Oh, Passion - where are thou?

Where is that deadly enemy,

that incurable insanity,

that curse, fire, Devil, power, tempest…

All forces of Nature and Man,

untameable, devouring, eternal…

Oh, Passion - where are thou?

They feed you with milk of their tenderness,

these civilised ones of this very polite world,

they know no life or death, love or hate,

dried leaves of expired flowers exist more than them…

Religions, indifference and cruelty as opiums,

Philosophy and Art as a moral ladder and a smoke-screen…

Has any human creature ever existed,

at least the way a rose or a horse happens,

or the way angels struggle to come to being?

It seems that by inventing God, Hell, Vacuum

and all these creations of genius and power,

that creature remains unborn for itself…

So, where is that fearless energy,

that audacious manifest of freedom,

that Heathcliff and Catherine, Faust, Hamlet,

that inhuman and real because of that,

degrading, devastating and redeeming,

Oh, Passion - where are thou?

This poem I wrote today (27/04) with a dedication to all these fighting to become less politely (read: cowardly, spiritlessly) ‘human’ and more authentically alive by finding and cultivating true passions.

Some benefits of keeping a ‘Studio Journal’…

• First and foremost - to keep work alive with thinking/reflection
• To preserve unique moments of a discovery
  
• To preserve equally unique moments of a struggle/crisis
• To learn from one’s own story
  
• To exercise an insight and self-recognition
• To learn self-discipline and persistence
• To develop skill in a creative/accurate writing

By “Studio Journal” I mean any form of a written record of one’s own progress/actions in an artistic studio (by ’studio’ I mean an actual workplace - wherever thinking/working takes place; it can be a gallery, trip, workshop, library). It can be kept in a form of a sketchbook, where drawings, work-samples, illustrations are included, however a special care should be taken for putting experiences into words… It’s slightly similar to maintaining a web-blog, however, more personal… It’s best rewarding when the discipline of regular notes (based on everyday, each two/three days frequency) is applied consistently.

I’ve been sustaining my own ‘Journal’ for a month as for now and must say - it’s got a power to surprise. I mean - reading my own two-weeks-old thoughts is sometimes like flying on another planet… But one important rule - one has to be honest - and a diary is a great lecture in honesty… On one day I wrote: ‘I’m not going to pretend that I have something interesting to say…” And sometimes is nothing more than that…

So, good luck with that - if you accept this challenge of mine…

Death as an eternal form of Art…

Back to Paris again…

Pere Lachaise is probably one of the most beautiful cemeteries of this world. Like a ghostly, melancholic city within the city, living its own dignified, mysterious life… Its ancient, highly decorative tombs, sculptures, corners and paths where one can easy spent long minutes lost in reflection… The history and spirit behind it… As a whole and in dozens of its aesthetically seductive spots it appears to exist as a perfect, frozen image of Art ‘par excellence’; frozen and devoted to dead ones - yet strangely alive with its inner pulse of a ticking clock - the one that ticks in us…

I hear you saying: “Let it all be, but - why - on Earth - to bother with that at all? ” The same question was in my colleagues’ eyes when I was leaving their joyful company to realize my plan of seeing Paris great graveyards. I came to the city of Chopin, Proust, Piaf, Delacroix, Sartre and others with a packet of candles having a strong notion in my mind that it wouldn’t be fair - not to visit them after all those incredible moments of spiritual delight and challenge their work has brought to my life… Just like seeing friends in a cafe-shop, where a table and a cup of hot fluid becomes a ground when one may build a bridge of communication and intimacy - the same happens when one treats a grave of someone loved as a vehicle of potential spiritual meeting…

Photos I made serve as an inspiration to celebrate death as the eternal form of art… Because life is art - just like everything else…

“That Youth of Ours”…

Legendary Polish cabaret “Piwnica Pod Baranami” (”The Cellar under Rams”) has his stage underground indeed - just under ‘the rams’ - under the very dignified part of Krakow’s main square. It used to be a truly magic place, in a cellar, lit by candles with an ‘extravagant’, improvised scene (that meant all sort of ‘found’ weird artifacts being put together without any rule, yet - it was brilliant). It happened that the most talented Polish poets, composers, signers had their “Piwnica” period - it was like a forge of genius - very often without any plan, scenario a group of artists would improvise in front of any public, often asking for a glass of vine in return… Beautiful women, charming gentlemen, gallons of wine, signing about freedom, passion, meaning of live… And all that ‘dissipation’ right in the middle of Communists’ concrete world - that was an immaculate miracle… “Piwnica”’s creator and the ‘main magician’ - Piotr Skrzynecki (above) belonged (he died in 1997) to the one of the most unusual people one can come across. Quiet yet charismatic persona without a home and family, a poet and artist himself, a perfect dreamer and ‘father’ to all those performing on his request. His motto: If you can make people laugh that they will forget being sad and that the world is an alien place - you will be redeemed just because of that.

Here artists of “Piwnica” with Halina Wyrodek as a soloist sign one of the cabaret’s unofficial hymns. Hymn of being always young… Lyrics adapted from Tadeusz Sliwiak poem of the same title. Music by Z. Konieczny. Great video by a youtube user: jurek46pink - Thank you.

This song is redeeming truly… It makes me think of people like Skrzynecki that angels exist, sadly - they  live too short…

That Youth of Ours

She can be found among pebbles,
In a brook rapid light,
She whisks along trees
And branches as squirrels,

She is a spark in a stone,
She is milk in a nut,
She is curious about the world
Like a copper coin in a money bag…

That youth of ours,
Of bones and blood,
That youth of ours,
Mocking at time,
That is always on a move…
She that happens for the first,
And then the second time…

That youth of ours,
That joyful time,
That pair of wings,
Folded inside us…

She is a flower in hair,
The first vinegar in apples,
And the bitter beer - head,
In a bustling inn of the world,

She is an unfulfilled rebellion,
That dies on a heart-attack,
She gives you only that,
What she takes away from others…

That youth of ours,
Of bones and blood…

Louise Bourgeois - Centre Pompidou 5March08-2June08

I am going to be a big advocate of this Bourgeois’s exhibition, and generally - her art. What I knew about this artist, before going to Paris, was shamefully little. I admired her insight when she made a reflection on the modern artist’s condition, and which thought expresses my own struggle - I’ ll repeat it with pleasure (since I’ve already quoted it in one of my posts):

What modern art means is that you have to keep finding new ways to express yourself, to express the problems, that there are no settled ways, no fixed approach. This is a painful situation, and modern art is about this painful situation of having no absolutely definite way of expressing yourself. This is why modern art will continue, because this condition remains; it is the modern human condition. (…) [Modern art] is about the hurt of not being able to express yourself properly, to express your intimate relations, your unconscious, to trust the world enough to express yourself directly in it. It is about trying to be sane in this situation, of being tentatively and temporarily sane by expressing yourself.

In Pompidou that ‘painful situation’ became a battlefield for anyone who managed to have even an averagely sensitive reception. Bourgeois’s work presented there is like one of her famous spiders: it’s quiet and unpretentious, yet gives you shivers from top to toe. Like a purebred horse - one may be a layman and in a hurry to see ‘the rest of Paris’ - but just has to sense the character, beauty and flair of this art ( ‘Art’ par excellence truly) and to admire it, even without any understanding. It consists of her early paintings and fetish-like wooden sculptures, then a series of absolutely weird and absolutely thrilling installation-like sets constructed out of huge metal cages, old doors and home objects, tapestry heads and clumsy-looking little pink rag-dolls… One had the impression of being unintentionally and undeservedly a participant in a poignant modern mystery play, which evokes images of sacred places and times when a smile of mum was like a touch of god and celebrating home-ness, sexual life, giving birth meant living to the point of a perfect communion with one’s immortality.

One piece possessed my imagination in a special way - Nature Study (1984-94) - middle-sized sculpture from a series of hybrids, Sphynxes and monsters. Not being able to photograph it I spent some time in drawing it, then I bought a postcard of it (photo presented to the right has been found on the Net). The headless animal-monster with two pairs of huge breasts, claws and a tail-like curled around genitals was meant to be a representation of the artist’s father - as she stated: As I was demolished by my father, why should I not demolish him?… This disarming honesty just put me to my kneels. What sort of a character, how many years of an inner struggle it takes to be able to reflect on so profoundly intimate, so traumatically hurtful matters in such a free-spirited way?

Anyone interested? Just go to see this compelling show.

Few not-modern notes on humanity…

Quite recently I’ve got an interesting, half-an-hour talk about nothing. It happened to be focused on modern art, modern human condition, place for beauty and ethics within it and, after making a heroic round in escaping its inbuilt vacuum it came to the point of an inception - to a rather corny remark that ‘nonsense’ seems to be a surname of today’s existence. How to make art in the modern chaos and to remain sane? Although Louis Bourgeois wrote in her painting that Art is the warranty of sanity she wrote also I’ve been in Hell and back, and let me tell you - it was wonderful. Going to Hell is the condition of the modern artist, whether s/he comes back and is ready to admit that it was wonderful is a quite another, usually very personal story.

Since my partner in the above-mentioned chat was far from being just an average, junior, intelligent guy who finds ‘fashionable’ to talk post-modern slogans (no matter how out of place they are), we’ve managed to make a way for some deeper observations. Yet everything seemed to slip through our fingers - any sense, any understanding of each other. Why is it so difficult to communicate on a level, where any social game must to disappear in the presence of truth? Why in the age of gutsy exhibitionism, omnipresent ‘display’ of human ‘values’ we are mute and/or extremely amateurish when it comes to formulate, understand and convey basic reflection on our existential condition? I wonder what was that ancient Greek spoke about, or people of 18th century France, or even contemporaries of Hemingway, Kafka, Dostojewski? Have they been taught the art of communicating oneself to others or maybe times they lived in encouraged it in the most natural fashion?

So we talked about beauty which became something terribly old-fashioned, neglected and misunderstood. After Picasso and the modern rest ridiculed classical rules of harmony and pleasure it seems to be quite trendy to make art that disturbs, wipes out smile and joy; art of dark colours, sad faces and deliberately nonchalant in appearance. Even if beauty occurs it’s very often accidental, has nothing in common with beliefs and aspirations of an artist. Majority of work in my college is like that, my own work oscillates between ‘blue’ and darkness of being alive here and now… What a waste of a pair of healthy hands. Why not to aspire to be the next Cezanne or Canova? Why not to aspire to make the happiest, the most beautiful paintings/sculptures ever? Why even these questions sound ridiculously?

It was the eternal beauty of art in Paris that grabbed my mind and heart. Who knows - maybe it’s the right time for a new Renaissanse, for rediscovering once again value and sense in our human condition? That could be even interesting…

Just for the classical taste, few shots of The Louvre’s treasures I took during my trip to Paris:

Paris, Paris (3)…

Today I would like to share my delight with you since, while visiting those marvelous Parisian museums, I’ve got a privilege and great luck to not only see Renoir, Cezanne, Matisse, van Gogh, Picasso, old Dutch or Italian Masters (and Others) ‘live’ but also to make detailed photos of them. The pictures came out really fine, I still see them like a sort of a revelation… One can never find fully satisfying reproductions of those paintings, which - on the other hand - seem to be familiar to us just like some family shots… that’s a sort of an obvious thing to admit. But, to meet ‘Them’ an eye-to-eye - just as they really are - it’s an unforgettable experience. You just know it, straight away, that despite ’seeing’ Picasso, Matisse or Leonardo dozens times in books, movies, slides you’ve never, in fact, seen them and that this is that very first time - when you make your way to them to face their formidable and beautiful presence. Above that, one has a glorious opportunity to observe and to document the technique, the actual colours, the brushwork - for a would-be painter it’s like to see a trembling heart in a human body for a would-be cardiologist…

So here they are, more or less (’perfectly’ is an impossible world to use) as I’ve seen them (click on those ‘cut’ by this page design to obtain the full view). Please note that I’ve edited the photos only in their ’sharpness’ to convey better the sense of an actual brushwork, I didn’t touch any ‘colour’ make up (some of the repro-s presented on the Net are terribly over-enhanced in terms of colours, brightness etc.) :

Paris, Paris (2)…

Five days passed since I returned from my first truly aware and art-focused trip to Paris and that place still lives in me as vibrant and beautiful as in reality. Just a bit above an hour flight from a quiet Irish city, from this still quite wild, romantic and half-empty landscape right to the utterly modern, imperialistic-looking metropolis - that was a sort of a cultural shock that I experienced. Right from an airport to a smelly, shabby-looking Metro station, and the commuters appearing to be like zombies in a panic-run - just cutting the space in front of them without the slightest care for the others. I merely managed to make a thought: ‘Oh, c’mon - slow down people’ when I was forced to join them in order not to be stampeded.

But quickly Paris revealed its innate pure magic due to my evening visit to the Montmartre district - those little streets, fancy displays, romantic candles-lit restaurants, then people engaged in making ‘live’ art right on the footpaths, ambient lights, locals lost in their lazy ‘carrying on’ (since their finished their daily ‘job&metro’ battle), angelic songs sung by the Basilique du Sacre Coeur nuns and - above all - that difficult to define yet quite intense ‘flavour’ of the French-ness around… Delightful melody of the language, proud presence of those dark-haired, pale, strong-minded individuals, elegance and superiority in architecture and decoration, charm and challenge. Yet- without being naive or all-too-positive - ‘French’ experience is probably one of the most commercialised, over-priced phenomenon of this world. French charge you for the air you breathe in, for the privilege of walking their streets and visiting their businesses, they charge art students for seeing the masterpieces (which belong to the human race in general) in the public museums, quite often they serve imitations, fakes and simply kitsch as a ‘Parisian’ treat. But - let’s just forget about all that…

On one day I’ve been caught right in the middle of a street protest, hundreds of very young people dressed mostly in dark clothes (seem to be all-national fashion) with banners and flags seemed to advocate their right to a better education. I was thrilled by an immense energy and power of that crowd - power of showing discontent, even anger without the slightest pretense or an attempt of a self-creation. One could just feel it - they sensed injustice so they got together and filled up the streets shouting their: ‘Resistance’! ‘Resistance’! mantra. For some strange reasons I couldn’t imagine similar thing in Ireland, or in many modern European cities, even in those with rebellious history, like some places in Poland are… It seems to remain an uniquely French privilege - to exercise the public freedom of the 60s-like expression of ‘No’ on almost daily basis without losing anything of their superbly contemporary spirit.

P.S.

To avoid a cheesy relation I will split it up in few articles. All photos presented have been shot by the author with Canon EosD between 08-12 April 2008.

Paris, Paris…

Just a quick ‘Hello’ from one of the cultural centers of this world. Paris exists to blow your mind away no matter what   time the grace of fate directs your steps here… Paris is the modern civilization embodied. It’s extremely busy and sophisticated, smart and beautiful; yet at the same time it can be cruel, indifferent and even inhuman… Parisians appear to be just like that - determined and self-confident,  looking  just gorgeous in their favourite blacks and greys… But - there is something deeply sad in the air where they stop for a moment (like in a Metro or in a cafe-shop) - they look lost, pale and withdrawn. I wonder if Sartre conceived his existential ideas looking at them… You have to be here - to reach the social, cultural roots of this philosophy to experience more or less the same what its ‘fathers’ went through. At it can be scary, I must say - in Paris - this enchanting modern jungle - you make a wrong step and you are in a big trouble - you are obliged to live - to really exist, be alert, be aware, be smart - live to the point of a discovery, to the point of an authentic ‘wake up’, to the point of tears if you need them…

Next time I hope to include some photos. Salut!

Studying art - Diary (6)

Second term of the second year is no more… it’s ceased to be, passed away and gave up its ghost. We - majority of students - are emerging from it like from a tough, inequitable battle, some with bruises and scratches only, some with deep wounds, nobody unaffected. The truth is that nothing could have prepared us for weeks and months of a constant spiritual self-vivisection being done under penetrative supervision of people, who visibly enjoy turning upside down our shy, shallow, safe, self-indulging worlds. Nobody had sent any warning in an advance, no red flags appeared before we - a naive bunch of ‘talented’ ones - have entered for good the challenge of art studying and making.

Hardly anyone has ever suspected that it’s going to be so tough, so courage and spirit - demanding, so nerve-wracking. Our gentle, always-confident and intimidatingly knowledgeable tutors have been keeping ‘chats’ with us… smiling and nodding, yet silently requiring the truth of us… The truth of a discovery of whom we are and why do we pretend to be somebody else, why do we run away from what’s really important… And we have been obliged to dare to question everything what has been said and done, but considering all that what I’ve just written, most of us kept on flashing through the corridors and studios like damned spirits, fleeing ourselves.

What did I personally learn during those stormy months? Here are some of the valuable experiences I put into a brief ‘manual’ of how to deal with art studies:

• do not treat art as a substitute for the lost/dead God (whatever he/it appears to be), as the magic ‘filler’ to load your spirit-less world with transcendence and meaning… do not use it as a replacement for anything and anybody (that you lost/never found) - allow it to be on its own, for its own sake - DO RESPECT IT, do listen to it, do love it - it will (hopefully) reveal itself to you. And take all the responsibility it requires for its constructive development.

• do care about your viewer, even if s/he reminds you ‘that third one’ in a bedroom of lovers… I’m having an enormous problem with that: why should I care about an anonymous crowd? Those intelligent, sensitive enough will know without me being concerned and having them on my mind… But - it doesn’t work this way and your genuine care about the viewer, his/hers emotions/being just has to be included in the process of art making. Again, respect, com-passion is an answer.

• do take care about yourself, being too tough/too indulgent for one’s artistic progress is quite popular among art practitioners, keep your goals impossibly high, but your rational sense and playfulness even higher; self-confidence is everything in this business and train yourself to be really brave, as courageous and spirited as you can afford… If you’ve never felt scared to your bones due to your conscious choice to challenge somebody/something that means that you haven’t tried enough… I smiled with surprise being called ‘gutsy’ (must confess - my nature is that of a very shy little girl whose only instinct is to run away) since I’ve been just doing what was needed to be done for the authentic sake of my art… so, whoever really cares should find just enough strength.

My thanks, again, to my tutors - Catherina for your sensitive, so constructive presence, Sue for your cold warmth and because it’s so difficult to trust you, James for your energetic challenge, Simon for being so beautifully unusual… My admiration and gratitude to you, my friends/colleagues - Carmen, Jeremiah, Jason, Juza, Kiara, Lucille, Martin, Nicola, Paddy, Pam… - your are all a bunch of the great ones…