thereby one’s independency.

If you make me play, press the magical play button that make my self sing on all of its strings, then, I’ll play you(rs).

Ocean's Thirteen and a love dilettante in a screen. Flying to Beirut 24/10 2007

Ocean's Thirteen and a love dilettante in a screen. Flying to Beirut the 24th of October 2007



blog/ck
October 2, 2008, 1:00 pm
Filed under: The Love Libration Movement, bla bla on writing and language

Today, I was chatting with my friend M, who also has a blog. Or maybe I should say; Today, I was chatting with my friend M, who also has a block. A writers blog/ck. A couple of hours later I received this email:

Sisi
chatting with you today, I had the idea of writing in the blog about resistances and voices, intuition, breath. Is there a nice passage on the voice that I can have a look at? There is the Michel Serres book here, Genesis, going to have a look.
bawse from the office
Miro

I answered:

yes, i have something for you, i’ll scan it, kisses, s

I went upstairs to the scanners at my university and there I found two pictures with their white back facing me. I decided to scan them without knowing what they depicted – it may be a sign!

It was not, or maybe it was. A sign of campus life and a happy youth; snapshots (or not, it was paper photographies) to be send to friends or family abroad.

cut

The passage I wanted to scan for M is from The Black Beach by Edouard Glissant. I hadn’t been thinking of this text for two years until i read the words resistances and voices, intuition, breath in M’s email. I hope the silent ghost on Glissant’s beach will provoke some thoughts. They both gave me a reason to post a block.

(I imagine two young women (one at the corniche in Beirut and one on the beach in CPH) walking in resistance and silence, listening to the breath and voices of the sea)