Explaining what I do
I spent some hours yesterday with a good friend of mine who's job is delivering water to business places. We drove around while he delivered huge bottles of water to various places. In one of the places, where it was inconvenient to park, he asked me if I could give him a hand and deliver the water to the designated office and get the receipts signed. I said "sure."
So up I went to the sixth floor of a business complex and knocked on the door. A young smiling lady opened the door and showed me the way to where the water should be placed. Except for greetings and few words of politeness, neither I nor the lady said anything. I then gave her the papers to sign and collected the empty bottles, came back down to the street, threw the empty bottles in the back of the van and we drove to the next place.
I really enjoyed doing this. For the first time I did not have to explain who I was and what I was doing. It was pretty evident what I was doing and who I was, was defined but what I was doing. Where as in my everyday life as a so-called "artist" I am sick and tired of explaining myself and what I do 24/7 to any fucking Mr. or Mrs. Nobody who just happened–through butt kissing–to get a job in a cultural organization, in a gallery, in a theatre, in a film distribution company etc.
Delivering water, a job with meaning. That's what art lacks: meaning. This question has been preoccupying my mind for a long time: "how can I make sure what I do has an actual meaning beyond the empty values and decedent routines of petit bourgeoisie?"
So up I went to the sixth floor of a business complex and knocked on the door. A young smiling lady opened the door and showed me the way to where the water should be placed. Except for greetings and few words of politeness, neither I nor the lady said anything. I then gave her the papers to sign and collected the empty bottles, came back down to the street, threw the empty bottles in the back of the van and we drove to the next place.
I really enjoyed doing this. For the first time I did not have to explain who I was and what I was doing. It was pretty evident what I was doing and who I was, was defined but what I was doing. Where as in my everyday life as a so-called "artist" I am sick and tired of explaining myself and what I do 24/7 to any fucking Mr. or Mrs. Nobody who just happened–through butt kissing–to get a job in a cultural organization, in a gallery, in a theatre, in a film distribution company etc.
Delivering water, a job with meaning. That's what art lacks: meaning. This question has been preoccupying my mind for a long time: "how can I make sure what I do has an actual meaning beyond the empty values and decedent routines of petit bourgeoisie?"
Labels: Extemporization
posted by Vahid at 11:50 AM
2 Comments:
"how can I make sure what I do has an actual meaning beyond the empty values and decedent routines of petit bourgeoisie?"
What is the opposite of empty values? Civic, cultural, religious, political values? Or values of art? Is art another word for artificial?
Defining the bourgeoisie is so yesterdays news and part of the Modernist values. Whether we still live modernist of post-same, dont think there really is any bourgeoisie left - there's consumers and manufacturers of meaning. And these days we're all both. And neither.
If you wanna create meaning that is the opposite of another value-regime, then your point of departure is always the other regime. Black-White, Good-Evil, Occicental-Oriental. Whatever-Notever.
Whatever meaning one may be believe to be of significant value, rest assured, there'll always be persons who subscribe to the same meaning, but they do so with 'false intend'- Ye of little faith.
If you dont pose that dialectic approach, then what do you have? Irony, otherness, what? Well, you being the artist - go figure it out. And come back and report to the rest of us. We're always eager to hear the latest version of any sort of meaning. Just dont expect us to approve...
It's an admirable departure point.
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