Monday, 7 January 2019

The brave Artist

Why do I always feel that all I'm doing is not enough?
That I should be doing giant artworks.
Something so cool that everybody would be shit amazed.
And yet…no still I know that that is never the right starting point for a new work.
You just can not think like that. And still I do. And I feel ashamed.

Why do I often feel that art can’t just be simple art anymore?
Why isn't it enough to just create stuff at home and then show it somewhere within a fitting context?
Why do I feel that I need to go to the gallery space and fit in something giant. Like another building or an elephant.
Why can't I just happily hang my photos or drawings on the wall?
Why do I feel that that is not enough?
Why does it have to be so God damned crazy?

And then when I have finally managed to do something in the space like pissing on the floor (because I'm an older artist but still cool) the audience comes and pretends they understand everything.  How can they do that when I barely grasp a half of what has been going on in my thinking process?

Where did the naivety disappear? Why was that bad? Who told me to stop being honest and poetic?
Like there was something truly wrong with that.

Yes. Yes I understood it. It was dumb. And who wants to be dumb?
Not the artist.

Unfortunately. It takes guts to be different.

Wednesday, 7 November 2018

 A semi crappy text about Jesus and God and their believers

I do not know Jesus at all.

I have not met him.

Or been in touch with him.

They told me a lot about him when I was a child.

I remember thinking that he had a quite exiting life.

Then they tried to make me believe that he would return.

They also talked about his father. A lot.
This guy called God.

He was always in heaven.

My grandmother had a painting of a bearded quite handsome man sitting on a mountain overlooking a valley.
There was this halo on top of his head & he was wearing something resembling sheets. He had long brown soft hair.

I never really could get if he was jesus or God.

The same guy was also appearing in a picture where he was escorting two small children over a bridge.
Probably because a thunderstorm was about to start.

I do not know. Was that Jesus?

When I grew older I heard that he died on a cross.

Mel Gibson made a crappy 3 hour movie about this. Watching it was like torture.

Then I heard that Jesus never died on that cross. That some people rescued him & took him to India.

Or Spain. Or Japan.

What ever. It's all very confusing.

Anyway, with a mature skepticism I have to admit that all these bible stories are just that - stories.

I get the point that it's nice to believe  in something.
Let's say when you're sad and you don't have anyone to call then it's quite comforting to talk to an imaginary character like God or Jesus.
And it's even better because loads of other people also do that.

But why on earth do some people think that a problem is solved because we talk to an imaginary man?

I guess it can give strength -  it's sort of similar to meditation...

So, let's then think about why people who truly believe in these guys, Jesus & God, why are they so against people with other believes?
Why can't they love other people with other values and ideas?
Why do they believe they are right just because they believe their God is the right God?

Throughout history the men of God & Jesus have committed terrible bloody crimes.

It does not seem like a system I want to support. Unfortunately. Sorry about that.

Thursday, 4 February 2016

It was again one of those days when she had decided to get up early to work like a normal person.
She would first read news and emails  while drinking a coffee and then she would write great proposals that would be taken seriously by the members of the juries.

That was the plan.

It did not really go the way she had wished for.

She ended up spending to long on Facebook, reading to many news that made her depressed and drink way to many coffees and smoke to many cigarettes.
After 2 hours she felt sweaty and sore in the throat. She was getting sick.

She still continued trying to work.

She made a to do list. Threw some outdated undone opportunity documents away.
Stared out in the room and wrote a text about all the things that were waiting for her in the studio.
Perhaps that could become a manuscript she thought tiredly.

What was the point anyway?

Everything had already been done and anyway Banksy was the only one who always continued to surprise the people.
She would never become like Banksy,

She was mediocre.
Laying on the sofa, she stared at the tissue with Obamas face on it.
Her mother  had bought it for her in Kenya the same year Obama was elected president.
She always wanted to do something cool with that tissue.

She thought about the Putin article that she had saved.

Putin and Obama. Two guys who made her life miserable.

Well, it was not only the two of them, there was of course a bunch of other greedy corrupted people that added to the misery.

How could she change that? And would it matter?

Nobody seemed to really think the system was great - people were to tired and just busy getting on with their lives.
There was no real moment of revolutionary thinking.
Well, at least in the crowds surrounding her.

She didn't know people who knew Snowden or Assange or Manning. Or Naomi Klein.

Those  that she considered heros. Possibly the biggest of all times.

Exposing huge secret things like that. Wow. She never exposed anything. Not even her boobs.

What could she do there in her silent corner?

How would one start a silent revolution?

Tuesday, 1 October 2013

något måste ske

vad säger man åt en 10åring som vill blotta sina bara axlar? hon drar alltså ned tröjan över axeln.
Man säger kanske att nej, det där är inte snyggt. men visst det är jätte snyggt säger hon och drar ned min tröja också.
Jag drar fort upp min tröja över axeln. Jag klär  mig inte så.

Klär mig inte så. Vad menar jag? sexigt? utmanande?

Det är alltså så jag/vi ser det? redan en bar axel är provocerande.

Man kan bli våldtagen om man visar axel.

Ska jag säga att det ser "billigt" ut? Menar alltså porrigt.

En 10åring ska inte se porrig ut.

Det är vi alla överens om.

Även om hon själv tycker att det är snyggt.

Och varför tycker hon att det är snyggt?

Var kommer det ifrån?

Hon måste ha sett det någonstans?

Och sedan då varför ska hon inte som flicka och tja jag med som kvinna få gå omkring med blottade axlar utan att känna oro över att bli överfallen?

Lyckligtvis vet hon inte riktigt ännu att det finns kåta våldtäkts monster runt kring henne. Och hon förstår inte sambandet ännu.

Men spelar dendär axeln så stor roll?

Monstret kommer att försöka sig på henne vad hon än har på sin kropp.

Och trots att hon säger nej.

Vad skall jag säga åt henne?

var försiktig. skyl dina axlar. skyl din kropp.

gå inte ut. inte ensam.

ta med dig din bror. ja, just det, din bror. en man. du behöver en man.
först din far, sedan din bror, och sedan din man.

jag blir trött.

såhär ska det inte vara.

allt är så djävla fel.

minns också plötsligt nån suddig kväll från 1989 eller 1990. Jag är omkring 14, 15. Är ute och roar mig med vänner.
Vi blir bjudna till en fest hos några äldre män. Dom är loosers domdär gubbarna, vi vet det. Men dom bjuder på cigg och sprit.
Vi utnyttjar dom. Och jag minns helt klart att männen förväntar sig något av oss i gengäld.
Dom vill dansa och hångla. Kanske också knulla.

Jag minns att någon trycker mig mot en vägg och skrattar. Jag ålar mig ur situationen och lämnar lägenheten.
Efter en stund kommer några andra vänner också ut.
Vi hade tur.

Men blev någon kvar där inne?

Det minns jag inte. Kanske vi hade tur. Kanske var just dom männen inte våldtäktsmän men dom såg oss som horor.

Dom såg mig som en hora.

I vuxen ålder har jag alltid köpt mina egna cigg och egna drinkar. Med egna pengar. Jag vägrar att köpas. Jag är inte till salu.

Men trots mina egna pengar och allt så har jag ibland varit rädd.

Nu är jag nästan 40 och ska tala med denna lilla tjej. Vad är mitt bästa råd?

Ta inte emot cigg och drinkar av okända män.

Alltså samma sak som hon hörde senn hon var 4. Gubbar med karameller är farliga.
Alla gubbar som vill nåt är farliga. varför det behöver du inte veta…

men nu när hon är 10 och snart 12, 13 och 14…finns kanske dom gubbarna intryckta i små tonårs killar.
Tonårs killar som säkert till vardags är trevliga och hövliga.

Men i grupp blir dom en äcklig gubbe som bara ska ha o ha. slicka dendär bara axeln. och lägga handen över munnen och vägra förstå  nej och gråt.

samhället är ruttet och vi måste ändå tala med henne. Och framför allt honom.

Friday, 4 January 2013

Thoughts about TIME and the mystery of getting up early...

loving it when time really feels like its going slowly.
Of course it is not going slowly but perhaps I am just more attentive to it and actually enjoying every minute.
This I guess is what old people do.

We always joke about them, saying that they get up at 5 in the morning - haaa! to do what?
or we say they get up because they can't sleep. On the contrary!!!

I have now solved the mystery of the getting up so early.
Because this way you can really enjoy EVERY single minute.
To really feel that there is no rush - because this way you wont feel stressed or pressed.

Of course if you get up at 5.30, by 7 am you will have a look at the time and see that its only 7.00 and sigh happily and go on reading the paper and perhaps nap a little. Because at 8.00 you will be up and running like a "normal " busy person…

Am I on to something or am I?

...probably super evident to someone else but for me who has been sleeping  half of my life and sleeping deep this is something truly amazing & new.

it was a while ago but here we go!!!!

...of course I want to make some money on my work, my art - but mainly I want to show it.

To everyone who wants to see it.

I am not an audience snob.

On the contrary.

But sometimes I need to think before I say "yes". As when I was asked if I wanted to have some of my works on a feminist art video web site. I was not 100% sure first. I guess I felt a sting of fear or nervousness about being put in a corner and therefor not accepted anymore in the hip cool contemporary art scene … The scene that in my dark fearful mind was portrayed like a curator; hip, black slick clothes, sneering from a high pedestal down at the murky desperate feminist hippies …

Then I had to tell my self to calm down.

Take a deep breathe and ask your self. Who are you? And do you care how others see you?
And who are the others exactly?

The slick priestess of curating?
The hipster art audience?
Or mom and dad?
 Friends from high school?
Your boyfriend and the french intellectuals who talk and talk?
The woman at the Delhaize cashpoint?
The guys at the wood shop?


- all of them, you answered, without a doubt.

Of course. All of them.

 And voilá,  feel relieved.

You can show your work where ever you want.

Perhaps even at the cashpoint at Delhaize.
And in a gallery.

Nobody owns your words and images. Not even you.
Because that is why you started creating words and images in the first place.

To share them. Not possesing.

Sunday, 6 May 2012

1 heureka thing this morning

today I realized why I am a visual artist. Or video artist, which is probably the term that is closest to what I do. It's all very simple. So, I am a video artist: Because I am a writer who can not finish a longer text and a painter who can't really grasp the idea of painting. So I scrabble and make collages of images and texts that somehow all together becomes something resembling a narrative and a collage of images. Some of the images and some of the lines of words being brilliant, some of them mediocre and some probably shite. But that's it I guess and hell yeah, it's quite fun. And another fact is being personal. As a starting point. It's not narcism. It's just a method to cope with life and reality. From history to current issues.