memoires from a greek residency

yes, imagine how people lived without electricity.
they did not stay up in the late hours. they went to sleep when it got dark.

Im sitting here in candlelight. Alone. In the greek mountains. There is thunderstorm.
I can not see the mountains - they are covered in mist.

But I have my MacBook Pro - thanks Steve Jobs.

It's giving me a little light. I just hope the 77% of battery will last for a while.

I hope my 6 candles will last.

I hope the dear electricity comes back soon.

What if I need to have a shit?

I can't find the toilet in the dark.

I will poo in a pot.





what is this whole glamour stuff? I mean in the art scene?
are artists glamourous or are the hang arounds the glam ones?

I mean…artists who often deal with tough issues, concern their work about serious things, reveal themselves almost to the bone etc - how could they in the end be glamorous?

I mean yes, in one sense probably, in their leisure time…

or perhaps there are the different ones…the glam artists and the serious ones.
And what about shyness? I always find artists to be quite shy. If they are not drunk or on drugs. Quite introverted actually. Not wanting to be the center of attention…

I am 36. an artist. currently sitting alone in a house in the mountains of Lefkada, Greece. I am working. This is not glamorous.

"Το αύριο, θα είναι καλύτερο."





Tomorrow will be better.

being here now all by myself the 4th day i realize I do not want to go and see or meet people.
I do not wish to speak about money.
I read the news every morning. I read about Greece and its debts.
I read about the protests. In Athens, on Wall street.
I know I should do something. Take action. At least react.
But now I rather see the ants getting drunk from spilt Ouzo on the terrace floor.
I rather spend time with the cats than think of money.
A sleeping cat in a country of economic crisis. Life has to go on...
The old bent down ladies in black going on with their daily routine.

I watch a leave fall.
Smell the fresh laundry.

I was never rich.
I never had a pool.
I never knew anyone with a pool.
I never wished to have one.

Being rich, that is what I am now.
Sitting here writing in the greek mountains.
Watching a cat sleep.
Smoking and drinking Ouzo before lunch.

Is it a privilege?

a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group of people.


Well, tomorrow I will wear a bikini and make a nasty piece about a woman who does not care about banks, national debts, BNP and the IMF.

"Virginity, virginity, where have you gone, leaving me abandoned?
No longer I will come to you, no longer will I come"

Sapfo

starting the writing...

images of Chernobyl, Fukushima, Nuke bombs


I will never forget April 26th 1986.
I am 11
We have just moved here.

for several years we are not allowed to pick mushrooms.
there were rabbits born with 5 legs and 3 ears.

the winds were northwestern.

but it's all going to get worse. much worse.

26 years later it's still hovering over the town.
It is still a major threat all over the world.

It is a ticking bomb. It will never go away.

I still fear it.

Lets go back to 1764..?
the town is a stopover for the king & his entourage. They would stop here and dine.
The restaurant is still there. The ceilings are very low. The king was a short man.
In 1786 ??? the town gets a new name, a name of a Queen.

It becomes a famous spa & health resort for wealthy people.
the town boasts with casinos, hotels, tennis courts & cultural events.


The health well also referred to as the radium (180Bq/l) well is said to bring health to everyone who drinks from it. It was somewhere close to my school.

there were enemies and wars fought. fortresses built.

What happened to the radium well?

For a long while the town is unimportant. Nothing happens here. A seaside town proud over the fact that the famous composer spent some summers there.

then in the 1970ies it is decided. It will be built here, outside the town by the seaside. The big plant.

I move here after a divorce. I'm quite a happy child.
Until I learn to read and think for myself. Until I find out about the plant.

My life is changed. For good.

The plant is still here. Now owned by another big company who have nice informative PDFs for downloading on their webpage. They clearly state that they measure the level of radiation in the local community. Everybody is healthy,safe and happy.

the locals are radiant.

we used to joke about that.

the name of the company that owns the plant is visible all over. It supports the local sports teams. kids work there during summer holidays. people have bags and clothes with the company name on it. Everybody's parents work there. Nobody is afraid of it.
My mothers boyfriend is a fireman. He works there. We argue a lot. I never like him.

On the schools field day we cycle to the plant. We are given buns & lemonade outside the gates.

We learn to recognize the alarm. We learn to not think about it.

We learn how to move quickly and safely to buses in case of emergency.

I learn that no pets are allowed to company in case of an evacuation.
I try to figure out what to do with my dog Brutus if ever the horror happens.



In the basements there are concrete bomb shelters with heavy armed doors.

Its always cold there. My grandmother keeps potatoes in the basement.
My brothers heavy-metal band practices in the bunkers.

(this town could be anywhere, I could be anyone. This could be a manuscript for a TV drama. But this is all true and nobody seems to care about the dangers).



Go Back to all the places. the familiar and the unfamiliar. Re-enact childhood.
Find a 12year old. a 14year old. a 16 your old. a 19 year old.

Joan, another Karen...

always liked to like something well said.
i should have written this story in another way. I should have made a story. I should have used names. made up names.

It could have been brilliant.

well, from one thing to another - like in weird dreams…today I started reading that book by Joan Didion that I bought in a bookshop on Bergmanstr yesterday. it was a tuesday. I had had lunch with Guergana.

i found these books by Didion. I should have bought them all. I suddenly remembered this interview with her - how much I felt with her. She talked about writing about the loss of her husband - or was it her son...anyway, I had never heard of her before. well I bought 1 book. and after reading 10 sentences I knew I liked her. a lot. after 1 page I knew we were related. and wow, wasn't that a great feeling?

(like when I got the strong urge to go and see Karen Blixens grave in Denmark. She was buried next to her beloved dog. what a woman she must have been. She always wondered if it was raining over Ngono...)

to know somehow that you did find home?

it's all there. the language, the references…amazing. i love that I found her.
I feel so lonely sometimes.

wishing for that grasping feeling of a story that you want to hear but that is not being told as you wish to. and because the storyteller knows better than you what you need and want….but who writes it? who is the storyteller? how do we read a story?


i want to create that story. or a story.

nyskapande kanske lite kul

men varför då? vad då?

vad vill man? hur ska man komma över den där överväldigande känslan att man inget kan göra?
man skriver lite på någon debattsida. man sprider information o bilder mm via diverse kanaler såsom Facebook. Man läser artiklar. man ser web tv. man ser videoklipp från olika tv stationer, nyhetsbyråer - oberoende och statliga.

man talar med nära över en bordsskiva.

men mer då? och hur ska man orka då dumheten och själviskheten känns så fet och tryckande runtom en.

man går in i sig själv. går ut o handlar bara det man behöver. gläds inte över att shoppa onödiga trendiga t-shirts. Inser att man klarar sig fint med dom 2 koftorna man har hemma. Vad ska man se cool ut för i en sketen värld?

Hjälper det dom som har det ruttet? hjälper det dom som torteras? hjälper det djur som dör ut? hjälper det grisarna som lever för att dö?

Och senn då, ska man sitta hemma med sitt vinglas och skriva lite i textredigeraren?

hjälper det?

kan man kanske översätta texten man tangerat till engelska med hjälp av google translate och överföra den till en video som man försöker få in i ett konstgalleri eller en festival i ev kategorin experimentell dokumentär? för det finns ingen kategori för panikartad världsförbättring?

ska man kanske orka ordna en utställning som heter "a better world" eller "give us a chanse to be nice" eller nått annat supersliskigt alltså avsiktligt sliskigt, nästan på gränsen till sarkastiskt.
Bjuda in konstnärer som helt ärligt är inne på att se på världen o dess problem istället för att fiffla med ett material o göra snärtiga prylar som är helt onödiga men kanske småkul. Inte heller bjuda in konstnärer som jobbar med sina trauman eller målar tavlor som är kulörta ytor i olika former.

kanske det. det skulle vara ett kombinerat ställningstagande. kombinerat för att man mått illa över att man gett upp all sin ork för ett aktivt ställningstagande och för att man inte gått in i sin konstvärld o sagt till att det här saknar jag för fucks sakes.

nu blev dethär ju riktigt bra. bra skrivet och sakligt. nyskapande kanske lite kul.