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Nadia Naveau

Nadia Naveau

Nadia Naveau

Text JF. Pierets     Artwork Nadia Naveau

 

I’m going to start with a quote by Ai Weiwei: “Being an artist is not a job, it’s an identity”.
Definitely! From the moment I started at the academy I noticed that sculpting was very demanding on both a physical and a psychological level. This has never diminished. I very much like what I do, but a large percentage of my practice involves – let’s call it ‘suffering’ for lack of a better word. You can’t underestimate the hard work involved in a creative process. Maybe it has something to do with my perfectionism and the way I always seek to surprise myself. I am able to make large and complex series like Salon du Plaisir – but then I have to change everything and make it challenging again. I want to keep finding things that I don’t know yet. I want to keep on being amazed. Those steps can be very small, and they may not even be noticed by the public, but for me they are very important. That’s the thing I’m pursuing. That doesn’t mean it always works out. So when it doesn’t, I’ll feel unhappy and unsatisfied. But when it does you have the feeling that you can literally do anything. It’s a never ending circle which I’m quite familiar with by now, but when I was younger I definitely considered giving up art and starting a day job.

Can you describe what you are looking for? 
That’s difficult to explain because in the first place it’s about a certain tension between shapes, between abstract or organically formed elements. I’m also looking for surprise. I’m always curious and never satisfied with things I already know. I keep searching for the new. Although ‘searching’ may be the wrong word because I have the feeling that I bump into things. They’re just there when I need them. When I’m in this creative flow, things come my way. Those things can be very banal. It can be a color, a shape, or even a chip of wood from a chair. Everything automatically makes sense and comes to terms with what I’m working on at the moment. I know it all sounds a bit abstract but it makes sense in my head. I guess you can compare it to a jigsaw puzzle where every piece automatically leads to the big picture.

If you say you want to surprise yourself, does that mean that you never know the outcome?
Not always, no. All the images in my mind translate into the clay as some sort of collage. Sometimes I don’t know where an image comes from, yet when the piece is finished and I start talking about it, spend time with it, it all matches up. It all becomes clear. I notice I keep on fostering connections between what I did before and how I can make it more abstract, or make a different version of it. Every piece is a step forward to the next one. Even little things like collages or pictures I make, are a prelude to the piece that comes next. My intuition is often faster than my interpretation or reason.

What makes you go to your studio every time? 
Discipline and action. When I’m – for one reason or another – a bit rusty, I start making things through boredom. Things I know, things that don’t take any effort. I start sculpting Nick (Nadia’s husband, painter Nick Andrews), which gets me going most of the time. It’s all about doing things. I get a lot of inspiration from magazines, from traveling or design, but in the end you just have to start and see where it leads you. However, I’ve also learned that it’s not bad to take a break every now and then. Especially after an exhibition when it’s important to wind down. And even when feelings of guilt start to kick in, I always acknowledge the value of just doing nothing for a while. Sometimes you just have to let go.

Some African languages don’t have a word for artist, but translate it as magician: someone who puts magical powers into an object? What do you put into your work?
I have the feeling that I literally put everything into my work. And since I often cannot recall how I’ve made something, the fear of not being able to do it anymore lingers once in a while. Even when everything always works out fine, I cannot say that the process is obvious. It’s a huge contrast to when I’m feeling confident. The greatest moment is when you feel that everything connects, when you are in the middle of this creative process where all the pieces come together. Then I can even say that I’ve made the best thing I’ve ever seen! This doesn’t mean I’ll have that same feeling the next day, but it’s a good start. It’s an addictive feeling though. The adrenaline you feel when you’re on a confidence high is great. It’s very empowering. Enough to keep me going through the tougher times. Thankfully I’m able to put it more and more into perspective because absolutely no creativity comes from being in a negative loop.

Do you see the world differently as an artist? 
Probably. But I have difficulty saying so because to me it sounds very pretentious. But there is indeed a big difference between how I view the world and how, for example, my parents are experiencing it. Maybe that’s what they call ‘a trained eye’? However, being a good artist is not only about how you see the world. It’s not even solely about talent. You also have to be determined. And be disciplined. Without lapsing into a regular pattern. Because then you stop evolving. An art collector once told me that he kept on buying my work because he loved to see how I was evolving. And how he always stops buying pieces from artists who’ve become predictable. That was one of the biggest compliments I’ve ever gotten.


‘I like people to experience what they think and feel for themselves. Art opens people’s minds.’

How important is acknowledgement?
Very. I don’t think I could be the kind of artist that only creates without showing it to an audience. I’m happy to have the possibility to exhibit and enjoy the fact that people are seeing what I’ve done. It’s also very nice that after all this time of solitude, you get to put your work out there. It can be very rewarding.

Is it important that people like your work? 
I’m quite sensitive about it but it doesn’t guide me. Otherwise I would still be doing what I did 5 years ago. But I do feel good when people like my work. When I’m in my studio I’m on such a different planet that there’s not a thought in my mind about pleasing my viewers. However, I find showing my work in a gallery pretty stressful. You’ve given it your very best and all of a sudden people have an opinion about what you’ve been doing. It’s very confrontational stepping from your studio into a place where all of a sudden you’ve become someone with the intention of doing business. I think the art world has evolved in such a way that it’s necessary to step fully into the process of both creating and presenting. And since I’m very bad at the business side of things, I’m very happy that I have a gallery that takes care of this.

When did you start calling yourself an artist? 
I still don’t. It feels weird. I always say I’m a sculptor. I think that covers it. This is a conversation I often have with my students: it’s the difference between being an artist and artistic practice. I don’t think it’s the same thing. For me, being part of the art world is called artistic practice, which doesn’t necessarily mean that you are an artist. Obviously I want to be part of that world, yet I don’t want to be swayed by it. It’s not what makes you an artist.

I don’t often read about or hear you explain your work. Why not? 
I always feel that it doesn’t matter. That it isn’t necessary. I find what people say or write about my work more appealing. Although often surprising, I find someone else’s interpretation very interesting to think about, as opposed to when I talk about it myself. I don’t have the feeling that me talking about it adds any value. Maybe it’s because explaining your work ends the conversation. I like people to experience what they think and feel for themselves. Art opens people’s minds. When I started at the academy I found that it made me wiser, more grounded. And going to a museum often has a very big influence on the way I think. But this is what it does to me personally. When it comes to other people I do hope that my work makes people think, that it has a certain impact on how someone sees the world.

Does art have to be socially relevant?
There are always issues popping up along the way but my first reaction would be to say no. Not necessarily. Someone can view a piece of art as ‘just’ appealing. It’s not easy to say that nowadays, but I do believe that. However, a good work of art mostly contains all those qualities. Depending on the place and time where it’s created. It’s significance can even grow, becoming symbolic over time. For me it’s more important to make a balanced work than to make a point. Beyond the aesthetics, it’s important that the image is accurate. Like a painter who finds his balance with color, or a musician finding the right notes. For me it’s playing with forms and shapes.

How does it feel to live with another artist? 
Honestly, I cannot imagine not living with an artist. If you’re together for more than 20 years, like we are, you grow together towards new things. You experience transformation together. Also, I couldn’t do without his feedback. I don’t like to have people in my studio when I am working, but it’s very important that Nick drops in because he instantly feels what I’m doing. Often it’s about the little things, but it’s easy for us to see what can make the other one’s work stronger. And because we know each other’s work through and through, it becomes very intuitive. His influence is never far. And the other way around.

What makes you most happy? 
Being with Nick and sculpting. Because that’s what I do best. The former is about love and what we are doing together, how we are exploring other countries and our work. The things we are experiencing and how we turn that into works of art. The latter makes me extremely happy in a very intense manner, but it can equally make me very unhappy. I was raised very strictly, so considering my upbringing it’s not evident that I would have become a sculptor. I had to fight pretty hard to be able to do what I am doing now, so it must be very important. Otherwise I would have given up very easily. It’s both an urgency and an emergency.

 

www.basealphagallery.be

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Et Alors? magazine. A global celebration of diversity.

Jorge Clar

Jorge Clar

Jorge Clar

Text Jorge Clar

 

We caught up with poet and performance artist Jorge Clar in his home in New York, and talked about words, sounds, and image. An ideal for living.

Initially, you came to New York because you wanted to be close to the disco scene.
That was the main reason. While growing up in Puerto Rico, I spent my time daydreaming and playing records. I became enthralled with the layers of sound in disco—the music became medicine. Everything about the genre, from the quality of the recordings to the way the arrangements are structured—featuring classical strings and horns, electronic textures, and rhythm—is alchemical. Disco pulled me through my adolescence. A few days after moving to New York in the fall of 1987, I went to the closing of the Paradise Garage discotheque. Larry Levan’s musical selections, and Richard Long’s sound system, were so mind blowing. The clubbers danced with such freedom and expressiveness—I knew right there and then I was home. I had gone to the Garage with Jesse Díaz, my first roommate in New York, with whom I had spent many summers in Puerto Rico, hanging out in discos and constantly listening to music. Through him, I developed a love for dancing and pulling looks together. In the early 90s, I would meet DJ Freddy Turner, with whom I would write record reviews on house music 12-inch singles for underground music magazines, in the process meeting many of my heroes in music, like David Morales, Kerri Chandler and “Little” Louie Vega.

When did you start writing poetry? 
I always loved books, and ever since I started reading authors like Borges, Ginsberg, and especially the short story A Clean, Well-Lighted Place by Hemingway, I knew I had to write poems. I remember reading Howl and thinking it was like my stream of consciousness. So I sat down on an old cast iron typewriter my father had given me and started to write, imagining myself a tape recorder of phrases and sounds I heard. My first poetry collection was called In a Singapore Hotel Room. I imagined myself as Somerset Maugham in the Raffles Hotel, which I had visited during a summer vacation, even I was able to get the best hotel credit card. This was one of the first instances in which I was inhabiting a different character in a work of art, something that continues to this day in my performances. Through poetry—and through making cassette mix tapes, which to me were like building blocks of sound and words—it became easier to make friends and demonstrate who I was. I was a very shy only child, and mostly related to adults, until I decided I wanted to be friends with more of my classmates. Initially, I imitated the style and idioms of all that surrounded me, trying to fit in. But I soon realized the more I delved into my eccentricities, the more I had to share. After graduating from Syracuse University, where I studied Newspaper Writing, I eventually started combining between performance and poetry readings. People enjoyed the extra aspect of showmanship. A few years later, in New York, I worked at Penguin Books and started to come together with a group of friends. My friend Douglas Rothschild invited me to read at mythical places like the St. Mark’s Poetry Project. We would organize salons or read at people’s houses. My friend, the playwright Adam Rapp, would perform as a “human prop” with me. Those were formative years. Living with painter roommates Alberto Álvarez, and later Michael Brown—who still shares an apartment with me—has honed my eye for visuals and the notion of what makes a painting work. Hanging out with my college friend Paul Weinstein, with whom I would spend every Friday night and Saturday morning in his Park Slope apartment, focused my appreciation of great graphic design, modernist radios and electronic equipment, new wave music, and all sorts of collectibles.

What else did you learn during those days? 
When my father passed away, I spent 7 years in Puerto Rico taking care of my mom. It was wonderful to relate to her as an adult and also explore other sides of my personality. I became the perfect homemaker and sometimes, when I would see objects from my life in New York, I would wonder where that person had gone. Eventually, I was offered a job at a marketing firm back in the city and mom was well enough to stay with a caregiver. I returned to living in New York full time. At a party, I met my friend Dominic Vine, and he introduced me to the Radical Faeries, a grassroots countercultural movement seeking to redefine queer consciousness through self-exploration. They were founded as a reaction to gay culture towards the end of the 70s. Back then, there was an emphasis on a ‘clone’ aesthetic, which presumed a masculine stance and set of rules. The faeries, on the other hand, established sanctuaries in rural areas where men could explore aspects of their femininity. Becoming involved with them was a milestone in my life. I explored questions about relationships, sexuality and freedom. I discovered there is no “one size fits all” to relationships, for instance. They can be endlessly customized beyond paradigms like ‘husband’ or ‘boyfriend.’ Also, it was around this time that iPhones came into the scene, facilitating the capability of taking photos on the go. Dominic photographed me constantly, and we became collaborators in photo, writing and mix CD projects.

You’ve come a long way. How do you look back?
When I was little, I imagined myself on a dance floor like the one in Saturday Night Fever (I actually did visit the dance floor featured in the movie one Halloween, when my friend Katsumi Miki and I went to the now extant Spectrum disco in Bay Ridge, where the movie was filmed…I danced to Madonna’s “Vogue” on its wonderful lights and cried), moving to the rhythm of disco music and being exactly in the moment. I imagined myself in a sort of monumental stasis, frozen in ecstatic bliss. It heartens me that everything I envision actually manifests. It all becomes true. In my dreams, I wanted to interact with other artists, have lots of records and enjoy life everyday—and here I am.

 


I get the feeling that people are way more focused now on creating, expressing their freedom and celebrating who they are. It’s almost like a statement.’

So you’ve found your peers?
Yes, I think we’re on the brink of a movement. I’m humble and grateful to be a part of it all and facilitate connections between people, supporting each other and working together. For example, I never considered myself someone who draws, and now I do so in a spirit of play and discovery. At my friend Joel Handorff’s place, Kelly Bugden, Scooter LaForge, Van Wifvat and I often get together to draw, and more friends like Rafael Sánchez, Gail Thacker and Gerardo Vizmanos also join in. We like to call these sessions “The Magic Mirror,” where we are all reflections of each other. Johnny Rozsa will often serve as a model. Connections happen serendipitously. I met Bubi Canal when he came to see a performance I did with José Joaquín Figueroa. That meeting led to much collaboration, and I’ve played characters in both Bubi’s and Jose’s video art. Bubi and I meet almost daily to discuss social media and work on projects at Little Skips, a café in Bushwick which we call “the office.” I commissioned a t-shirt with a painting of Allen Ginsberg from Scooter years ago, and that dialogue led to countless painted garments, which I often wear during my performances—both live and in photos—and often within the context of his shows. I wrote poems about the atmosphere of his painting process and they were included in the catalog for one of his shows. Dietmar Busse invited me to his apartment to take my portrait, and from there he has taken many photos which are so dear to me. In Van’s house in Ocean Grove, New Jersey, a Victorian cottage full of good spirit (I think I lived there in a previous life), many of us get together and make drawings and take photos. The greatest beauty of all this is that through creativity, we all have become dear friends who participate in a constant conversation that generates new realities.

What do you think of the political climate of the United States at the moment? 
There’s a lot of political anxiety nowadays. The day after the last election almost felt the same as the day after 9/11. There was this stillness, based on anger and pessimism. A lot of people felt very scared and wanted to leave the country, thinking, for instance, that gays would be more marginalized as a minority group. However, I get the feeling that people are way more focused now on creating, expressing their freedom and celebrating who they are. It’s almost like a statement. Everything has a political implication. It makes art stronger and it is going beyond the framework of what has been before. It’s getting richer and more focused. And it comes straight from the heart. Like an act of magic. Now more than ever this whole idea of following your intuition takes everything to a different level. Do you know the saying that the darkest part of the tunnel is just before the end? Well, I think that’s where we are right now.

And your personal work? 
I have my blog, which is basically a photo-performance as well as a writing project. It’s both an archive of all the personas in my imagination as well as a documentation of the artistic community. I write stories about what I’m wearing on certain days. I explain where and with whom I was when I found a particular shirt, for example. What we were talking about at that moment. What caught my eye and convinced me to buy. Or about the friend who gave me a pair of pants —what he is doing with his life, where he comes from and why he felt he needed to offer me that present. The stories go into the details of what happens every day, in Proustian fashion. My biggest influences in writing are Andy Warhol, 80s nightlife chronicler Stephen Saban, Charles Baudelaire and Bill Cunningham, the late New York Times fashion journalist. On the blog photos, I’m often wearing clothes made by friends, which adds an extra layer to the narrative. I become a mannequin—or a canvas, if you will—for their artwork. The images connect people and events in daily life. I’m weaving together a world that seems recognizable, and yet has a dreamlike quality. Jorge Clar Diary is a never-ending novella.

You make time capsules.
Yes, time documents, literally and figuratively. Like a diary. I’ve always loved diaries because of the way they talk about the small things. I love the idea of giving these tiny details their moment in the spotlight. By doing so, even the most banal thing can become very meaningful. It’s a pure reflection of my thinking process.

Tell me about your work on physical transformation.
When I first came out as a gay man, I was travelling through Israel. I felt very comfortable there, mainly because I was in a different environment. Being in Jerusalem, I could feel the place was very charged. Generally, people go to this city with much anticipation, due to whatever significance they give to to the place, which makes for a particular energy. The only other place that has the same energy is New York City, as people tend to come here with a specific purpose in mind. In Israel, I felt like I could see things within a sense of protection. Up until that point, I had repressed my attraction to men, and it was in Tel Aviv that I had an epiphany and was through with denial. I “came out” to myself. A veil lifted, and after that I transformed very quickly. It wasn’t as much about sexual liberation, but more about freedom of expression. And one of my main tools of expression is through clothing. I’ve always been enamored by an abstract sense of glamour and the epiphanies I often have late at night, when I listen to music. By accessing that magic and expressing it through clothes, I create subtle characters that deliver a message.
People react to this expression. I say this very humbly and with much gratitude: sometimes I am told I give hope. That my work inspires or cheers up the day. I think that’s so amazing. I love walking down the street and having someone smile at me. When one wears even the most surrealistic outfit with conviction, there is almost a air of reverence.

You sound very spiritual. Are you? 
I feel the universe has always taken care of me. I’ve been through hardships, but in the end they made me strong enough to now enjoy every moment. You’re taught to be happy when you have achieved something, but I think it’s of upmost importance to be happy—in other words, to have a generalized sense of wellbeing—and enjoy the process as you go along. If you follow your intuition and are a kind person, things become way easier to navigate. Art becomes very helpful, bringing forth a meditative state. When your work is based on play, more possibilities come to light: you can do and be more. I strive to think constructively, and manage my emotions consistently. When I do what feels good, I know I’m on the right path. I can then manifest with utmost efficiency.

 

www.jorgeclar.com

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Bernard Perlin

Bernard Perlin

Bernard Perlin

Text JF. Pierets     Artwork Bernard Perlin

 

Bernard Perlin (1918-2014) was an extraordinary figure in twentieth century American art and gay cultural history. An acclaimed artist and sexual renegade who reveled in pushing social, political, and artistic boundaries, his work regularly appeared in popular magazines in the 1940s, ‘50s, and ‘60s; was collected by Rockefellers, Whitneys, Astors, and Andy Warhol; and was acquired by major museums, including the Smithsonian, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Tate. In One-Man Show, Michael Schreiber chronicles the storied life, illustrious friends and lovers, and astounding adventures of Bernard Perlin through no-holds-barred interviews with the artist, candid excerpts from Perlin’s unpublished memoirs, never-before-seen photos, and an extensive selection of Bernard Perlin’s incredible public and private art. One-Man Show: The Life and Art of Bernard Perlin has been named a 2017 Stonewall Honor Book by the American Library Association, and is a Lambda Literary Award Finalist.

What triggered you to write this book?
I discovered Bernard and his amazing artwork through my great interest in the illustrious gay social and artistic circle that surrounded the legendary photographer George Platt Lynes in the 1930s through 1950s. Bernard was an intimate member of this great New York gay “cabal,” as he called it, whose members and visitors included such artists and literary such figures as Somerset Maugham, and Christopher Isherwood. Bernard Perlin was the last living member of this remarkable company, then in his early nineties, and so I wrote him. He responded with a friendly phone call that led to another and another and ultimately to an invitation to his home in Connecticut. And so began our close friendship and the unexpected journey towards this book.

Was it important to write this book, aside from your personal connection with Perlin?
First and foremost, I felt a great sense of commitment to getting Bernard Perlin’s extraordinary artwork seen again. But as I began to learn more about his equally extraordinary life, I knew the incredibly compelling story of this unsung gay artist-hero had to be told somehow, and as much as possible in his own colorful, unfiltered way.

As an art connoisseur, what attracts you to his work?
Bernard was a beguiling storyteller – not only in conversation, but also in his art. Every Perlin painting tells a unique story. I’m particularly drawn to his work that can be classified as “magic realism,” in which he interjected unexpected or magical elements into his examination of “real” situations or objects or figures. I always find his perspective an interesting one to consider. In terms of subject matter, I really love Bernard’s “Night Pictures,” a series of paintings depicting the swinging “cocktail culture” of 1950s New York City jazz clubs, street dances, and underground gay bars. The latter were very daring works for him to publicly show when he did, but for Bernard they were just further efforts to depict the full “normal” range of people seeking connection with one another.

He was openly gay in the 1930’s. How did that work out?
While he was very conscious of his sexuality and embraced it from a very young age, it wasn’t really until he went to art school in 1935 in New York that he found a thriving underground gay culture that welcomed him and he easily fit into. He was 16 years old at the time. From that point on, Bernard chose to also live his life “above ground” as a fearlessly openly gay man – doing so during a fearfully closed period in our recent history. It’s remarkable now to consider some of the real risks he faced, sometimes head on. He walked past a sign reading “no Jews allowed” into a department store in Nazi-occupied Danzig in 1938, bought a pair of Hitler Youth shorts, and then boldly walked around in them, as not only a young gay man, but a Jew. Equally remarkable was his attitude about being arrested in a Parisian bathhouse in 1951. In spite of being thrown into a large cage in the middle of a medieval courtroom, and tried in a language he didn’t understand while onlookers jeered, then being jailed without knowing how long he’d be held, Bernard just took it in his stride and thought it all a “great adventure.” He was similarly arrested in Florida and Virginia for “behavior against public decency,” posted bail, then skipped town and carried on undeterred with his cruising and bathhouse escapades. But certainly the most poignant story he shared with me was about his not wanting to fight in World War II, so he had to go to a psychiatrist, be declared a “mental degenerate” as a homosexual, and then present himself as such in front of the draft board. When we talked about this, Bernard confessed that he had long carried a sense of shame over what he perceived to be his cowardice about not going to war, when in fact it was an incredibly brave act to have publicly declared himself a homosexual in 1941. And of course, he then went on to fight the war anyway, but with his paintbrush, producing many now iconic images of World War II as a propaganda artist for the U.S. government and as a war-artist correspondent for Life magazine.

Did you ask him about the most significant changes between being gay in the 1930’s and now?
I did. It was very enlightening for me to learn that he had been able to so freely express his sexuality when he did – although it should also be considered where he did – in 1930s New York, which was somewhat less permissive than it had been during the 1920s, but yet allowed gay bars and gathering places to exist, as long as the police were paid off. Of course outside of New York, such open expression carried tremendous risk. As he explained it: “one was open but with a great sense of consciousness about it.” In the last couple of years of his life, he was delighted by the changes that were then accelerating for gay acceptance. The act of marrying his partner of 60 years was a tremendously important one for him. And they did it solely as a political statement, to add their number to the statistics. Although he had never been conflicted about being gay, Bernard certainly celebrated the fact that society was becoming less conflicted. Or so he hoped.

 


‘Of course historically up to this point there has been limited gay imagery in mainstream art because it has not been a socially accepted expression. But I’m ever hopeful that that is changing.’

You write about Perlin as a gay artist and you launched the book at a gay publishing company. Why is it important to accentuate this?
The actual artwork should be left to the interpretation of the viewer, of course. We all see the world uniquely through the lens of our own experience and identity. For that reason, Bernard didn’t like having his work linked to a particular style, nor did he subscribe to any particular school of art. He wanted viewers to interpret his work in their own way, free of any pre-established definitions, but yet at the end, he did want them to know it was the work of a gay artist. That the great variety of human experience that he had depicted in his work – that a great variety of people had emotionally and intellectually responded to over seven decades – had all been recorded by a fellow human being who just happened to be gay. By a “variant” himself. It was an identity that he felt very proud of and committed to championing – to “normalizing” in a way, although there truly is no such thing as “normal.” He just hoped his viewers would allow and consider it, in the hopes it might expand their perception not only of his art, but also of our shared humanity.

Does this have something to do with awareness? Showing that artists, movie stars, etc. can also be gay?
Sure, as you bring the gay experience into the fold of the bigger human experience, it does “normalize” it. Just as I feel it’s important to consider whatever particular identity an artist embraces – whether that relates to their gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, etc. – in the hope it will challenge and expand a viewer’s perspective on their art, but will also influence how that viewer then sees the real world and lives happening around them. Ultimately, we are all human at the end of the day. Isn’t it wonderful that we can see things so differently? In fact, it’s important that we do. Considering that informs all of us about the wonderful variety of the human experience. And toward that end, Bernard found it very important to raise his hand and be amongst the counted as gay artists.

Why do you think there is so little gay imagery in art history?
That’s an interesting topic that Bernard and I actually spoke a lot about. A picture of two men or two women kissing isn’t actually a classical theme in art – “yet,” as Bernard would point out. Of course historically up to this point there has been limited gay imagery in mainstream art because it has not been a socially accepted expression. But I’m ever hopeful that that is changing. Bernard was in the vanguard of artists who were boldly depicting gay themes in their work several generations ago, and happily that mantle has been taken up in recent decades by more and more younger artists. It’s just a matter now of getting more of their work on the walls of mainstream museums to make that “yet” a reality.

Is that also something you aim for with your book?
Absolutely. It’s empowering to have known this man who was at the vanguard of promoting that acceptance just by living his life openly and fully and refusing to compromise. I was so blessed to have learned from a fellow human being who had the ability and the courage to embrace and to dominate his life – a man who was fully occupied with living, loving, and leaving nothing unexplored that interested him. He found both in his life and his art what is at the heart of the fulfilled human experience:  and that is, to live one’s life fully in one’s own way – authentically, and without apology. And so that is what is at the heart of this book, and why I felt Bernard’s story was an important one to share – not to provide an exact blueprint of how one should live one’s life, but to open a door to possibilities, and permission.

 

www.bernardperlin.com
www.discover.brunogmuender.com/one-man-show-bernard-perlin

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Faryda Moumouh

Faryda Moumouh

Faryda Moumouh

Text JF. Pierets     Photos Faryda Moumouh

 

Why choose photography?
Since I was young I was already drawing, watching, registering details from the things I saw. It was an urge and I had the feeling I was chosen by a visual language, which I pursued. I went to art school when I was 14 and it made me discover a cultural world that was alien to me. It opened the doors in my head and in my heart. Photography was love at first sight. What scared me in the beginning was the technicality of a camera. When I went to school cameras were still analogue. So you had to get going with diaphragms and shutter speeds. However, what I found very liberating was the speed of the medium. When I was a child I wanted to capture every detail of an insect but I had to do it before it was gone. Now I could just take a picture of everything that caught my eye. It was that directness, that velocity that got me hooked.

What inspires you? 
I get inspired by society and the context in which I find myself. I’m not necessarily talking about politics, but we all find ourselves in a societal context in which you are free to respond or not. And if something triggers me, I have to act accordingly. It leads to a photographic series anticipating religion, or headscarves, or ethnicity. Those aren’t my themes per se, but I can’t ignore something that’s omnipresent. I call it philosophical image processing. My antennas are always on alert for images, words I read or hear, that can bring me towards a new interpretation. Inspiration is everywhere. I write everything down in little notebooks so I can start researching whenever something stays with me. Sometimes I call myself a philographer. A philosopher who meets a photographer.

You are reading and seeing a lot. How do you decide what to take and what to leave behind? 
Most of the time I think and work on one theme, quote or story per year. That’s the starting point to frame and identify what I think and feel. I research, read, make sketches, and look for other sources that connect with the initial thought. If you look at my work process you’d think I’m a painter or a drawer because I collect thousands of images to filter and to support the result. I call this work in progress ‘photographic drawing’. When I’ve gathered enough information, I unleash my intellect, my logic reasoning and continue in a purely visual manner. The images themselves lead me towards the final result. Which is both analytic and visual. I always trust my heart to lead me to where I’m supposed to go.

Can you talk me through one of your latest series? 
I re-read ‘The stranger’ by Albert Camus and it got me thinking about being the stranger versus being strange. Which is a very vague concept. I started photographing in Antwerp’s typical concentrated migrant areas but that turned out to be the wrong approach. Documentary is not my course. Then I thought about registering the reflection of those worlds. The reflections in mirrors, in shop windows, etc. to capture the thought that people are always judging the first layer of what they see. So instead of creating a linear sequence, I put the layers on top of each other to make a dialogue between the different pictures. In the end you have a strange image, consisting of multiple reflections of a strange world. They almost look like paintings. So it started with a book by Camus and I ended up here. It’s unpredictable. I never know where I will end up.

 


‘Art gives a more added value to my life than religion. I don’t need to listen to a human invention. I’d rather listen to myself in everything that I do.’

Do you aim to keep your work recognizable? And is that necessary?
When I’m photographing I’m not thinking about my specific visual language. And if it’s connected to my other work. However, I think my intuition is a constant guidance which, unconsciously, makes the images correspond with one another.

How do you see your evolution?
In the beginning my way of working was a bit too noncommittal. My way of capturing an image happened a bit too spontaneously. Over time this evolved into a more philosophical and conceptual manner. Whereas now I make a combination of those two styles. Conceptual but intuitive. I feel this course is the most accurate and closest to who I am as an artist. I feel very much at home with what I am doing.

Ai Weiwei, Joseph Beuys and Marina Abramovic are 3 of your heroes. What binds them together? 
Activism. And the freedom they claim to express their minds. Art doesn’t necessarily have to be activism. Personally, I find that social engagement always adds an extra value to the work or to the artist. I find what Ai Weiwei does from his context very important; his search for a full-blown democracy, the right to have an opinion and how he communicates that to the world. Activism depends on the context though. For me there’s a nuance between activism and social awareness. In my work it’s a social notion with lots of room for interpretation. If I were an activist, I would have to express my work in a more targeted and concrete manner. But I like my work to act as a window through which I can inspire a dialogue. It obviously has its community themes but it’s more in a societal – than an activist context.

And what about religion? 
Art gives a more added value to my life than religion. I don’t need to listen to a human invention. I’d rather listen to myself in everything that I do.

Do you identify with your work?
Very much so. Being an artist defines my identity more than my background or roots. I’m an individualist and an existentialist. The notion that I am here and that I’m allowed to be here gives me the permission to claim my existence. That kind of freedom is almost sacred. As a teenager I found a lot of comfort in Sartre. It brought me the awareness that I exist, which has been a guidance throughout my life and has been my primary motive ever since. Not only as an artist but also as a human being. Let everybody be.

Do you address certain topics in your work in order to have people ask questions? 
It depends on the question. For example, I constantly get asked where I’m from and it disturbs me that my ethnicity always takes the upper hand. I know it’s because of how I look and because of my name, but sometimes I just want to be. I want to talk about my work, about what I think. However, before I can do that, I always have to explain where I come from. I believe we have to accept that the world and our society is colored, but we don’t always need to talk about it. Because it always makes you ‘the other’.

How about your place in the art scene? 
There are moments when I would like to have more public recognition for my work. But I’m very sensitive when people contact me when they need a female artist, a foreign artist, or both. Work by artist Charif Benhelima for example is exposed all over the world. Everybody talks about the strong visual language of his pictures which transcends his Moroccan-ness. His work goes beyond needing an excuse to have an ethnic artist in your collection. It’s just great work. And that’s what matters. Only with that kind of mentality can you get an exact reflection of the world in a museum or a gallery. And that’s what art is all about, isn’t it?

 

www.faryda.com

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Annelies Verbeke

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The press called your latest book, Thirty Days, socially relevant. Is it?
That’s a tough one because I don’t like to be put into a box. For me, Thirty Days is just a continuation of everything I’ve written before. I’m working on an oeuvre, which I started in 2003, and hopefully will be able to build up till the end of my days. So for me it’s a clear evolution with its own variations and perspectives, yet they all existed deep inside of me. It did bother me a bit that the book got a very defined market. “What type of book is it?”, “how should we label it?”, are fundamental questions in the literary world nowadays. They say Thirty Days is about the refugee problem, yet that doesn’t quite cover its content. For me it’s about being a good person in a world that doesn’t promote goodness. That’s the essential theme. I always write about what comes my way and the topic of racism and refugees came into view. That’s why I write about them, not because I necessarily needed to write a social critique.

You once said that as a writer you have to write good books, not criticize.
I used to say that as a writer you don’t have to think in terms of social obligation but my opinion on that has changed a bit over the years. Nowadays it doesn’t bother me anymore to use social media or my column in the paper to promote what’s dear to me. For example, foreign writers that nobody’s heard of. We get so little input about European literature that I’m always on a quest to bring suppressed genres and languages to the surface. Did you know that 80% of the books in our Dutch language area are translated from English – a language that almost everybody can read? And only 3% of the books in the American market are translated from other languages? All languages? Just to give you an idea of its dominance in the field and that we are not always aware of how much we are controlled in the choices that we make.

What makes you sit down and write every time? 
I think I have to call it an urge. From a young age I was very certain that I would become a writer. The first literary prize I ever received was from a Dutch foundation called ‘Roeping’ (Dutch for Vocation. Ref.), a very Christian word yet I think it kind of fits. I do believe that there is something like a calling. I think that certain jobs like being a teacher or a nurse can only be managed if you have that kind of calling, which is the same for writers. Luckily I got the confirmation that it was the right thing to do.

Did you need that confirmation in order to keep going? 
I think that I needed some kind of permission, yes. And of course you have to be a megalomaniac in order to be a writer because let’s be honest, who needs another one?

How do you feel after you’ve finished a book?
After every book there’s the need for time until something else comes bubbling up. I’m always empty when I’ve finished another novel, which is pretty freaky because you never know if it will come back.

Currently you’re writing short stories again.
Yes. And I love it. Each of my short story collections have only one theme, which makes me feel free and happy, and able to look at that one theme from 15 different angles. Whereas in a novel I have to follow the path that I have chosen, be more consequent in a certain train of thought for about a year and a half or two years. A novel asks for a larger consistency whereas a short story is much more playful and offers me another approach. Let’s say it makes me happier.

You’ve been a published author for over 13 years now. Do you still love what you are doing? 
When you’re a writer, there’s a constant repetition of events. You finish a book, it gets published, you have to defend it, talk about it, and then you have to start all over again. For the first time it started to feel like a prison after I finished Thirty Days. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very grateful and there is still nothing more liberating than the feeling I have after a great day of writing. There is nothing in the professional field that can replace that. So obviously I’m not going to quit. Yet all of a sudden I saw a glimpse of the dark side. What kind of fate gives you the highest freedom and equally keeps you in prison? I’ll probably get over it, but you need a lot of energy to keep up with the ever-repeating chain of events and I kind of lacked that amount of verve. I was exhausted when I finished that book, but unfortunately that’s the precise moment when the whole circus is about to begin. When I think of myself being in my 70’s or 80’s, I don’t know if I will still have the energy to go through all that again. Sometimes I would like to find something in which I can disappear. At least for a few years. An obvious question now would be; ‘why don’t you just write and not get published?’ But the duality of it all is that a book is not finished before it’s been read. I keep on traversing between a huge gratitude and oppression. Maybe it’s just because I recently became 40. However great my life is, there are still moments when I think ‘is this it?’

Can you imagine doing something else? 
I do have those romantic and foolish fantasies about being a hairdresser or a masseuse. Sometimes I would love to have a profession where I can touch people – in a non-erotic manner. That fantasy keeps coming back.

That sounds like an eagerness to please.
I don’t know, maybe I should call it ‘relating’ instead of ‘pleasing’. People wouldn’t even have to thank me for a job well done; it’s really about making them happy

What keeps your mind flexible? 
I know it sounds contradictory, but I’ve set out a few rules in order to keep a flexible mind. Every year I want to read 52 novels. There has to be at least one book from every continent – with the exception of Antarctica and Arctica because there’s not much writing going on there – and spread over three centuries at least. It probably sounds more epic than it actually is because it’s quite doable. It allows me to read the writers that you do not stumble upon easily.


‘A female critic once accused me that I was afraid of being a woman. I found that pretty surreal. You might read something neutral in my work, yet that’s who I am. I don’t have to pretend, do I?’

Are there certain things that have determined your growth? 
Notwithstanding certain life events that mess you up, I think that the older you get, the more life experience you gain and the more you read, the more you grow. I’m lucky to be able to pour the sad things from my life into literature. Which is often a salvation. Being able to transform your pain into something creative is a huge victory. And that’s a gift. Imagine being a bookkeeper, or a shop owner, how do they handle that?

What do you like to write about most? 
If I would have to point out a common theme running through my little oeuvre, it’s ‘what is reality?’, which most of the time is based upon assumptions. In the beginning of my career a lot of reviews spoke about my fascination for madness. Yet I’m not necessarily interested in madness, but I am intrigued by what someone with a psychoses experiences as reality. Even better, you don’t have to go as far as having a neurosis to see that every one of us has another reality. It’s both interesting, funny and tragic how hard people are trying to fit into that. The absurd is omnipresent. Just think about war, or placing a gnome figurine in your garden, just because your neighbors are doing it. There are so many delusions wherein people are finding themselves or basing their identity on. It’s very innocent when it’s about gnomes, but it can also escalate into resistance towards refugees. If you agree that a certain branche of our population doesn’t have any human rights, just because your neighbor is thinking the same thing. Absurdity dwells in the constant threat of chaos. On the one hand you have the efforts to keep it all on the right track and on the other there’s pure escalation. That’s where absurdism comes from. And it’s constantly around us.

Is that what you are doing as a writer? Creating a new reality?
That’s exactly how it feels, but it’s more like filling something in instead of creating. Céline once said that the stories that we write are the invisible castles above our heads which we have to reconstruct on paper, stone by stone. I still find that a great image. When I’m writing I can always feel when it’s good and when it’s not. And not only when it comes to style, rhythm or grammar, but also if it’s right for the story. Which is weird, because this possibly implies that the story is already there. That there’s an ideal, which you merely mirror.

Is it self-portraiture? 
I consider myself a parade of people where one takes the lead until the next one takes over. In my novels my narrators were the ones leading in a certain period of time whereas in my short stories, I’m looking at who else is in that parade.

What is literature about? 
It’s about insight and all kinds of thoughts and feelings. You have to confront the things that happen to you. It’s an introspection without you being behind the wheels. For me it’s also very double; part of me is writing freely while the other part is controlling the quality of what I write as a reader. And I can tell you it’s not a reader who is easy to please. But then it gets read and criticized and that’s even worse because it’s always colored by someone’s prejudice. I don’t care about someone saying or writing that they don’t like the book for reasons of taste, but I do care if someone offers criticism coming from resentment, or if someone is holding a grudge or just doesn’t like female writers. That said, fortunately there are many literary critiques in which I’m completely understood, which offers a sense of ease.

Let’s talk about the female writers.  
I have a lot to say about female writers. When I made my first appearance as a 27-year-old writer I had more of the aura of a rabbit in headlights than of someone with an impressive personality. I can give numerous examples of how I’ve been patronized or intellectually underrated. In the beginning of my career people actually asked me what it was like to be a woman while my male colleagues were never asked that question. But I’m not only talking about men, because for me, feminism is not the opposite of men being against women. Some women are also biased and judgmental about women. And what I definitely cannot stand is being treated that way by people whom I find less intelligent than I am.

Anyhow, I do think people read very judgmentally. People start off with tons of assumptions that they then actually read in the book. I know it’s impossible, but sometimes I wish that things like awards would happen anonymously. A lot of women are still not nominated so I wonder if this would make a difference. A female critic once accused me that I was afraid of being a woman. I found that pretty surreal. You might read something neutral in my work, yet that’s who I am. I don’t have to pretend, do I? The same for men. When a book is from a neutral position, I often find it more interesting – this compared to some Hemingway-ish kind of writing because how many times can one go fishing and hunting? Let’s say there’s still a lot to do on the gender front.

 

www.anneliesverbeke.com

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