На глубине политик опыта – In the depth of the politics of experience

I was born by the sea, in a place where now peace combines with the shadows of the war. I remember the first time I opened my eyes under water: Suddenly
Four green walls around me, Four green walls around me, And the light was shimmering through the surface, It was a different world, and I was a part of it For as long as my breath could last. These days, I was thinking about creativity as depth These days, I was thinking about creativity as depth How the surface of life is revealed and what is beneath it How the experience is brought out and how it blends with you – With your body, your eyes, your mind. We can call it art, or politics, or life, or a hundred of other words The problem for me is not in the words, or the number of languages, But in who and what is saying, who and what Can and wants to hear. I think that when Anna says ‘Let her speak’, it is a political gesture It is about the fact that when you are ‘her’, you are in a specific place, And it is not only ‘in the kitchen’. It is about a place in the lives of others. About the way we are taught not to hear important things, If they are spoken by ‘her’. We can call it sexism, internal misogyny, explain with complex terms, But ‘Let her speak’, is, of course, not only about this, it is also about something else. It is about people who give you their oxygen When you are suffocating. It is about those who are sitting beside you and waiting, while you are catching breath It is about those with whom we live, with whom we share feelings, life and words: “I want have as much self-confidence, as she does” It is about best friend Liza, who will simply say: ‘You are cool and sweet’. ‘You are cool and sweet’. Solidarity as a gift of interconnection – does it resonate or not? Resonance – as a quite trembling inside, To listen and to hear. What does equality mean in the world that is not equal? Where the West from the capital W is still important? Europe for ‘them’ ends with Vienne or Berlin, And further – “outer space”, muddy waters, desert. When we scream, who can hear us? Who can see our blood in the water? Roberta knows, what it is like – to stand among the voices, To want to gather them and carry to those who have the power To keep the stories of others in memory and not let them disappear, To remind of the history to those who want to forget. Solidarity as an action – to hear, to help, to change. And I don’t totally agree with the rhetoric of the ‘human rights’, And it is a bit risky, like jumping in the water at a run, – To speak about others. But if we speak together with others, We have something to say. We can say about what hurts us and what makes us warm We can exist despite the powers that are stronger than us. And if the world is the theatre of capitalist brutality, What is our role? Who are you in this reality? What does it mean to be yourself, when what you can become Is defined beforehand, put on different shelves? What does it mean to change the language of everyday, When everything speaks of your uselessness, As you are not a member of a normative society. Others have the right to your name, Others have the power to create diagnoses, To lock you somewhere, to eliminate you from reality, To run after you on the street, to throw ink at you, To put a stamp on a travel ban. To mark you with a stigma and tie weight to you, Or close their eyes and just do nothing. And even the set of identities Won’t make them see personalities in us. But people are not letters, and not even terms, We are always more than what is measured for us. And maybe the answer is – to unite, To go against authorities, to make art without money, And maybe the answer is to create different lives, To destroy with creation all that hangs on us. And I am being told: Now my door is always open, because then the door was closed and I couldn’t leave. And I am being told: Yes, in our country Internet can be accessed only through passport, and we can’t go on actions but it doesn’t mean that we can’t do anything. We have other instruments. And I am being told: When I was a teenager, there was no information that could help me in understanding and accepting myself. All I could do was to write a diary, and through it, to find at least some resource for myself, and to keep the hope that it won’t be so difficult forever. And I am being told: Give me your email,because in our country facebook can be banned tomorrow. And I am being told: We have a pause now. We want to understand what we can do. We are lucky we survived. And some of those who said it are here now. And some are not with us. But I hear them. We dive deeper, we almost touch the bottom. I know Hagra for a long time, Hagra has his own depth. Hagra knows how much salt is in the word ‘solidarity’ When among ‘our kin’ there is racism, discrimination and elitism, When you are made into a peculiar creature To get proud of one’s own tolerance – now we are certainly better. When you are simplified to one part of you, But please, just be silent and happy. To not hear, to not believe, to not accept – Solidarity is not easily built, but is easily fucked up. And the truth seems to be so simple and clear: Just listen to others and do not do shit to each other, Just slowly build this building on a hill, Even if we are broken columns inside. Just like adelinaa, I have little faith in contemporary art That has too many extra meanings, and too little feelings. I believe in being devoted to your work and people, in confident lines. I like when people on the drawings look as if they are alive. We create our worlds and share them with others, We search for our own voice, style, say the word that hasn’t been spoken before. We discover people, we observe how their faces change, We fly – neither up, nor down, like the birds in drawings, We follow somebody’s footsteps and traces to the place we can safely hide Maybe, we are just dreaming of the new world, and maybe, we are not only dreaming And when I swim on the surface of life I believe in this different world, And that we will be its part For as long as our breath can last.

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