Kulinaarkriitika. Must maja. Märkmeid arhitektuurist

Kulnaarkriitik Markus Toompere käis EKKMis näitusel "Must maja. Märkmeid arhitektuurist" (21.06.-27.07. 2014). 

Kõigil Kaur Alttoa õpilastel on arhitektuuriga oma, romantilise-nostalgia ja igavese armastuse segune suhe, millele reeglina väljundit ei leita. See peegeldub ka Toompere kommentaaris.

Koogelmoogelit tehakse tänapäeval harva ja sellest on neetult kahju. Igatahes, värsketest talu kanamunadest eraldada hoolikalt munakollane. Lohakus maksab siin karmilt kätte, koore puru ja munavalge võivad kogu asja untsu keerata. Soovitav on rohkem teha, kuna süües ei saa kuidagi pidama. Nüüd on valiku koht: kui eelistad puhast muna maitset ja värvi, siis kasutada tavalist valget suhkurt, aga mina eelistaksin pruuni suhkurt, annab sügavama värvi ja maitsenüansi. Oluline koht on kloppimisel, ainult barbar kasutaks mikserit. Kui austad toorainet, võtad hea vispli ja paraja kausi ja hakkad tunde järgi kloppima. Mitte mingil juhul ei ole eesmärk munakollasele peksa anda, selline mõnuga ja rütmiline kloppimine. Tasapisi lisada suhkurt, mulle väga magus ei istu. Klopid ja lisad pisitasa suhkurt, hindad konsistentsi tõstes visplit kausikohale, et imetleda kuidas koogelmoogel venib ja venib, järkjärgult märkad kuidas muutub värv . Aegajalt maitstes, kas on küll ja siis igaksjuhuks suts veel kloppida. Kui tahta, võib koogelmoogeli sisse ühe hea suraka konjakit lisada, või ka lihtsalt kõrvale trimbata. Iseenesest võiks ju kogu sellele asjale anda mingi uhke prantsusekeelse magustoidu nime (kes teab äki isegi on olemas) , aga mulle meeldib nimi koogelmoogel konjakiga. Sellles nimes on ühestküljest midagi nostalgilist ja maalähedast, teisalt dekadentliku aadellikust. Paraku aga koogelmooogeli tegu võtan ise harva ette, sest olen minagi ära rikutud tänapäevastest toidualastest ohutusnõetest ja kardan salmonelloosi. Küll aga tunnustan julgeid kokkasid, kes ei hooli tondijuttudest toorainete ohtlikuse kohta, ELi direktiividest ning kogu muust jamast, mis on teinud normaalse söögitegemise keeruliseks.

Markus Toompere

Kulinaarkriitik

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back

MERE LAUL / Jutustus Raul Meelest.

Raul Meelest kirjutab Margus Tamm. 

Artikkel valmis ajakirja Estonian Art tellimusel.

I

ARM ELULE

Lapates Raul Meele retseptsiooni, jääb silma sõna müüt läbiv kasutamine: omamüüt, müüdiloome, kunstnikumüüt, maailmamüüt. Kunstnik Raul Meele näol on järelikult tegemist autoriga, kelle kunstnikutee on võrreldav müüdiga, mahub müüdiloo raamidesse. Tõsi, Raul Meele elu pole olnud meelakkumine - kunstnikukarjääri rajamine pole kulgenud lihtsalt, biograafias leidub kangelasele vääriliselt nii triumfe kui tagasilööke, loometee pole sirgjooneline, see on otsiv ja, võib oletada, et nii mõnigi kord ka ekslev. Kuid, lõpp hea, kõik hea ning vaadates kasvõi käesolevat, suurepärast ja suurejoonelist retrospektiivi KUMU suures saalis, saab öelda, et tegemist on õnneliku lõpu müüdiga.

Õnneliku lõpu müüti tuntakse imemuinasjutuna. Vladimir Proppi klassikaline käsitlus “Imemuinasjutu morfoloogia” (orig. 1928) sätestab, et imemuinasjuttude muutumatuteks elementideks on tegelaste funktsioonid, mis, olenemata konkreetsetest asjaoludest, on olemuselt muutumatud. Kokku loetleb Propp 31 funktsiooni, ühes loos ei pea need kõik olema esindatud, kuid funktsioonide järjekord on alati sama. Hilisem strukturalistlik narratoloogia, sh. Juri Lotmani kunstilise teksti struktuuri käsitlus, lähtub oluliselt Proppi pärandist. Keskne on idee, et süžee käivitub piiri ületusest. Lugu saab alguse siis kui üks tegelane lahkub oma ettemääratud kohalt ja astub üle oma senise maailma läve, teise, tundmatusse, imelisse maailma. Sellisest tegelasest saab kangelane. Kangelase tee ei ole kerge, ta mitte üksnes ei pea võitlema piiritaguse maailma uute ja ennenägemata ohtudega, vaid, mis veelgi hullem, piiriületamise akt muudab ta võõraks ka koduste jaoks. Teda ei tunta enam ära. Nii võib kangelane jääda pikalt kahe maailma vahele hulkuma, pärimata muinasjutulist poolt kuningriiki või leidmata võimalust isakoju naasta.

Raul Meele müüdil on kaks omavahel seotud süžeeliini.

Esiteks, Raul Meel on hariduselt elektriinsener. Mõnes teises ühiskonnas poleks see olnud võibolla märkimisväärne puue, kuid väikeses ja seda suletumas, semitotalitaarse ühiskonnakorraldusega ENSVs tähendas see, et Raul Meel ei ole kunstnik. Kunstnikud tulid ERKIst ja kuuulusid Kunstnike Liitu. Mitte nagu Raul Meel. Seega oli Raul Meele astumine Teaduslik Tehnilise Revolutsiooni (TTR) inseneride armeest kunstiavangardi esirinda oluline distsiplinaarne piiririkkumine. Nii ei olnud ette nähtud. Ometi otsustas ta selle meeletu sammu astuda.

II

ULM REALE

Kui on plaanis asuda teekonnale, mille käigus tuleb illegaalina ületada piiri, siis kuidas selleks valmistuda? Võtmesõnaks on sobiv varustus. Reisimoon peab olema maksimaalselt kompaktne. Võimalikult multifunktsionaalne, kokkupandav ja lahtivõetav. Lihtne ja vastupidav. Konverteeritav ja hõlpsasti peidetav. Suurepärane näide on lauake-kata-end, aga ka näiteks šveitsi nuga, magamiskott, pommivöö või kokaiini täis kondoomid. Või ka näiteks kirjutusmasina monospaced-kirjatüüp.

Esimesed teosed, millega Raul Meelel õnnestus 1960ndate lõpul ületada distsiplinaarne piir ja edukalt kunstimaailma välja jõuda, kujutasid endist nn kirjutusmasinajoonistusi.

Kes töötanud erinevates meediumites, teab, et tekst on väga ökonoomne meedium. Teksti tegemine nõuab minimaalselt ressursse ja valmistekst on seejuures äärmiselt kompaktne (laota põrandale laiali Tammsaare kogutud teosed ja sa saad ühe keskmise Valdur Ohaka maastikumaali pinnalaotuse). Võrdsete tähelaiustega monospaced-kirjatüübi kasutamine muudab teksti ka äärmiselt vastupidavaks: et täheruum on kõigi häälikute puhul sama, saab tekstiosiseid vabalt asendada ja ümberkombineerida, ilma et teksti tervikstruktuur laguneks. Ainus, mis sel juhul veel teksti jäigaks ja kohmakaks muudaks, oleks narratiiv. Ja sellest Raul Meel ettenägelikult loobus. Tema kirjutusmasinajoonistuste semantilised üksused on kas morfeemi või sõna, harvem fraasi pikkused, täislauseid kohtab haruharva. Tekstijupikestest või üksikutest kirjamärkidest moodustatud kompositsioonid leidsid 1960ndate-70ndate Eesti kunstiavangardis sooja vastuvõtu ja tõesti, imelisel kombel, insenerist saigi kunstnik.

Suutmata kunstimaailmas siiski püsivalt kanda kinnitada, jäi Meel mitmeks aastakümneks (täpsemalt, aastani 1987) kahe maailma vahele edasi-tagasi sõeluma, töötades Projekteerimisinstituudis insenerina ja osaledes aktiivselt kunstielus. Pidev kahe maailma vahel laveerimine oli kindlasti stressirohke, kuid ka piisavalt tulutoov, lubamaks Raul Meelel kasvatada nii vaimset kui materiaalset sõltumatust. Lisaks tekkis edasi-tagasi üelpiiri-liikumisest arvestatav kogemus, kuni lõpuks suutis Raul Meel koguni terveid insenertehnilisi käsiraamatuid kunstiväljale sisse smugeldada. Kuid see oli alles algus.

Raul Meele teine müüdimõõtu tegu on - ta suutis oma kunsti toimetada läbi raudse eesriide.

ENSV oli oluline illegaalse transiidi keskus. Lisaks märkimisväärsetele heroiinikogustele (vt. Vladimir Wiedemann, “Maagide kool”), liikus üle ENSV piiri kapitalistlikku Läände ka kõige kõrgema avangardisisaldusega kunstiprodukt, mida toonases N Liidus valmistada suudeti. Läänemaailmas oli selle vastu arvestatav nõudlus, kuid ka Nõukogude piirivalve oli valvel: kui varem kasutasid avangardistid võimalust saata oma graafilisi teoseid Läände posti teel, siis 1970ndatel tõhustati kontrolli ja ka graafilisi teoseid sai edaspidi välismaale postitada üksnes eriloa alusel. Oma loometöid üle piiri toimetada õnnestus nüüd vähestel. Räägitakse, et ENSV-s oli üks avatud meelega ametnik, kes aitas kunstiteoseid lihtkirjadeks vormistada. Räägitakse, et see ametnik olla olnud koguni J. K-M. ise (nimi toimetusel teada). Igal juhul läbis hulk ümbrikke kõige kvaliteetsema Nõukogude avangardkunstiga ikkagi takistamatult tolli ja jõudis Läände. Kuid ka see pidu sai läbi. Oli vaja midagi nutikamat välja mõelda.

Raul Meel lävis kohaliku autoriteedi, Tõnis Vindiga, kelle kaudu arenesid välja kontaktid Moskva põrandaaluse kunstimaailmaga. Meel hakkas läbi käima Ülo Soosteri grupeeringuga, nende kaudu tutvus ta Moskva ühe mõjukama allilmaliidri Ilja Kabakoviga. Metropolis koondunud üleliidulise põraandaaluse kunsti võrgustik omas mõningaid hästitoimivaid kontakte Lääne diileritega ja Raul Meel suutis avanenud võimalusi edukalt ära kasutada. Küllap tuli kasuks nii praktiline insenerimõtlemine kui ka varasem kogemus, mis saadud kunsti- ja insenertehnilise maailma vahelise piiri ületuste käigus.

Arusaadavalt suutis aina raudsemaks muutuvast eesriidest läbi lipsata vaid kõige kompaktsemalt pakendatav avangardkunst: seeriapõhine, minimalistlik, abstraktne ja kontseptuaalne. Raul Meele geniaalseimaks leiutiseks antud kontekstis tuleb pidada 1970ndatel alustatud graafilist seeriat “Taeva all”. Teoreetiliselt kuulub seeriasse 5328 graafilist lehte, mis kõik aga on kirjeldatavad üherealise valemi variatsioonidena. Hiiglaslik teos, mida oli võimalik transportida täiesti nähtamatult, ehk nagu Raul Meel ise meenutab: “enda sees, minu peas, minu südames” (vestlus Andres Kurega, 2014). Võis jalutada üle piiri, muretult lasta end tolliametnikel läbi otsida, endal kuustuhat graafilist lehte südames.

Nii juhtuski, et paar lehte sellest seeriast jõudis välja Lääne-Saksamaale, kus need pälvisid 1974 aastal Frecheni graafikatriennaalil II preemia. Seda võitu võibki tinglikult lugeda Raul Meele teise kangelasteo, veelgi imelisema piiriületuse äravormistamiseks.

III

ERE MULLA

Oli ka sissekukkumisi: Raul Meele diilid Sao Paolo Biennaali, MoMA ning Flash Artiga õnnestus Nõukogude korravalvel nurjata. Kuid – tegu oli tehtud, süžee kandis ja pikemas perspektiivis polnud müüdi kulgu väärata enam võimalik. Järgnes see, mis järgnema pidi.

Vladimir Proppi kirjeldusel seisneb imemuinasjutu finaal kangelase ära tundmises, mispeale kangelane asub troonile. Ja tõesti, 1980ndate lõpus tunti Raul Meel viimaks ometi ka kodumaal ära. Järgnes laviinina ametlik tunnustus ning tõus klassikustaatusesse. Raul Meel istus väljateenitud troonile.

Raul Meele viimaste kümnendite loomingu – rituaalsete tuleinstallatsioonide, kunstnikuraamatu “Saalomoni Ülemlaul” jm – kaudu kõnelebki publikuga uus, varasemast kangelasest erinev arhetüüp, kõneleb preester-kuningas. 

Aga see on juba üks teine lugu...

 

Kangelane (foto: Jaan Klõšeiko) 

 
... ja tema teekond

 

Meelevaldne tõlgendus Kuningas Saalomoni ülemlauust.   

Arhetüüpiline preester-kuningas Mesopotaamiast

DIALOOGID LÕPMATUSEGA

Kumu kunstimuuseum, 09.05 – 12-10. 2014

Näitusevaade: Kumu

Antud näituse kohta on raske öelda midagi peale ülivõrrete.

Geniaalne kunstnik – Raul Meel – check. Kindlakäeline kuraatoritöö – Eha Komissarov, Raivo Kelomees – check. Perfektne näitusekujundus – Raul Kalvo, Helen Oja – check. Kaunis kataloog – disainer Tuuli Aule – koos hulga nauditavate esseedega – Eha Komissarov, Raivo Kelomees, Virve Sarapik jt. – check. Tervik, mis on suurem kui eelloetletu summa – check.

Isiklik ahhaa-elamus saabus lugedes kataloogist Eha Komissarovi teksti, kus mulle korraga juhatati kätte seos 20. sajandi avangardi ja metallsõrestikest näitusekujunduse vahel. Peale seda läksn näitust kohe uuesti vaatama.

-------------

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back

Invading the Manifesta 10 Invasion

This edition of the biennale is about the art of making compromises, finds anthropologist Francisco Martínez

FIG 1 My friend Ksenia in front of Aslan Gaisumov's Elimination - presented in the parallel exhibition of the Cadet's corpus

Once in Russia, the bus driver turned the mic on and said a laconic ‘congratulations’, which was succeeded by senseless expressions in a language that does not have a dictionary. Probably, he just forgot to turn the mic off, but this liminal experience, at the border between Narva and Ivangorod, made me think about three never ending debates in art practices: 1. Object or effect, what has the primacy? 2. The right to the non-sense. 3. Does the aesthetic phenomenon have a purpose?

St. Petersburg, the city hosting this edition of the European biennale, is a good place to explore the limits of non-sense and the limits of rights. Perhaps this is one of the most interesting points of Manifesta 10 – the way art is looked with suspicion from all sides.

Most of the assessments I heard about Manifesta 10 were not positive. Anders Härm describes it as ‘poorly curated’. Maria Arusoo shares that the exhibitions did not fulfil her expectations, since ‘Manifesta should not act as a museum, it should risk more’. Also Andres Kurg considers that the quality is quite unequal, with some good pieces but a low average level.

FIG 2 Marlene Dumas made a series of ink portraits of great men that happened to be gay

FIG 3 Erik van Lieshout's project for Manifesta focused on the mysterious cats who live in the basement of the Hermitage to dispel rats

Manifesta 10 is not about experimenting, but about the art of making compromises, some of them awkward, as the ‘+16’ signs on the videos warning Russian teens of ‘pervert’ European propaganda. Constrained by political and economic circumstances, the organizers tried to play safe and make compromises on many fronts, managing to include just a few provocative ‘gestures’.

Outstanding works with ‘activist’ touch are Erik van Lieshout and Marlene Dumas’ contributions. M. Dumas prepared a series of delicate ink portraits of great figures, whose achievements can be celebrated above their identification as homosexual men.

Otherwise, E. van Lieshout’s project is so far the most commented among all the art works. At the basement of the Hermitage, there have been cats here since the days of Catherine the Great, keeping the mice down. Van Lieshout spent weeks there building better living quarters for these felines (that obliquely reference to the Pussy Riot). The highlight of this installation is a video in which the Dutch artist shows his subterranean adventures with animals, ghosts and staff members of the great Russian museum (the director appears admitting that he does not like “cats or dogs. Or people”).

Frank Ammerlaan (Dutch artist, currently participating in an exhibition in KUMU) explains it in this way: “Van Lieshout’s work evolves around social and political themes; he is not shy depicting Putin or hinting at Pussy Riot in his large installation. Through a reconstruction of the basement tunnels, mounted with drawings and photographs, you find the video work where the artist himself is the entertaining protagonist asking all sorts of anthropological questions about his role in The Hermitage at Manifesta”.

Other piece that I liked a lot, in spite of not being complete, is Aslan Gaisumov’s ‘Elimination’ (located in the fantastic Cadets’ Corpus, parallel program). This installation is composed of metal gates from Chechnya strewn with bullet holes and lit from behind. As the description explains, gates are a sign of status in Chechnya, designed to be a source of honour (in this case with Olympic motives). The material remaining speaks up forgotten stories in an archaeological way, confirming, once again, that war has no respect for local traditions, people and plans.

I went to the biennale willing to learn from supposedly vanguardist and transgressive ideas; also to get a glimpse of what is going on in contemporary art. After a long and intense weekend visiting exhibitions (well, partying too), I have the feeling of having missed something.

Unfortunately, I did not manage to attend the lectures about ‘art as domestic resistance’ and ‘street poetry’ organised within the Public Program at Marata 33/7 (we were stuck two hours in Narva processing a new visa for me). Also, due to my no skills in Estonian language, I could not learn from the two hours discussion about Manifesta that took place on the bus, coming back from Piter to Tallinn.

FIG 4 Discussing Manifesta 10 on the bus, on the way back

In Narva, the bus driver unexpectedly decided to play on the bus TV an old documentary about the magnificent beauty of Leningrad. Maybe, he was tired of musings on the future of art; or perhaps he just wanted to remark, once again, the threshold of this rite of passage. Later I was told that this already seems to be a common pattern among drivers that go to art events, since in the previous excursion the chauffeur delighted the passengers with several seamen’s songs as if the bus were a karaoke.

My experience visiting this sort of events is very small, so during the weekend I had the feeling of not seeing enough, in spite of running from one spot to another. I have not been in the Hermitage for ten years, so it was grotesque that I dedicated my visit to find contemporary pieces spread out all over the museum, rather than calmly enjoying the collection. Even worse, I did so in an accelerated way: since I had just 45 minutes to see that part of the biennale, I grabbed a volunteer (Alyona) and asked her to help me in my hopeless endeavour. Consequently, I felt like taking part of Alexander Sokurov’s film ‘The Russian Ark’ (2002), yet in a 3x speed, surrounded by people that approached these pieces as a joke and with attendants shouting ‘No photographs!’ and ‘No touching!’ when one comes too close.

In a way, Manifesta 10 might seem to function as a tribute to the Hermitage’s 250 years anniversary – a birthday piñata adapted to the needs and priorities of the museum. But the interplay between foreign expectations, local needs and political and economic circumstances is richer than this. Also, the exhibitions have benefited from being hosted in unique venues.

FIG 5 Ivan Plusch's Process of Passing - Ruins of the Soviet and Post-Soviet eras in 18th century interiors - Displayed at the Cadets' Corpus

In the opinion of Olga Temnikova, it is not possible to understand this Manifesta without paying attention to self-censure, economic issues (local staff had to work without payment for two months) and diverse traditions and expectations. In this sense, Andres Kurg notices that press releases by Manifesta 10 are different in Russian and English language and that the main curator, Kasper König, demonstrates a wide ignorance of Russia and local codes in many of his statements (“the ink on my contract was still wet when that appalling anti-gay law was passed”; or “I was working in a country where there is no civil society”).

This process of translation, negotiation, or interplay, it is exemplarized by a colleague of mine in St. Petersburg, Vladimir, who has progressively changed his view on the biennale:

- The first evening, in a non-officially programmed event, he presented Manifesta 10 as an example of colonialism, accusing the organizers of exhibiting dead Russian artists that would not have agreed in participating in this sort of event and blaming them also for bringing their own crew without establishing much dialog with contemporary local creators.

- The second day, we randomly met in the General Staff building, and then Vladimir acknowledged that there is some ongoing negotiation, which has more value than the quality of the works exhibited. Later, at night, in the official opening organized in the Hermitage (a party with free cocktails of Beluga vodka), Vladimir substitute the word ‘colonialism’ for ‘celebration’.

For Vladimir, Manifesta 10 is being an invasion, yet invasions are not negative in absolute terms. The political and artistic implications within the Russian society are yet to be seen, but this is only one of the many points of interest of the event.

In this regard, I agree with Rebeka Põldsam that to judge Manifesta 10 as toothless and nail-less is naive and vain, since exhibitions have value even if not solving the end of the world crisis. Hence, I prefer the exercise proposed by Rebeka: ‘what if it was in Estonia?’, acknowledging that this Manifesta is particularly close to us (both geographically and culturally), and that these exhibitions are not just another stardust show, but an engaging and inspiring event, an example of negotiation and trans-location that might encourage Estonian artists and institutions to organize the biennale of contemporary art in 2018 or 2020.

Furthermore, the participation of artists like Kristina Norman and the Rundum group, as well as the visit and contacts established through initiatives like the trip organized by the Estonian Centre of Contemporary Art (Thanks Solveig!), help to re-draw the Manifesta 10 territory and, in a way, the art scene of St. Petersburg.

I met people from Estonia in most of the events and places associated with Manifesta 10. In the case of Olga Temnikova, I encountered her at least in 15 different places – almost 5 times per day. In this sense it has been an invasion of the invasion.

Of course, there were also dispiriting points as, for instance, to be forced to suffer police controls and ‘be part’ of the official activities organized for ‘Day of Young People’ at the Palace square, where rappers, skaters and basket players were hired (by the City Hall?) to celebrate youth. But, in a way, this was part of the experience of being in St. Petersburg, as the expensive prices, the canals, and the lively nightlife.

Russia is quite a poly-logical country, and Manifesta 10 is obviously affected by that. Within the biennale, there are not only different worlds coexisting but also parallel galaxies. I noticed that, for instance, in the Garage party that I attended with Andres, my friend Ksenia and Frank’s crew. Good looking people, cool DJ’s, expensive drinks (Andres was unlucky to pay all of them), photographers all over the place... Moscow high-society after all, that considers a coincidence to meet in the art-fashion parties, independently if taking place in London, Berlin or Piter.

FIG 6 Selfie at the Garage party - courtesy of Andres Kurg

FIG 7 Garage party nearby a Giorgio Armani shop - courtesy of Andres Kurg

Overall, to be contemporary is linked with not feeling good with your contemporaneity, with the world we live in. In other words, a search of something else that does not exist at the moment. If we take this way of discerning, most of the works exhibited in Manifesta 10 were not contemporary. Indeed, Henri Matisse (exhibited at the General Staff Building) seemed to be more contemporary than many of the ‘fresh’ contributions. Likewise, when facing certain works (as for instance, those by Vladislav Mamyshev-Monroe), I rhetorically asked what the f*ck is this stuff doing here. Also, the never-ending glorification of the 80’s underground art in Leningrad was annoying, becoming a bit tiring, if not stinky. Yes, Kuryokhin, Novikov, Tsoi and Grebenshikov were great, but one cannot feed oneself for 30 years always with the same meal. Indeed, this might be a symptom that art practice has not moved forward much from that time in Russia. Or perhaps, it is rather a sign of Manifesta staff’s colonialism and the lack of knowledge of what is going on nowadays in that city, in that country.

All in all, Manifesta 10 deserves a visit, particularly by those living on the other side of the Narva River. Besides the list of big names, such as Joëlle Tuerlinckx, Thomas Hirschhorn, Ilya and Emilia Kabakov, Joseph Beuys, Gerhard Richter and Kazimir Malevich, we can also find artists such as Pavel Pepperstein, Lado Darakhvelidze, Ivan Plusch or Deimantas Narkevičius, as well as parallel events with different degree of artistic interest and critical engagement. Is that enough? Probably not, but it is worth to see it and to host it. Let us believe that art resides in the attempt, and not always in the result/product.

FIG 8 Gerhard Richter Ema, Akt auf einer treppe exhibited in the Hermitage yet forbidden by Facebook pornography policy

FIG 9 Ugolovnik by Pavel Pepperstein

 

I almost forgot it, but during the weekend we have also talked about the non convenience of boycotting and about Chto delat? This Russian art group had the difficult task of taking a single final position, caught in between the demanded coherence of critical discourses, the political decisions and practices of Putin’s regime, the binary approach of Western institutions and the diverse expectations of its members and audience. In this regard, most of the people agree that communication and interaction function better than boycott; likewise, Manifesta 10 serves as a platform to engage, participate and contrast ideas, even if a limited and contradictory one. In this sense, I take it as a social laboratory, particularly valuable because of the ongoing negotiations between local and foreign agents and the cultural implications of this interplay. Let us remember that Crimea, Anti-LGBT Laws and Political repression are hardly discussed in Russian institutions and media; and let us not forget that Manifesta 10 provokes reflexion and debates, not aggression.

This biennale of contemporary art brought to my mind thoughts on transgression, on an escalating sense of obsolescence, on the need to defy traditional classifications and free from power structures, on the need of awkward compromises in order to make visible what has been silenced, on the anxiety of not seeing enough, on re-creations, expectations and the expiry date of art-works, on the process of living, on repositioning ideas, on borders as transition, on the value of connections and mobilization (rather than conflicts and insensitivity), and, overall, on the contradictions of cultural work.

We arrived in Tallinn at midnight. Walking home under the rain I felt I had learned about contemporary art and not only.

FIG 10 Kristina Norman's Souvenir, courtesy of K. Norman

* This article is a quick description of the trip to the opening of Manifesta 10, organized by the Estonian Centre of Contemporary Art. The biennale of contemporary art features over 50 artists from nearly 30 countries and is complemented by an array of performances, public programs, and education projects. For more information, visit Manifesta home page.

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back

Kulinaarkriitika. Kim? Elza Sīle ja Väike Vera

Kulnaarkriitik Markus Toompere käis Riias ja sattus Kim?-is kahele näitustele:

Elza Sīle "Enlarging Original"
13.06.-28.07.2014
ja
"Little Vera" Sanya Kantarovsky, Ella Kruglyanskaya.
Curated by Zane Onckule
13.06.-27.07. 2014

NATO toidupakk nr 2 on kõikidele sõduritele tuntud kui üks halb nali, nimelt on seal pearoaks maksakaste. Üldiselt ma jumaldan maksa, see on minu meelest üks põnev kuid veidi alahinnatud tooraine, millest on võimalik teha võrratuid roogasid. Kuid antud juhul on maksaga tehtud midagi kujuteldamatult jubedat. See ei ole pelk ütlus, vaid olen praktikas ka ise korduvalt kogenud, et sõdur ei pirtsuta, vaid sööb mida antakse. Nii on. Ent NATO toidupaki maksakaste kõlbab vaid üheks - mahamatmiseks. Peale esimest korda sedasinast maksakastet proovides jõudsin järeldusele, et nälgimisel pole ka suurt midagi viga. 
Igatahes olen ma arvamusel, et sellised tigedad naljad sõdurite kulul ei kõlba kuhugi.

Markus Toompere
Kulinaarkriitik

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back

Kulinaarkriitika - Maalikunsti eriala lõputööde näitus

Kulinaarkriitik Markus Toompere mekkis Tartu Ülikooli maalikunsti eriala lõpetjate näitust Tartu Kunstimajas.

Vaatasin Kunstimajas lõpetajate tööd üle - tegu on värskekapsasupiga. Suhteliselt igav ja etteaimatav, selline, mida vanaema tegi, keegi seda väga ei oodanud, aga samas süüa kõlbas. Ega vanaema ise ka väga ei vaimustunud seda tehes, lihtsalt mingit sorti vanakooli kohusetunne sundis teda aegajalt seda keetma. Juba lapsest saati hämmastas mind, et kuidas vanaema suudab erinevaid koostisosasid kokku pannes alati ühe ja sama maitse välja võluda.

Üldjoontes on suppidega nii, et kui nad päeva seisavad, siis lähevad nad paremaks, värskekapsasupp on selles osas erand, see läheb iga järgneva päevaga kehvemaks. Teine fenomen värskekapsa supiga oli see, et mingil põhjusel ükski koer seda ei söönud. Kõike seda öelnult on mul igatahes kapsasupi isu.


Markus Toompere
Kulinaarkriitik

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back

Kulinaarkriitika - Köler Prize 2014

Nii nagu parim vein võib osutuda iseloomutuks joogiks, kui veini kõrvale söödav ei toeta veini iseloomu, nii võib juhtuda, et ka parima õhtusöök on maitsetu, kui enne seda on külastatud valet näitust. Et selliseid intsidente vältida jagab Artishok oma lugejaile soovitusi mida ühe või teise näitusekülastuse järel koju siirdudes lauale panna.

Tänavune Köler Prize on minu meelest kiirtoit, täpsemalt kuninglik burger, selline hoolega tehtud, mida kiirtoiduks ei julgeks enam kutsuda. Kui öeldakse burger, siis mõeldakse seda kapsaporgandi salati, nätske saia, jahuse sügavkülmast kotleti, kurat ka ei tea mis juustu ja räiges koguses burksikastmes ujuvat ollust. Ma noorest peast juba mõtlesi, et mis kuri inimene vihkab sööki sellisel moel, et toorainetega nii teeb, aga hoitku selle eest, minu sõpruskonnas on endiselt inimesi, kellel selline burks ajab suu vett jooksma ja nutavad seda taga. Igatahes kuninglik burger: Minu kujutuses midagi sellist või sellist. Liha puhul on siiski oluline, et loomulikult ei ole tegu valmishakklihaga, vaid seks puhuks ilusast tükist ise tehtud hakkliha. Kuninglik burger on midagi imelist ja selle tegemisse pandud aeg ja pühendumine võiks justkui välistada selle nimetamist kiirtoiduks. Samas jääb burger burgeriks ja süüakse see sama kiiresti kui ülal mainitud kastmesse uputatud ollus.

Markus Toompere
Kulinaariakriitik

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back

EKLi "Kevadnäitus" 2014 kohtub kunstikriitika seminariga

Järgnevad tekstid valmisid EKA Kunstiteaduse Instituudi magistriõppe esimese aasta üliõpilastega kunstikriitika seminari raames. Reet Varblane palus meil võtta üheks oma kirjutamisülesandeks Eesti Kunstnike Liidu aastanäitus “Kevadnäitus” ning mis sellest välja tuli, saab alljärgnevalt lugeda. Kuna kursus on suur, siis igaühele jäi üsna väikene tähemärkide ruum ning kogu komplekti, mis siia paberile siiski ära ei mahtunud, saab lugeda Artishokist. Lisaks sai iga kirjutaja ka teatava ülesande või vaatluspunkti: vaadata aastanäitust jooksva kunstikriitika võtmes; vaadata aastnäitust “kunstiajaloolase pilguga”, ehk et mis seekordsest huvitavat või väärtuslikku võiks tulevastele põlvedel välja noppida; pakkuda välja toimunule totaalselt uus kategooria, rakendada mõnda teoreetilist raamistikku jne. Lähteülesanded kajastuvad lõpptekstides siiski vaid väga õrnalt ning kahtlemata näitab antud tekstikogum teatud meelsust ja hoiakuid. Tegeletakse peamiselt formaadi endaga ning kes selles kaotajaks jääb, on kunst, keda eriti ei maini keegi. Millest on kahju, sest nagu igal suurel ülevaatenäitusel, on ka “Kevadnäitusel” häid töid. Aga ilmselt see ongi sümptomaatiline, et need mattuvad ülemulje alla. Iseenesest ei ole ju “Kevadnäitusel” kui sellisel midagi viga, las olla üks selline näitus ka, kuid probleem on pigem selles, et laiem avalikkus seostabki kaasajal tehtavat kunsti kaanoniliselt antud formaadi, esindatud meediumite ja alati-kohal-olevate-nimedega. Nii et võib-olla ei too aastanäitused kokkuvõttes mitte kunsti ja publikult ükesteisele lähemale, vaid hoopis vastupidi?
Maarin Mürk


Näitus, mis proovib meeldida 
Eva-Erle Lilleaed
Eesti Kunstnike Liidu ülevaatenäitus on kirju nagu kevadine metsaalune, esindatud on üle seitsmekümne autori taiesed, mis teoste žanrit või kunstniku vanust arvestamata saalidesse laiali on paiskunud. On selge, et eksponeerimise eesmärk ei ole luua hierarhiad, eristusi ega ka seoseid, mille alusel teosed omavahel suhestuda võiks – eesmärk on anda ülevaade kunstnike viimase pooleteise aasta tegemistest ning autorid on kõik asetatud ühele horisontaalsele joonele. Sellises visuaalses kakofoonias orienteerumine õhutab üllatusmomendi (l)ootust, ilma töid koondavate jaotusteta ei oska aimata, mida järgmises saalis näha võiks. Kuid väga palju üllatusi siiski ei ole, pigem on külastaja kunstiiha püütud rahuldada kohustuslike suurte nimede kohaloluga, keda täiendavad mõned nooremad kunstnikud. Juba kaugelt tunneb ära Jüri Arraku, Enn Põldroosi, Jaan Elkeni, Leonhard Lapini, Tiit Pääsukese ja mitmete teiste tuntumate eesti maalikunstnike taieseid. 
 Ülevaatenäituse puhul on õigustatud salongi-tüüpi eksponeerimisformaat, kuid väljapanekust ei puudu ka mõni muiet tekitav vimka, näiteks teise saali ukse kohal olev Grisli Soppe absurdselt narr interpretatsioon nutvast Lindast kivi otsas. Näitusesaalides olevate teoste lõbusat seltsielu lõhub aga Anna Kaarma video “Dreamland”, mis mõjub oma pimedas intiimsuses niivõrd eristuvalt (kindlasti mängib siin rolli ka meedium), et traditsioonilisema kunsti vaatamise taustaga külastajad ei tihka isegi väikesesse “pimikusse” sisse astuda ning piiluvad põrandale projitseeritud vähkrevat neiut üle ukseläve.
Kaarma töö on sealjuures pea ainus video näitusel, samuti on vähe ka fotot. Peamiselt maali, graafika ja skulptuuri eksponeerimine tekitab küsimusi kaasajal, kus juba on muutnud endastmõistetavaks, et maailm ei seisa vaid nende kolme vaala turjal, eriti veel kui näituse ambitsiooniks on pakkuda mingisugust ülevaadet. Noored kunstnikud, kes uuemate meediumitega töötavad, ei tunne ilmselt lihtsalt huvi erinevalt iga-aastaste kohustuslike staažikate osalejate kõrval aastanäituse kriitiliste väljakutseteta eksponeerimisformaadi vastu, nii et ega žüriil ei jäägi muud üle kui valida nende hulgast, kes osaleda soovivad.
Tuttavlike meediumite eksponeerimise rohkusest tulenevalt võib tõdeda, et näitus üritab vastata tavakülastaja ootustele ning meeldib oma klassikalise formaadi ja armastatud kunstnike kohalolu tõttu suurele külastajahulgale. Konflikte, kriitilist dialoogi või provokatsioone pole mõtet otsida, küll aga võib väljapanek õhutada külastajate sisemise monoloogi ja emotsionaalsete isiklike tõlgenduste esile kerkimist.

Sisult sotsialistlik, vormilt demokraatlik! 
Evelyn Raudsepp 
EKLi 14. aastanäitus ei lõhna halvasti, ei ärrita sotsiaalset närvi, ei küsi arvamust näituse kui sellise olemuse kohta ega palu kunsti oma peas ise välja mõelda. Ta on sõbralik ja värviline nagu kevadine bio-elu-ilu. „Niisama loomupärane nagu taimede tung kevadel nina mullast välja pista, on ka kunstnike soov oma töid avalikult näidata ning publiku huvi saada aimu kunstivaldkonnas toimuvast, kohata vanu lemmikuid ja avastada uusi üllatajaid,“ – nii avab pressiteade näituseformaadi funktsiooni; ilma pretensioonideta, selle vajalikkust kinnitades. Sisult sotsialistlik, vormilt demokraatlik; siit-nurgast ja sealt-nurgast, saagem kõik sõbralikult keskpõrandal kokku!
Kevadnäitus on neutraalne ülevaatus, kus on olulised kaks dimensiooni: vertikaalne ehk vanuseline, põlvkondade kohtumine ning horisontaalne – avatud skaala igast soost ja päritolust kunstnikele. Osaleb 76 kunstnikku (pressiteatel väljakuulutatud 78-st kunstnikust loobusid 2 tööde ülespanemise ajal), kelle keskmine vanus on 54 aastat ning vanima (s. 1928) ja noorima (s. 1992) vanusevahe on 64 aastat. Naiskunstnike kaader tundub esmalt üsna jõuline, kuid tegelikkuses on siiski meeste-naiste osakaal lääneliku tolerantsitundlikkusega täpselt 38/38 (naiskunstnike teoseid on küll rohkem).
Nii pressiteade kui publikuprogramm on kohandunud ennast laiemale publikuringile, kes võib-olla ainult kord aastas näitusel käibki. Ametlik tutvustus garanteerib kindla peale minekut mitme aspektiga – näituse pani kokku žürii: arvamuste paljusus tagab mitmekesisema valiku võrreldes kuraatori ainuisikuliste eelistustega; „nagu hea tava ette näeb, esitatakse „värsket kraami”“ – kevadnäitus võimaldab laiemal publikul kunstiasjadega päevakajaliselt kursis olla; eksponeerimiseks valitud “salonginäituse” formaat pakub eelkõige traditsioonilisi meediumeid nagu maal, graafika ja skulptuur. Kõikidele vanuserühmadele kohandatav publikuprogramm „Kokkulepete aeg“ keskendub traditsiooniliste kunsti- ja näituseformaatide püsimajäämisele ning arenemisele. Oma vormilt jääb ka publikuprogramm traditsiooniliseks, pakkudes ekskursiooni giidiga.
Aastanäitus on oma funktsioonilt turvaliselt paigas: see on sotsiaalne ettevõtmine, kus kohtuvad sõbramehelikult kunstnikud ning mille raames jõuab kunstile lähemale ka publiku võõristavam pool. Kogu näitust saadab demokraatlik „Kõigil on võimalus!“ ja põue poebki soe ja pehme tunne nagu igal kevadel õietolmu sädeleval lendlemisel...

Positiivsusest kaasaegses kunstis 
Helen Ikla 
Aastanäituse sõnum on positiivne: kunstnikele pakutakse võimalust eksponeerida oma viimase aja loomingut ning külastajatele luuakse ruum, kus taaskohtuda vanade lemmikutega ja avastada enda jaoks uusi nimesid. On loodud meeldiv, sõbralik ja isegi nostalgiline keskkond, kus kunsti ja rahva vahel puuduvad harjumuspärased vastandused ning leitud on teatav tasakaal ja rahulik kooseksisteerimine. Ja tõesti, ka näituseruumis valitseb omamoodi idüll, milles soliidsed härrad ja kaunid daamid kulgevad rahuliku keskustelu saatel kunsti vaadeldes. Nii luuakse aga Kunstihoones teatav nihestatus reaalsusest. Kui tegemist peaks olema läbilõikega kunstist ja ühiskonnast, tekib küsimus, kas Eesti kunsti hetkeolukord selle suhetes üldsusega on tõesti nii probleemivaba?
“Kevadnäitus” loob nägemuse sootsiumist, kus kunst ja ühiskond puutuvad kokku vaid kord aastas, et siis sama targalt oma liistude juurde naasta. Žürii eesmärk ei olnud koostada kriitiliselt suhestuvat näitust ning sellise otsusega asetub näitus aga kaasaegses kunstielus pigem marginaalsele positsioonile. Tänane näitusekülastaja on tõenäoliselt juba harjunud ekspositsioonidega, mis esitavad talle väljakutse ning seavad kõige ilmsemaid eeldusi kahtluse alla. Kunsti ühiskondlik roll on juba pikemat aega olnud üldtunnustatule vastutöötamine, mis tähendab, et olemasolevate väärtuste taastootmine on muutunud suurimaks paheks. Pole põhjust uskuda, et Eesti kunst ei reageeri hetkel avalikkuses toimuvale, kuid valitud esitamisviis summutab võimalike kriitiliste tööde hääle ning hakkab hoopis takistama kunsti suhestumist ühiskonnaga. Esitades teoseid ilma konkreetse eesmärgita kõikvõimalikes suundades liikuva hoomamatu massiivina, muutuvad tööd lihtsalt objektideks.
Eelnev ei tähenda, et kaasaegses kunstis või selle eksponeerimises ei võiks esineda positiivsust või isegi lihtsat rõõmu loomingu üle, kuid aastanäituse-laadne eksponeerimisviis võib oma demokraatlikus paljususes muuta tööd ise täiesti vaikivaks. Kuigi teemaga piiritletud kuraatorinäituste puhul eksisteerib oht olla suunatud vaid väga konkreetsele osale publikust, saab siiski ehk väita, et see publik lahkub näituselt veidi teistsugusena kui sinna saabudes.

Tühistatud kokkulepped 
Brigita Reinert 
Kunstihoones tervitab kevadnäituse külastajate Robin Nõgisto töö „Love Folk“, mis iseloomustab hästi kogu näitust: kirju, mitmetasandiliste pindade ja erinevate võimalike maailmade kohtumine. Tervikut ei moodusta teadlikult ka kogu näitus ise nagu sätestab pressiteade: „Kevadnäituse teeb põnevaks kindla kontseptsiooni puudumine ning püsimine klassikalise formaadi ja n.ö. traditsiooniliste meediumide piires, samas neid piire uudishimulikult kombates“.
 Kuidas mõtestada näitust, mis on laetud ühise toetuspinnata lugudega? Marc Augé on rääkinud ülimodernsusest, mille tunnuseks on liiasus. See seisneb sündmuslikus, tähenduslikus ja ruumilises külluses. Nii on kujunenud kohad ja mittekohad, kus kohta seostatakse identiteedi, suhete ja ajalooga ning ruum, mida ei saa vastavalt määratleda, moodustab mittekoha (nt lennujaamad, supermarketid). Mittekoht on laetud tähenduslikust ja ruumilisest üliküllusest ning muutunud ebaisikuliseks.1
Kuigi infoküllust on tihti mõistetud negatiivses võtmes, võib siit leida ka teistsuguseid aspekte. Teoreetiliselt on mittekoht individuaalse vabaduse absoluut ehk ruum, millest ei saa välja lugeda sotsiaalseid suhteid – antud juhul võiks seda mõista siis kui võimalus, kus iga sisenev näitusekülastaja saab oma vaatajakogemuse lähtuvalt oma minast määrata.
Augé järgi on tänapäevases maailmas kohad ja mittekohad põimunud. Nii on ka Kevadnäituse puhul: ühelt poolt tõstab see esile klassikalise näituseformaadi; teisalt leiab tööde seast paar intrigeerivat sisselõiget. Tiiu Kirsipuu skulptuur „Koodid: Leonhard Lapin“ ja Grisli Soppe „Linda“ mõjuvad mõlemad leebelt irooniliselt ja osutavad näituse võimalikele varjatud hoovustele, kuid need paar viga mustris vajavad aga kogu muu ülikülluse hulgas tähelepanelikku märkajat. “Kevadnäitus” võib toimida nii koha kui mittekohana, sõltuvalt külastaja enda taustast ja suhestumisest antud väljapanekuga.

1 Augé, Kohad ja mittekohad. Tallinn: TLÜ Kirjastus, 2012, lk 101.

Võimatu kohtumine 
Anne Vetik 
See kevad tuli Kunstihoonesse teisiti, tavapärase Eesti Kunstnike Liidu aastanäituse asemel ootab uudishimulikke külastajaid üllatus. Kõigil huvilistel on võimalik 4. maini tutvuda 78 autori ühistöös valminud installatsiooniga, mis samas küll osavalt teeskleb, et ta seda pole. Ilmselt valis tundmatuks jääda soovinud kuraator näitusepinnaks Kunstihoone sooviga paigutada oma suurteos “Kevadnäitus” dialoogi seal eelnevalt aset leidnud Kunstnike Liidu Aastanäituste traditsiooniga. Traditsioon säilib, kuid jätkusuutlikuse nimel oli see sunnitud kaasaegse kunsti poolt esitatud nõudmiste valguses muutma oma vormi, saadeks totaalseks installatiooniks.
Uksel kohtab külastaja suurteost sissejuhatavat performance’it “Piletiost”, mis on tähendusrikkaks eelmänguks näitusesaalides toimuvale. Tegemist on interaktiivse lahendusega, mis reageerib vastavalt iga külastaja ühiskondlikule positsioonile. Näiteks kui teatud ühiskondliku elu sektorites tundub, et publik vanuses 50+ on tõrjutud, siis Kunstihoones võetakse neid vastu avasüli, ilma piletita. Kunsti väljapaneku ruum – Eesti ühiskonnas magrinaliseeritud ala – on mõeldud eelkõige teiste marginaalide vastuvõtmiseks. Kõle eestuba, kus performance aset leiab, võimaldab marginaalidele füüsilisel tasandil samastumist talle harjumuspärase ebamugavustunde tekitamise kaudu.
Installatsiooni territooriumil edasi liikudes jõuame klassikalisse valgesse näituseruumi, mis on minetanud neutraalse pinna tähenduse. “Kevadnäitusel” on valgetest seintest saanud kunstiteose lahutamatu osa, ühtlasi nii selle kaitsev kest kui ka õrn sisikond. Publikul on võimalik jalutada näituse elutähtsate komponentide vahel, mis moodustavad tervikuna rahvusliku kunstikeha ning tunda end täiel määral selle olulise organina. Kunst ei muutu kunstiks ju enne kui ta saab nähtavaks, enne, kui ta ei puutu kokku publikuga. Installatsiooni osiste vahel ringi liikudes kohtame kriitilisi viiteid laiema publiku väljaarendamata kunstimaitsele, Eesti kunstimaailma ühele lemmikprobleemile. Maalid, skulptuurid ning graafika mõjuvad artefaktidena vanast heast ajast, mil ei pidanud süvenema kehva kvaliteediga ülesvõetud videotesse ja kui isegi foto polnud veel oma “kunstipabereid” kätte saanud.
Paralleelselt 20. sajandi kunstimoode tutvustava butiigi õhustiku loomisega jätkub ka marginaliseeritud rühmade esiletoomine: kui publikus on selleks vanem ning vähem varakam generatsioon, siis kunstis on selleks uuemad vormid, mille poolhäbelik kohalolu tekitab pigem kaastunnet kui usku võimalikku retseptsioonimuutusesse. Nende kahe „teise“ – uutmoodi kunsti ja vanamoodi inimese kokkuviimises läbi esimese peitmise ja teise esiletoomise – seisnebki “Kunstinäituse” suurim võlu ja paradoks.

Hea tava 
Marten Esko 
Juba kolmandat korda kannab Eesti Kunstnike Liidu aastanäitus nime “Kevadnäitus”, mis on märk sellest, et aastanäituse formaat on asunud tunnistama oma sisu. Juba kolmandat korda ei soovita olla pseudo-kaasaegne kuraatorinäitus, vaid on lähtutud Ants Juske ettepanekust proovida demokratiseerida tänapäevast kunstielu. Kuid kuidas seletada üldse sellise traditsiooni jätkumist näiteks Anders Härmile, kes on olnud aastanäituste formaadi üks tulisemaid kriitikuid? Seda vastust oleks olnud raskem anda kolm aastat tagasi, kui näitusel oli veel kuraator, kuid nüüd, kus näituse formaat ei ole enam midagi muud kui kõige laiemas mõttes kunstnike hiljutise loomingu esitamine, on vastus konkreetsem: tegemist ei ole kaasaegse näituse, vaid eheda nüüdiskunsti traditsiooniga.
Nüüdiskunst ehk kunst praegu on igasugune kunst kõige laiemas mõttes, mille ühisnimetajaks on ühtne hiljutine valmimisaeg. Sinna hulka kuuluvad ka 21. sajandi kubistid, impressionistid või neo-pallaslased – igasugune nostalgiline, kunagisi paremaid aegu romantiseeriv kunst. Ühe kitsama osana kuulub nüüdiskunsti hulka ka kaasaegne kunst, kuid selle ajamääratlus ei viita otseselt valmimiskuupäevale, vaid lihtsustatult öeldes reaalsele kriitilisele suhestumisele enda kaasajaga ning eneseteadlikule, mitte nostalgilisele või senist kunsti arengut eitavale autoripositsioonile.
Siit tekivadki seosed EKLi aastanäituste stereotüüpse põlvkondadevahelise kriitikaga, sest enne viimast kolme aastat üritati näituse formaati veel kaasaegsena hoida, kuid sisult oli tegemist siiski ainult ühe aastanumbri või motiivi grupeerimisega. Aastanäitus üritas siis veel aktuaalsena näida ning oma killustatuses mingisugust positsiooni formuleerida, sellest hoolimata valmis sisu ja formaadi vastandumisel lõpptulemuseks alati midagi veidrat. Kuid nüüd, kus formaat on sisuga leppinud, ei ole enam otseselt kriitikaks põhjust, sest näitust kui ideelist tervikut või midagi konkreetset, mida oleks veel võimalik kritiseerida, ei eksisteeri – on ainult seisukohata traditsioon; hea tava.

Status update 
Epp Õlekõrs
Võrreldes hiljuti Kunstihoones aset leidnud ANK '64 retrospektiivi ekspositsiooniga, on “Kevadnäituse” kujundus napp: lihtne etiketaaž, näitusel osalejaid ja meeskonda loetlev seinatekst ning valged seinad. Näituse kerget ja ajutist iseloomu rõhutab asjaolu, et külastajaid ei varustata saaliplaani, tööde nimekirja ega pressitekstiga. Samuti jäävad tähelepanuta kunstnike CV-d. Rohkearvulise publiku silme eest käib läbi värskelt valminud looming, tekib 76 status update'i, mille hulgast leiavad kõik külastajad pikemat juttu vajamata oma lemmikud.
“Kevadnäituse” tööde kogumit ei köida tugevalt üheks ei kuraatori sõnastatud ega kujundaja vormistatud positsioon. Näitusekujundaja tagasihoidlikul ärgitusel näeb vaataja väljapanekus vähemal või rohkemal määral omavahel ühenduses olevaid vormilis-tonaalseid gruppe. Välja pole toodud põlvkondlikke eristusi ega sügavamaid ühendavaid sõnumeid. Kaasaegse näituse formaadi juurde kuuluvad lisaks kunstiteostele ka muud komponendid, alustades kunstnikuga tihedas koostöös tegutsevast kuraatorist ja näitusekujundajast ning lõpetades publikuprogrammi loojatega.
“Kevadnäitus” töötabki teises süsteemis, nõukogude ajal publikumenu nautinud ülevaatenäituse formaat ei vajanud kuraatorit. Ka graafiline disain ei olnud end veel ülevaatenäituste traditsiooni kinnistumise aegu eraldiseisvana kehtestanud ning sellest lähtuvalt ei kuulu näitusemeeskonna tuumikusse ka nüüd vaikimisi graafilist disainerit. Nii pole ka fookuses olnud küsimused, mis graafilise disaini seisukohalt tähelepanu vääriksid nagu esitatavate seinatekstide asetus ja loetavuse mugavus. Kuid kuna “Kevadnäitusel” pole kuraatorit, siis kipub tema roll mõnel määral näitusekujundajale üle kanduma. Just kujundaja peab otsustama, milliseid visuaalseid kooslusi moodustada ning mida tuua esile tüpograafia ja infograafika abil.

Kevadnäitus tavavaataja pilgu läbi
Maritta Tukk
 21. märtsil avati Tallinna Kunstihoones eesti Kunstnike Liidu traditsiooniline, nüüd juba 14. aastanäitus, mis kolmandat aastat järjest „Kevadnäituse“ nime kannab. Kuna olen olnud selle näituse iga-aastane külastaja, läksin mõningaid „sahinaid“ ette kuuldes uudishimust elevil näitusele juba avamise päeval lootusega, et seekordne näitus on eriline.
Nagu ikka oli näitusel esindatud maal, graafika ja skulptuur, nooremate autorite poolt ka installatsioonid, videod ning fotod. Kõik oleks nagu paigas – kunsti igale maitsele, millest südamest rõõmu tunda. Vastupidiselt ootustele vajus aga näitus suure laviinina peale, mõjudes pealetükkivana ja jättes välja võimaluse igat taiest eraldi nautida, vähemalt proovida seda teha. Ka kunst, nagu inimene vajab oma privaatruumi. Selline killustatus ja virr-varr ei soodustanud mingit dialoogi teket vaataja ja kunstiteose vahel. Taieste eksponeerimisel puudus igasugune loogika või stiilitunnetus. Uudsemate, põnevamate, kaldun arvama ka nooremate autorite kõrval tundusid vanemate kunstnike tööd nii „ülituttavlikena“ (näit. J. Arraku, T. Pääsukese ja T. Vindi teosed). Kuigi teoste valmimise aasta oli peaaegu käesolev, mõjusid need noorte autorite tööde kõrval koopiamasina eksemplaridena – varasemate töödega võrreldes esineb endiselt sama teema. Siiski ei taha ma vanameistreid maha materdada, eks igal kunstnikul on oma käekiri ja ka lemmiktemaatika. Minu arusaam kunsti eksponeerimisest eeldab, et õiges kontekstis võiks erinevate generatsioonide teoste paigutus paremini esile tulla. Eriti kurb oli vaadata, et suures saalis oli hiljuti meie seast lahkunud Andres Toltsi teos taha nurka otsekui surutud.
Järele mõeldes, ei tohiks kindla kontseptsiooni puudumine olla tervikut lõhkuvaks teguriks. Enne näitusesaalist lahkumist pakkus mõtteainet Maria-Kristiina Ulase „ Tähenduste otsija…“ – kellamehhanismil töötav jäse andis hoogu ja lootust. Ootan 2015. aasta kevadnäitust!

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back

East Art Map is My Phone Book

Liisa Kaljula held a long conversation with the Eastern European performance art scholar Amy Bryzgel who visited Estonia, met artists, art historians and lectured in the Center for Contemporary Arts Estonia in October 2013. The interview was commissioned by the Estonian cultural weekly Sirp shortly before Sirpgate scandal, Artishok is glad to publish - concurrently with the shorter Estonian version in Sirp - its full length version in English after all these months of interregnum.

Your book Performing the East. Performance Art in Russia, Latvia and Poland Since 1980 came out this summer under the UK Publisher IB Tauris and you are already working on another one that addresses a broader area of Eastern Europe, including the former Yugoslavia, Central and Eastern Europe, and the former Soviet countries of Europe, such as Estonia. Yet you are an American scholar living and working in Scotland. What intrigues you in the former Eastern bloc? Is it art or is it politics?

It’s an interesting question that I often get asked. I guess my initial interest came from my own personal background. Two of my grandparents were Polish, and I grew up, as many Americans do, with my own family’s national traditions and customs. When I studied art history, I was painfully aware of the fact that no Polish artists were included in the curriculum – or even visible in the textbooks. I was genuinely curious what the art looked like in all of these underrepresented places in Eastern Europe.

When I finished my Master’s degree, I wanted to travel and live in Europe. Having studied mainly European art in university, this continent, and all of its individual countries, fascinated me. As part of my travels, I went to Estonia, Poland, the Czech Republic and Hungary. I was interested in the way the recent political history had affected the local visual landscape. At the time, one of the easiest ways to live in Europe was to get a job teaching English in Eastern Europe; this was in the 1990s, and English-language schools were popping up all over the place. I ended up working at a college in Czestochowa, Poland, which trained teachers of foreign languages, including English.

I was there for nearly three years, so I learned Polish, and then decided to continue my studies at the PhD level. I chose Rutgers University, in New Jersey, because at that time it was one of the only places where one could do a PhD with a focus on Soviet and Eastern European art, because of the Dodge collection.

Aside from my personal motivations for studying the region, I think what attracts me is the way that art and politics intersect – sometimes overtly, and sometimes covertly. But the socio-historical context is almost always somehow present, and even when it isn’t, this absence is also meaningful. But at the end of the day, I guess that I also just happen to find the artists and art produced in the region really interesting, and really good.

You have been travelling the former Soviet block a lot lately and must have met many Eastern European artists and art historians on your way. The question of whether Eastern Europe has an identity of its own has been haunting me a lot lately, and if we do have something in common with all these countries from former Yugoslavia up to Latvia and Estonia then is it the shared historical trauma mostly or is there something more affirmative besides that?

The issue of “Eastern Europe,” and even the term, is a tricky one. We know that it is a geo-political term, and we should also know that if we use that term, then we are implicitly speaking about many “Eastern Europes,” not only geographically (the situation in Yugoslavia was quite different than in Poland or Lithuania, for example, and even from Romania to Czechoslovakia we see major differences in how communism was implemented), but also temporally (compare Czechoslovakia in the 1960s versus 1970s, or Poland in the 1980s with Hungary in the 1970s, for example). So while on the one hand there is a sense of a “shared historical trauma,” it is also different from country to country, decade to decade.

What interests me with regard to this question is the way that various styles, traditions, and approaches have been shared, imported and exported across this region. We certainly know more about the East’s adoption of Western styles – it is probably most often noted trope. It seems that we know a lot less about the influence that Eastern artists had on Western artists, despite the fact that it is well-documented that artists from the West came to the region and also knew about the art being produced here through mail art and other informal forms of export. The obvious examples are Allan Kaprow’s interest in the work of Milan Knizak, or Lucy Lippard’s inclusion of Czech artists such as Petr Stembera and the Slovenian artist group OHO in her text Six Years: the Dematerialization of the Art Object. But I think the more that we learn about the ways in which artistic practice was shared and distributed both across Eastern Europe and from East to West, the more we will see that there was considerable influence in the direction of East to West, which is not discussed nearly as often as it should be.

Your PhD is from Rutgers University which for the Estonian art circles, is known mainly because of the Zimmerli Art Museum that is under the tutelage of the university and houses the Norton Dodge Collection of Soviet nonconformist art (there is quite some amount of the cream of Soviet era Estonian art in that collection too). What role has the Rutgers University and the Norton Dodge collection played in your research curriculum?

The Dodge Collection was the foundation for my PhD studies, and really my introduction to the art of this region. When I was considering my dissertation topic, I always knew that I wanted to examine art from three different countries within the Soviet sphere of influence – Russia itself, a Soviet Republic, and a Central European country. Because of my experience in Poland, I decided to use my knowledge of the language to further my research. I thought that the Baltics would provide an interesting point of comparison, since these countries are very much part of the European tradition, yet were then cut off from Europe when they were incorporated into the Soviet Union.

I remember sitting in the registrar of the museum, looking through slide after slide in the collection, both to familiarize myself with it, and to select an artist or artist whose work I wanted to investigate. From there, I chose an artist whose work I found really compelling – that was the work of Latvian artist Miervaldis Polis. I was attracted by the use of humour and irony in his work, and the performative element that carried through from his performances into his paintings (or vice versa, really, because he was a painter before he created his performances). I do recall very vividly the collection of Estonian graphic artists that we had in the collection. While I liked their work, I was more interested in performance, which is how I chose my focus.

The Norton Dodge collection – in my mind - also bears historical traces of Western attitudes towards Eastern Europe at the end of 20th century when dissident art was smuggled out of the Soviet Union as an act of saving, whereas the region itself lost essential part of its cultural memory with this act. Have you felt this weight of your predecessors – art historians and art dealers travelling Eastern Europe in the 1990s – while travelling Eastern Europe now in the 2000s?

When I first started my research, back in 2004, I think I did get some apprehension on the part of locals, who felt that I, as an outsider, wouldn’t really be able to understand the local issues, since I hadn’t lived through them myself. I’ve encountered that attitude less and less, although someone did actually say something similar to me just this past summer! I can completely understand this hesitation with regard to “outsiders,” and the fear of being mis-represented. But usually the response to my work is quite positive, once I explain that my approach is really to tease out all of the various nuances within the context of this greater “Eastern Europe.” It’s actually really interesting to see the response of different artists when I ask to meet with them. Many of the younger artists are very interested in being represented now, as they are trying to gain as wide an exposure with their work as possible. Some of the older artists are surprised that I am interested in their work, and happy that I’ve contacted them, because they feel that the world has forgotten them.

How do you work on your field trips in these countries?

To be honest, for my current research I’m using as my guide Zdenka Badovinac’s Body and the East catalogue, together with IRWIN’s East Art Map. I use these texts almost as a phone book – they serve as my starting point whenever I visit a country. From there, I usually contact the local contemporary art center or modern or contemporary art museum, and local curators and art historians. I usually present local curators and art historians with my “list” of artists that I would like to meet, and then ask them to suggest other artists, so maybe this is why it works, because as an outsider I try to approach the scene from within, through the local experts and also texts compiled from within the East.

It has also been really interesting to see the legacy of Badovinac’s groundbreaking exhibition, because the vast majority of artists in that catalogue are still active, and still relevant. Only a token few have abandoned performance, or, sadly, some have since died, but Body and the East still presents an accurate picture of performance art in the region. My text will hopefully complement that one, and also present the subsequent twenty years since it was produced. I suppose that because my focus is performance, and not painting or sculpture – which is predominant in the Dodge collection – the Dodge Collection hasn’t been my point of reference as much for this aspect of my research. But it still remains a phenomenal collection, historical circumstances notwithstanding, and certainly formed the foundation of my initial work on the region.

Has it been difficult to understand the cultural code of Eastern European art as America is perhaps better known to us via TV and internet than Eastern Europe is to you?

I suppose I’ve been lucky in that I managed to start traveling in the region quite early. I made my first trip to Russia in 1996, and then in 1997 I traveled around Europe, as I mentioned, and lived in Poland from 1998-2000. While completing my PhD, after the requisite initial two years in residence at Rutgers, I worked on my dissertation remotely, living in Latvia from 2004-2009. So my vision and understanding of “Eastern Europe” has really been shaped by my experiences there. Although no one can understand a foreign situation completely, I feel that I am able to speak from the position of a very informed outsider, which has both advantages and disadvantages.

On the one hand, while I have the sense that I understand the nuances of the region, I continually have experiences that remind me that I don’t have the whole picture – it is easy to make assumptions based on individual experiences, and I continually have experiences that challenge those assumptions. But another thing that I learned from living in the region is how different each individual experience is from the point of the insider, as well. When locals discuss the Soviet period or the transition times of the 1990s and all voice different perspectives and opinions, and demonstrate different understandings of those times, I wonder how I can ever have a complete picture when even they can’t agree what it was really like! But I suppose that simply underscores the fact that history is never objective, and each perspective is individual and unique, and can provide insight – as long as it is an informed perspective, with strictly defined terms, then it has value.

In Kumu there is a huge European Council exhibition as we speak, which aims to prove that there is no difference between Western and Eastern European contemporary art. There is a point there from one side, as the avant-garde in the East has often been deemed less radical than the avant-garde in the West, but from the other side the conditions in which these avant-gardes emerged were still pretty different, the first acted in public space whereas the second in private or semiprivate space. You first book focused on exactly these differences between performance art in the East and in the West and you pointed out the influence of the art market in the West as the most essential of them. But didn`t the state with its commissions embody the art market in the East?

I absolutely agree that the state in Eastern Europe forms a similar parallel with the Western art market in terms of that entity from which artists wanted to distance or free themselves. In generic terms, much of the artistic work that has been developed in the 19th and 20th centuries has been about rebelling against something. But in specific terms, I think it means something very different to rebel against an academy, a predominant style, an art market, a governmental policy, a repressive regime, etc. I hope that in my work I can discover and highlight the subtleties of these differences.

In the earlier part of the twentieth century, artists throughout Europe were oriented towards the artistic centers in the West – Paris, Munich, Milan. Artists traveled there, and brought back the latest trends and styles – but almost always they made an effort to adapt those styles to local traditions and tastes, and the result was some interesting and innovative artistic forms, which happen to have their origins in the West (although at that time I think the idea was more that these places were considered artistic centers before they were thought of as Western). Take for example Czech Cubism. The style may have originated in Paris, through the collaboration between Picasso and Braque, but the Czechs took that style and ran with it, applying it to furniture and architecture, in ways that the Parisian artists never dreamed of. But this example illustrates that it is not simply a question of East or West, but of a layering of styles, approaches and influences. Because the Czech variant of Cubism happens to have its origins elsewhere in no way diminishes its uniqueness and art historical value.

So, in terms of there being “no difference” between East and West, I suppose it depends what terms we are considering, and also the time period. Indeed, the social and cultural differences between East and West are diminishing, and so many young artists these days are studying abroad and participating in residencies all over the world. So it makes it very difficult to speak of influence and background as homogenous. It should also be remembered that when we speak of the historical avant-garde, it was Eastern European artists who were at the forefront – most notably the Romanian artist Tristan Tsara (Tom Sandqvuist’s 2006 study, Dada East: The Romanians of Cabaret Voltaire addresses this gap in the literature).

Speaking of the neo-avant-garde, I think that what seems like a difference between radical art being enacted in public spaces in the West versus private spaces in the East is actually the result of a gap in the knowledge and literature that is slowly being filled. Even in Romania during the Ceasescu regime, there are examples of public performances (for example, those of Paul Neagu), although they are perhaps more rare than those witnessed in Yugoslavia. In some ways public performances in these places can perhaps be deemed more radical than their Western counterparts, since these public displays were enacted in places where free speech and expression was not the given that it was in the West at the same time.

It is very nice that you have helped make the Western readers acknowledge with your book that avant-garde is also a phenomenon of the East. If we assume that avant-garde is not a game for the insiders of art world but carries a mission in the larger society then do you think performance art has had a special role to play in Eastern European societies that have been struggling in great deal with maintaining free and open society?

I do, actually. My PhD dissertation was in fact focused on performance artists in the region in relation to Western theories of the avant-garde (Burger, Poggioli, Krauss). Their argument is that the avant-garde is either dead or doomed to repeat itself, but in the East the avant-garde actually functioned in many instances as inadvertent political activism. One of the most obvious examples of this was the Bulldozer Exhibition in Moscow in 1974, when artists pushed the boundaries of what was accepted, and the result was an article in the New York Times the day after the show was bulldozed, which forced the city authorities to allow the artist to stage a similar exhibition two weeks later, so as to appear open and tolerant of artistic expression. Each time an artist pushed these boundaries, they inched further and further toward the complete artistic freedom that they would experience in a democratic society. Many agree that the nonconformist artists in the Soviet Union were integral to its fall.

When I was in Croatia, which has a wealth of both older and younger generation performance artists, we were discussing whether performance art was now an exclusively Eastern European phenomenon, as it seems that the genre has really taken hold in the region, following the fall, and one can’t help but wonder if part of the reason – aside from the obvious idea that the body is now reclaimed from the state – is that artists aim to use these radical art forms to help shape these new democracies. By creating a discourse about relevant issues, in a very visceral, and sometimes public form, they can engage viewers in ways that they otherwise wouldn’t, and contribute to the discussion as to how the new societies that are in development should look.

But if to think of many Western exhibitions and books on Eastern European contemporary art, then the traumatic post-socialist Eastern Europe still seems to be the commodity that the Western world is willing to buy. Do you see Eastern Europe as responding to this Western commission to produce art that deals with the pain, with the humiliation?

I think that good art is art that responds sensitively and intelligently to relevant issues, no matter how great or small. The East-West division is an issue that many artists are certainly aware of, whether it is an awareness of the fact that their work is subject to external market forces, now more than ever after the fall of the Soviet Union, or an awareness that the Western market may be looking for something particular from the region – the exoticism that you mentioned – or even just a desire to be a part of the Western canon, for the simple reason of having their work known by a wider audience. I’ve seen a number of artists whose work deals with these issues, but the good ones are the ones that do it sincerely and honestly.

For example, I met a number of artists in Serbia who spoke to me about this phenomenon. Being from a nation that was recently involved in war, artists spoke of the expectation, by the Western curators, for work that directly addressed the war, was somehow about war, or about ethnicity. Vladimir Nikolic’s work engages with these issues directly. His 2004 piece Death Anniversary involved him hiring a dirge singer from Montenegro to sing at the grave of Marcel Duchamp. While Duchamp created the concept of the readymade, which is an object that is removed from its context and given a new meaning or value, Nikolic feels that, as a Serbian artist, he is prevented from participating in that discourse that was started by Duchamp, because of the expectation that his work be somehow about his local origins, or is interpreted through that lens. During the performance, the dirge singer, which represents that ethnicity, is placed directly between him and Duchamp, preventing him from entering the world of contemporary art autonomously. It is a very sophisticated piece that responds to this idea of “trauma” in a highly intelligent way.

The work of Zoran Todorovic is a different case. His work deals with traumas inflicted on the body by society. For example, in his piece Assimilation (1997-2006), he took the discarded pieces of human tissue that no one wants – cartilage and fat that is removed after plastic surgeries, such as liposuction or rhinoplasty – and made it into aspic that attendees of the exhibition opening could eat. The piece refers specifically to the notion of beauty in contemporary society, yet the artist tells me that a lot of people want to see his work as being solely about the Serbian experience, and emerging from the context of violence and war, which it isn’t. I think that Nikolic’s piece illustrates and addresses precisely what artists are up against in the post-Cold War world, and Todorovic is an example of an artist whose work could be misunderstood if subjected to reductivist and uninformed interpretation.

What have you concluded from your research so far - are there any archetypal motifs or themes that seem to unite performance art in Eastern Europe?

I don’t know that I could go as far as to say that there are archetypal themes running through performance art that are unique to Eastern Europe. Many of the motifs that we see with performance art in general, such as gender, or the exposure or destruction of the body, for example, are commonly seen in performance art in general, regardless of whether it is from the East or the West. Of course in Eastern Europe there is the engagement with the local political situation, which varies from place to place, but historically performance art has often functioned in concert with social and political protest. For example, the International Situationists were at the forefront of the protests in Paris in 1968, and the work of feminist artists in North America largely grew out of the civil rights and women’s movements there.

While I was in the former Yugoslav countries this past summer, I did notice a number of artists doing work that voiced protest again the EU. The Slovenian artist Ive Tabar, for example, who actually works primarily as a nurse, but also does performances, has a series of medical performances that he created to voice his discontent with Slovenia’s accession to the EU. I also came across a number of artists doing work dealing with gender, quite often with regard to women’s issues. I found this quite interesting, given that the East did not experience the same sexual revolution as in the West, nor were there definite feminist movements like those in North America or Western Europe.

For example, looking at the recent work of Borjana Mrdja, from Banja Luka, Bosnia, one sees striking similarities with the work of Croatian artist Sanja Ivekovic, however Mrdja was unaware of that work when she created hers. In 2009, Mrdja created a series of self-portraits entitled Enthroning, made from a make-up removal wipe that she pressed to her face, and which retained the traces of her make-up from that day, and resembled a self-portrait. In 1975-6, Ivekovic’s Diary also presented the remnants of the artist’s make-up, in the form of cotton balls and tissues used to remove it, together with photographs from women’s magazines of women made up in garish make-up. Much of her work from this time deals with notions of beauty and fetishizaton of make-up, much like Mrdja’s does today. Ivekovic was one of the few female artists in Eastern Europe at that time dealing with issues of gender. Perhaps the work of Mrdja, among others, suggests an awareness, among artists, of the significant work yet to be done with regard to gender issues in the region.

In Estonia, people do not identify with the concept of Eastern Europe much, as the politicians keep telling them that Estonia will soon be among five richest countries of Europe and wipe the dust of history from its feet. The reality is more diverse than that of course, though we have to agree that the former Eastern block has started to differ more and more in the 21st century, Estonia is strongly pro free market economy, Hungary has chosen an ultra right wing path, Ukraine is not supporting the citizen society etc. What have you experienced in your field trips – is Eastern Europe a historical phase rather than cultural region and geographical term? And if so, then are you as a researcher of Eastern European performance art collecting and conceptualizing the ephemeral, the temporary, the disappearing?

 Just as each nation in the Eastern bloc adopted state-sponsored socialism in different ways, it is interesting to see how each one transitions into a free-market democracy. I think that’s why while it is convenient to use the term “Eastern Europe” to refer to a geo-political region, one must at the same time acknowledge the differences, with the East, from region to region, and nation to nation. That is also why I think the model of local, national, regional and international contextualization is important when looking at the art produced here, in order to acknowledge the many layers of history at work, influencing the cultural sphere. I like the idea of “capturing the ephemeral,” not just with regard to performance art, but to the history as well.

Having travelled in the region since the mid-1990s, I’ve had the opportunity to witness first-hand how much these places have changed. It isn’t just the Western chain stores and the presence of things like Starbucks on the main square, but the way that each country is now marketing various aspects of local culture. For example, it is interesting to see the different products presented by each nation as an assertion of local national cultural identity, with restaurants and souvenir shops offering unique traditional cuisine and hand-made products. So while the political differences between East and West are disappearing, what seems to be appearing in its place is an assertion of the individual national identities that can now be found in Europe. This is an example from the tourism and commercial industries, but I think it also informs perceptions of the region, both in terms of the insider (how he chooses to represent himself) and the outsider (how the nation is perceived).

In your blog you said you were surprised that Estonia has such amount of performance art. Was it because of the nordic shy stereotype you had of Estonians? Or did Latvians tell you that it`s pointless to go up north from here as there is nothing there?

Ha ha, I did hear my fair share of local neighbor jokes when living in Latvia, but none about artists! Having been doing research on Latvian performance art for years, I suppose I expected a similar representation of performance artists in Estonia. Latvia doesn’t have a strong tradition of performance art, and the examples I found seem to be unique – but shining – examples in contemporary art. (That said, I have spoken with those who disagree that performance isn’t a popular genre in Latvia. Instead, they say that it simply hasn’t been represented adequately in the literature).

 The other reason I was surprised is that in terms of area and population, Estonia is one of Europe’s smaller nations, so the idea that having so many significant performance artists per capita seemed surprising. I suppose it shouldn’t be, considering the Baltic legacy of both the Singing Revolution and the Baltic Chain – two very artistic and performative forms of resistance that helped these nations break from the Soviet Union. But as to the reason why Estonia seems to have a greater cohort of active performance artists in comparison to Latvia and Lithuania is something I haven’t yet figured out – but maybe it really isn’t something that needs to have a reason.

Whom inspiring have you met in Estonia? Have Estonian artists changed in any way your understanding of art in the former Eastern bloc?

Every artist that I met in Estonia was captivating in a different way, and I would hate to single one out or omit another. After speaking with Al Paldrok, I was really intrigued by the phenomenon of Non Grata, which represents an art that can really exist outside of the institution, and be the result of a collective effort – at least I feel that it was that way in the beginning. Tanel Rander told me about “Oak Night,” which he described to me as more of a religion than an artistic project, based around the city of Tartu. I found this approach interesting, the idea that a philosophical ideal or religious state of mind can take on the characteristics of a piece of art. I was really fascinated with the work of Flo Kasearu, from her pieces dealing specifically with the Estonian identity and migration (Estonian Sculpture, Multi Travels, Estonian Dream) to her more recent work with the Flo Kasearu Museum, where she places her whole life on exhibit. I think that she addresses a variety of significant issues in really sophisticated and nuanced ways.

It was also really interesting to meet artists such as Siim-Tanel Annus, Raul Meel and Raivo Kelomees, who were doing such vanguard work in the 1970s and 1980s. Hearing them tell me about the challenges they faced getting their work done during that period was like witnessing a piece of history. It is interesting to see the different issues that artists faced in different periods, and the different topics that their work addressed. Kai Kaljo’s video performance, Loser, was a very topical piece when it was created, and really informs the viewer about the situation for an Estonian artist in the 1990s. It was also exciting to meet Jaan Toomik, and then see the work of his students, Sandra Jõgeva and Mai Sööt, whose work, I think, bears traces of his influence. I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to meet Raoul Kurvitz, whose work with Group T I know was very influential in the 1990s. Nor did I manage a meeting with Marko Raat, although I am happy that I was able to view his film, For Aesthetic Reasons, which I loved. I even met with the dancer Kaspar Aus, who told me about a piece that he had done with Raul Meel, so the crossover and interrelation between artists in this very compact art scene was stimulating to witness.

As to whether these artists have “changed my understanding” of Eastern European art, I think that they certainly have, given the range, variety and sophistication of their work. But as to how Estonian performance art fits into the whole of my study, I hope to be able to offer a more intelligent answer in the text of my book. The problem with this very intense research is that, when travelling from country to country, there is very little time for reflection on all of the information that I have taken in. I am looking forward to poring over these materials through the winter, before I start traveling again next spring.

It is extremely exciting to see how Eastern Europe is constructed from the West, which art works are chosen to represent Eastern Europe, made emblematic symbols of Eastern Europe etc. Do you already know which art work is going to be on the cover of your next book?*

I realize that in writing a book entitled Performance Art in Eastern Europe I am unwittingly constructing that history, but it really isn’t my aim. For the purposes of my research, I am trying to meet as many artists as possible whose work delves in any way into the performative – this includes artists who work on participatory artworks or even those who do staged performance and photo performances. I don’t feel that these artists necessarily represent the local culture, nation or region from which they come. Rather, their work is interesting, and might happen to address local issues, but it can’t simply be reduced to being representative. This is especially true for artists working nowadays, when international travel is so prevalent – as I mentioned, many of the young artists I meet today come with a range of experiences, both from within their own countries and from foreign travel and residencies.

Rather, I prefer to think of my research as seeking to meet with interesting and engaging artists, who sometimes happen to refer to local influences, and other times consider global issues. Marjan Crtalic, for example, who is based in Zagreb, Croatia, does a lot of work that references very specific social and political issues in the small town of Sisak, where he is from, but the universal themes that his work touches upon makes it relevant to a more global audience. Milena Jovicevic, from Montenegro, does work that specifically references gender issues significant to the local community, referencing the patriarchal society in Montenegro and the great divide between women of the older and younger generation. But because these issues can also be understood on a more global level, they have universal application and significance to a wider audience. I think this range of relevance is what often makes good art – the fact that it can be read and understood on many levels gives it a much greater depth.

As for the cover art, that is a good question. I.B. Tauris did such a great job with the cover to Performing the East that I don’t know how to top it. But I am sure that I will come up with something! During my travels I have met so many interesting artists and seen so many engaging and unique works of art. It will be difficult to select just one, but whichever work makes it to the cover will hopefully be an invitation to buy it, open the book, and read beyond the cover, which will reveal a wealth of artwork that will continue to delight the reader’s eye and mind beyond the surface appearance. At least that is my hope! 

*On the cover of Performing the East one can find the image of the Latvian artist Miervaldis Polis`s performance Bronze People's Collective Begging (1989).

Voldi lahti / Unfold

Lükka kokku / Fold back