Filed under: X
In the old days it was me and my notebook. Nowadays, it’s me and my laptop. A new generation is bringing up well-behaved, silent babies, who obey orders and keep people connected. This generation goes to coffeeshops instead of playgrounds. They buy soft and waterproof sleeping bags for the laptop and carry it around in a specially designed pushchair. They say buy to the interface late at night and wake it up first thing in the morning. They keep an eye on it constantly – now it needs battery, where did the internet-connection go, oh, I have to clean the screen. The baby gives them everything; editing tools, writing programmes, entertainment, music, films, news, creative possibilities and inter-connection from every wireless spot in the world. And maybe most importantly, the laptop gives this generation an identity of independence. Or?
Filed under: Beirut
(the following was written on the last day of the Lebanese election. I happened to write in Danish and have decided to keep the original version. Apologies to non-Danish speaking readers)
23/11/07, kl. 12-13.00
I dag er sidste dag af valgperioden i Libanon. Jeg sidder i solen på min balkon i centrum af Beirut og har lyden af nabomoskeens minaret og larmen fra de syriske bygningsarbejdere i ørene. Mænd og unge drenge kommer gående fra alle hjørner for at samles til fredagsbøn på terrassen af moskeen. Der er ikke mange kvinder i gadebilledet. Jeg har også valgt at blive inden døre. Mit ophold i Beirut er helliget research i libanesisk samtidskunst og det center jeg dagligt arbejder i ligger meget tæt på Downtown Beirut, hvor valget i dag skal foregå. Faktisk ligger centeret omkring 200 meter fra Hotel Phoenicia, hvor mere end 40 parlamentsmedlemmer har opholdt sig under skarp bevogtning den sidste måned af frygt for at blive assasineret op til valget. Der er nu 12 timer til parlamentsmedlemmerne skal have fundet en ny præsident og oppositionen har meldt, at de ikke vil møde op til forhandlingerne i dag. Ekstra knuder bindes på en temmelig uløselige situation, som ingen kan spå konsekvenserne af.
Asfalten foran moskéen belægges nu med grønne og hvide tæpper, terrassen er fyldt af mænd. Så mange mennesker plejer der ikke at møde op. Der holder et gult og et blåt folkevognsrugbrød ved siden af. De tilhører moskéen. Normalt associerer jeg folkevognsrugbrød med skandinaviske hippiefamilier på køreferie i Østeuropa. De er forbløffende langt væk nu og jeg griner lidt af kulturclashet. På sin vis er det rart.
Den sidste uge har været meget anspændt. Alle frarådede folk at tage til Beirut og hvis de gjorde, så skulle man ikke “cirkulere”, som de sagde. I søndags indtog 30.000 politi og militærfolk byen og tanks og checkpoints blev hverdag. Jeg tror ikke, at jeg nogensinde har set en kampvogn før, men nu, kun 6 dage senere, er de allerede en del af gadebilledet, som jeg ikke mere lægger mærke til. Der er 3 kampvogne i gaden lige foran vores hus. Og der politimænd på gaden, afspærringer og en hel masse venten. De står der, dag ud og dag ind. Parat til at blokere for ind- og udkørsel af byen, hvis ‘det’ skulle ske. ‘Det’ som alle venter på og som ingen ved hvad er. Borgerkrig, bilbomber, optøjer. Der angst under overfladen. Den kommer frem i meningsløse diskussioner i trafikken og øget salg af anti-depressiver.
Fredags-talen er netop slut. Den virkede roligere end den plejer. Der er stille nu, for der knæles og bedes. Flere folk kommer stadig til og må sidde på asfalten. Tæpperne er nu også fyldt.
Min bofælle er lige kommet hjem. Hun fulgte vores anden bofælle ned til Downtown. Han er pressefotograf og har fået adgang til parlamentet. Der var fudstændig øde i Downtown, sagde hun. Alle butikker er lukkede, køretøjer har ingen adgang og der var militær på hvert et hjørne. Hun har aldrig set så mange maskingeværer på et sted før! Hun er tysk aktivist og har boet i Palæstina i flere år, også i perioder med udgangsforbud. Jeg er spændt på, hvilke billeder han kommer hjem med i aften.
Vi tænder for BBC. Bomber i Nord-Indien, bomber i Baghdad. Og nu, Beirut, der er små chancer for at løse landets krise, siger korrespondenten. Konflikten er den værste siden borgerkrigen endte i 1990. Der er kun få timer til at finde en løsning, men vi følger sagen som den udvikler sig løbet af dagen, siger nyhedsværten med britisk accent; ”And the dollar is now…” Videre til næste nyhed og vi lytter ikke længere efter. Fokus er forbløffende meget rettet indad mod Libanons navle, Beirut.
Der er noget som jeg beundrer ved Beirut. Folk har en utømmelig vilje til at fortsætte livet. Byen har en karisma, som folk udefra også støtter op om. På trods af dommedagstrusler har der de sidste to uger været fulde huse ved byens to kulturfestivaler. Hver aften har der været dans, performance, filmscreeningerne og teater. Kompagnier fra Tokyo, Belgien, Tunesien og Rio. Det er imponerende, at contemporary dance kan samle næsten 500 mennesker i en krise-by som Beirut, når Dansescenen i København mange aftener besøges af måske 50 mennesker. Er det eskapisme, flygter folk fra en hverdag de ikke kan holde ud? En hverdag tynget af en situation, som de ikke kan påvirke, men som deres liv og drømme er afhængig af. Måske derfor er der et kulturelt drive blandt folk, en vilje til at gennemføre og ikke aflyse planlagte festivaler, blot fordi de falder sammen med et udskudt og umuligt valg. Som en af organisatorerne sagde, “Hvis vi skulle udskyde hver gang, situationen var ustabil, ville vi jo aldrig kunne gennemføre noget. Vi fortsætter, så længe de udenlandske performer tør komme til landet. Det er meget modigt af dem.” I morgen ankommer Anne Teresa de Keersmakers dansetrup fra Belgien. De skal performe på søndag. De har hele tiden været mit håb. Hvis Anne Teresa de Keersmaker kommer til Beirut for at performe, så tør jeg også være her.
Så er bønnen ovre, folk rejser sig og spredes til alle sider. Der er roligt i gaderne. Er det stilhed før storm? Eller skal vi endnu engang igennem en udstrakt og slidende venten? Tror jeg vil gå ud i byen, man bliver sindssyg af den her form for påført lammelse. Det er en angst, som man ikke ved er berettiget eller ej. Min mor har lige haft ringet. Aldrig har hun fortalt mig så mange gange før, at hun elsker mig. I dag begyndte hun også at græde. Det skal nok gå, sagde jeg, jeg passer på. Vi har et netværk af folk, der sms’er, hvis der er steder man ikke skal bevæge sig. Men der er intet at være bekymret for, der sker ingenting. Sådan prøver vi i hvert fald at overbevise hinanden her. For ingen ved noget som helst. Og hvorfor så vente i ukonstruktiv angst?
20.40
Mirene kom lige forbi for at sige farvel. Matthew fik en besked, der er skyderier ved Cola bus station. Vi tænder for Al Jazeera. State of Emergency, siger de rullende tekster i bunden af skærmen. Det er kun en trussel. Præsidenten har givet militæret magten. Mirene og hendes ven skynder sig ud ad døren. Vi når at omfavne hinanden, længe, tårer er på kinderne. Hun rejser i morgen tidlig kl 5.00, hvem ved hvornår vi ser hinanden. Hvis hun kan forlade landet. Vi får se. Fra nu er der kun venten.
On Wong Kar Wai’s The Hand (2004), a short film out of three in the portmanteau film Eros.
She gratifies him.
(gratify • give (someone) pleasure or satisfaction • indulge or satisfy (a desire))
She gratifies him with her hand. Their first meeting takes place in her home, the place where she receives her lovers. She is a courtesan in the 1960’s China. He is a tailor with a lot of talent. That is why he is sent to the courtesan; to let his talent unfold. She asks him to undress and satisfies him with a quiet intensity. With her hand. His face is expressing pleasure and pain.
(pleasure • sensual gratification) (pain • physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury • a feeling of marked discomfort in a particular part of the body • mental suffering or distress)
He continues to make her dresses. She continues to ignore him. He desires her. More and more. As she keeps him distant. He longs for a sensual touch. Replaces her body with her dresses. Pays all his attention to them. What he cannot give her in terms of touch, care, kisses, intimacy and lovemaking he gives to her dresses. He knows her figure, her body. Every inch is his territory – but only when measuring her. When he leaves her house, she becomes the territory of other men who desires her.
(desire • a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen • strong sexual feeling or appetite)
Eros is sexual love or desire. In Wong Kar Wai’s The Hand eros seems to be both. Desire and love. Desire exists alongside with a love, which cannot be fulfilled. She’s a courtesane and he is a means for her to maintain her clients because he accomplish her beauty by impressive tailored dresses. This is where the economy is clear, it is an exchange of dresses and money, gratification and talent.
(talent • natural aptitude or skill • informal people regarded as sexually attractive or as prospective sexual partners)
The exchange is clear in the beginning of the film. “Give me your hand,” she says, while she gives him hers. She touches him to give him pleasure. Thereby she keeps his desire for that moment intact and his hands cannot but keep on making her new and always more beautiful dresses. She is aware of this, so she keeps him distant while loving his tender touch.
Towards the end the give and take is more ambiguous. He refuses her money and he doesn’t want to accept her offer of paying him back with sex. Still, she gratifies him once again. With her hand. This time the glamour is gone; she’s dying in a cheap hotel room, sick from chasing client in the streets at night. They touch each other, simultaneously, but she cannot return his kisses because of her state of contagiousness.
(contagious • (of a disease) spread from one person or organism to another by direct or indirect contact)
Her decline as a courtesan is the moment where the love between them can be fulfilled and their hands can meet in a mutual touch. But this moment also marks the impossibility of fulfilling their love. She is dying.
(dying • on the point of death)
What is left is the touch of their hands. His hands; measuring her body and touching her dress as a substitute for her body. Her hand; the shared memory of her initial touch.
(touch • (come so close to (an object) as to be or come into contact with it)
And then he comes back to the tailor office. He has said goodbye to his her. His face is expressing emptiness when the master asks him, if he has finished the dress for a Lady Liu. He doesn’t answer. This woman seems of no importance to him and therefore the dress as well. There was something particular to the woman of the hand. Something which made the exchange and the talent provoked from it show other levels of value not transferable into money.
(value • the regard that something is held to deserve; the importance or preciousness of something)
What she feels is not easy to know. Desire and love. Desire or love. Desire, love and necessity. His love last. It became her only hope.
(hope • a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen • a person or thing that may help or save someone • grounds for believing that something good may happen)
Filed under: Dagens ord / Word(s) of the day
“According to researchers at Rutgers University, New Jersey, (female, my comment) feminists are happier in love and better in bed”
“In addition there was a consistent evidence that male feminist partners were healthier for women’s relationships.”
The Guardian Weekly 23.11.07, p. 25
Let’s do a correspondance.
Let’s take a firm grab around one another and begin a lettered pas de deux.
Let’s not dictate our body of work.
Let’s let the gestures move from one to another through the rythm of breath.
Let’s invite correspondance partners and do a pas de trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.
Let’s wear pointy shoes, red shoes, working shoes, slippers and have bare feet.
Let’s correspondance in the streets, on roof tops or red carpets – with and without an audience.
Let’s do a talkative tango, a fabulating folkdance, a spoken samba and a written quickstep.
Let’s look each other in the eyes and then, let our touch decide the direction.
Filed under: In the mood for
…is from our first ‘let’s go for a drink’. It is here as a reminder of the red wine. The red wine I spelt on my dress. It makes me recall the moment, a moment with you.
I keep it on my dress – although the pink Vanish! Stain Remover don’t like our mess.
It’s hardly visible, but people notice. It’s there on the right thigh, pling, a dot in a moment. Dripping from the glass.
Filed under: Kunst / Art
The following was made during a workshop in dance criticism in Beirut. We had to review several dance pieces during DBM Mediterranean Dance Meeting. It was a really good festival, which I enjoyed a lot. I had, though, problems with one piece, which I was asked to review. It was Until the Dust Settles by Art and Movement Company.
My main problem was how Until the Dust Settles was aimed as a re-interpretation of the The Hours. This was audible from the music and visible from the scenography, which mimed a specific scene from the film. As such, The Hours played an important role as the inspiration for the choreography on stage.
The Hours is a re-interpretation of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway made into three interwoven stories of three women, who fight with life and their situation of being a woman at a specific time during the 20th century. The theme of suicide is present all the way through and one will know, that the internal fight of these three women is related to political, cultural and social issues.
In Until the Dust Settles we follow an old woman and two younger women. The young women function as a pair, they often dance in synchrony and towards the end, they push the older woman around. The older woman is almost powerless, her role on stage is weak as she doesn’t express much more than being a representative for another generation than the young women. She seems purposeless both in terms of her dance and in terms of narration. What is her struggle? What does she represent that can relate her to the very intense and serious issues at stake in The Hours? What justifies her being on stage?
I also had to question the role of the young women. They were dressed in brown, black and beige. They had long hair, really long hair, which was thrown around as much as it could be during the choreography. Their lack of identity, of particularity was clear. They resembled nymphs in their role of being young women, who flickered on stage as stereotypical (blank, beautiful and emotional) women.
What was unfair to Virginia Woolf and to The Hours was exactly the lack of particularity. Virginia Woolf wrote her novels with a historical and personal specificity, which gave her oeuvre such a powerful proficiency. It is exactly because of her strength in being specific in her narrations, that Michael Cunningham can write The Hours (the book, which the film is a making of). He can take the situation of a woman in the early 20th century and trace her story through other women in despair up until the end of the century.
If one decides to take The Hours as point of departure, one has to be extremely careful. The Hours is grounded in serious issues of women’s situation, which have been negotiated during centuries. If one wants to continue this fight by using the tradition of it and the result is the three women in Until the Dust Settles, I would rather be without. The three women in Until the Dust Settles didn’t say anything with their expressions, that would add to issues evolving around being a woman. On the contrary, the overtly feminised women seemed to put the situation at least 150 years back.
If Virginia Woolf is still the strongest even almost 100 years later, why don’t we stick to her writings, gain from them what we can gain and by then, let our beauty as women with long hair be accomplished by the beauty of words that matters, words that pushes us in new directions and adds to our situation?
This was my reason for reacting on Until the Dust Settles with the following comment. My comment was found offensive by one of the workshop leaders (from Portugal) and thereby not suitable for publishing at the homepage of the conference. The other workshop leader (from Spain) reacted the complete opposite way, he found it generous, clever and exactly the way one can (inter)act as an art critic. One does not always have to describe, then analyse and finally contextualise the piece. One can also comment back in subtle, yet powerful ways. Maybe the reader doesn’t understand everything at once, but later, as he said, people will realise what’s at stake and that’s where it becomes interesting: when one’s actions keep lingering in the mind of the readers and where the action adds to the piece instead of flattening it, simplifying it or criticise it to pieces.
Of course one has to be careful, when one interacts with an art scene, with which one is not 100% familiar. In Lebanon the dance scene is still stumbling. And this was the reason for the festival – to make a platform for dance through practice and research. The aim was to “create, research, explore, experiment, document, criticise, provoke, share, discuss, interact, exchange and make a clear decision.” This was exactly what my respons did. I chose a moving and remarkable piece of writing by Virginia Woolf herself as my only comment back. The excerpt touches upon family relations and how to grow from having experienced deep sorrow and death (also the main themes in The Hours):
IF YOUR HAIR IS TOO LONG and TOO MUCH OF A BURDEN, TRY THIS:
(On Until the Dust Settles by Art & Movement Company, 9. November, Al Medina Theatre, DBM Mediterranean Dance Meeting. By Sidsel Nelund)
“It is true, I do not want to go back into my room at Hyde Park Gate. I shrink from the years 1897-1904, the seven unhappy years. Not many lives were tortured and fretted and made numb with non-being as ours were then. That, in shorthand, was the legacy of those two great unnecessary blunders; those two lashes of the random unheeding, unthinking flail that brutally and pointlessly killed the two people who should have made those years normal and natural, if not ‘happy’.
I am not thinking of mother and of Stella. I am thinking of the damage that their deaths inflicted. I will describe it more carefully later, I will illustrate with a scene or two.
Without those deaths, to hark back to an earlier thought, it is true that she would not have been so genuinely, though dumbly, bound to us. If there is any good (I doubt it) in these mutilations, it is that is sensitises. If to be aware of the insecurity of life, to remember something gone, to feel now and then, overwhelmingly, as I felt for father when he made no claim to it, a passionate fumbling fellowship – if it is a good thing to be aware of all this at fifteen, sisteen, seventeen, by fits and starts – if, if, if –. But was it good? Would it not have been better (if there is any sense in saying good and better when there is no possible judge, no standard) to go on feeling, as a at St. Ives, the rush and tumble of family life? To be family surrounded: to go on exploring and adventuring privately while all the while the family as a whole continued its prosaic, rumbling progess; would this not have been better than to have had that protection removed; to have been tumbled out of the family shelter; to have had it cracked and gashed; to have become critical and sceptical of the family –? Perhaps to have remained in the family, believing in it, accepting it, as we should, without those two deaths, would have given us greater scope, greater variety, and certainly greater confidence. On the other hand, I can put another question: Did those deaths give us an experience that even if it was numbing, mutulating, yet meant that we were been taken us seriously. I would stage a conflict between myself and ‘them’. I would reason that if life were thus made to rear and kick, it was a thing to be ridden; nobody could say ‘they’ had fobbed me off with a weak little feeble slup of the prescious matter. So I came to think of life as something of extreme reality. And this of course increased my sense of my own importance. Not in relation to human beings; in relation to the force which had respected me sufficiently to make me feel ground between grindstones.”
Excerpt from Moments of Being by Virginia Woolf.
Filed under: Kunst / Art
It’s time to vote! Do it for Airplay, do it for me. You decide, but please vote:-)
We’ve been nominated as the best art experience in Copenhagen. And we think we are! Why? The only non-profit, permanent outdoor exhibition space for digital arts (this goes for the whole world, as far as we’re concerned). No money speculations, just challenging exhibitions and performances open for everybody.
So… no excuse, here comes the link:
It’s easy to make an account and you may win a nice trip.
(For non-native Danish speakers to fill out the form: Write your internet-name in the first line. In the next line you write your name, next line your surname, next your cellphone number, next your email and then a password. The column to the right is only for Danes…)
Filed under: Dagens ord / Word(s) of the day
A pessimistic Gustave Flaubert in a letter correspondence with an optimistic George Sand:
“In spite of your large sphinx eyes, you have seen the world through gold colour”
Vigdís Finnbogadóttir (the first woman in the world to be elected the head of state in a democratic election and a proud redhead) told a teenager 9 years ago; be happy you have red hair! It means you see the world through gold.
